(this file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) the roof tree [illustration: "_she stood there a little shyly at first; as slender and as gracefully upright as a birch_"] the roof tree by charles neville buck illustrated by lee f. conrey garden city, n. y., and toronto doubleday, page & company books by charles neville buck battle cry, the call of the cumberlands, the code of the mountains, the destiny key to yesterday, the lighted match, the pagan of the hills, a portal of dreams, the roof tree, the tempering, the tyranny of weakness, the when bear cat went dry copyright, , , by doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian _with the wish that it were a richer and worthier tribute, this book is lovingly and gratefully dedicated_ _to my wife_ list of illustrations "she stood there a little shyly at first; as slender and as gracefully upright as a birch" _frontispiece_ facing page "'hit almost seems like,' she whispered, 'that ther old tree's got a spell in hit--ter bewitch folks with'" "even bas rowlett, whose nerves were keyed for an ordeal, started and almost let the leaning bridegroom fall" "dorothy flashed past him ... and a few seconds later he heard the clean-lipped snap of the rifle in a double report" the roof tree chapter i between the smoke-darkened walls of the mountain cabin still murmured the last echoes of the pistol's bellowing, and it seemed a voice of everlasting duration to the shock-sickened nerves of those within. first it had thundered with the deafening exaggeration of confined space, then its echo had beaten against the clay-chink wall timbers and rolled upward to the rafters. now, dwindled to a ghostly whisper, it lingered and persisted. but the house stood isolated, and outside the laurelled forests and porous cliffs soaked up the dissonance as a blotter soaks ink. the picture seen through the open door, had there been any to see, was almost as motionless as a tableau, and it was a starkly grim one, with murky shadows against a fitful light. a ray of the setting sun forced its inquisitive way inward upon the semi-darkness of the interior. a red wavering from the open hearth, where supper preparations had been going forward, threw unsteady patches of fire reflection outward. in the pervading smell of dead smoke from a blackened chimney hung the more pungent sharpness of freshly burned gun-powder, and the man standing near the door gazed downward, with a dazed stare, at the floor by his feet, where lay the pistol which gave forth that acrid stench. across from him in the dead silence--dead save for the lingering of the echo's ghost--stood the woman, her hands clutched to her thin bosom, her eyes stunned and dilated, her body wavering on legs about to buckle in collapse. on the puncheon floor between them stretched the woman's husband. the echo had outlasted his life and, because the muzzle had almost touched his breast, he sprawled in a dark welter that was still spreading. his posture was so uncouth and grotesque as to filch from death its rightful dignity, and his face was turned downward. the interminability of the tableau existed only in the unfocussed minds of the two living beings to whom the consequence of this moment was not measurable in time. then from the woman's parted lips came a long, strangling moan that mounted to something like a muffled shriek. she remained a moment rocking on her feet, then wheeled and stumbled toward the quilt-covered four-poster bed in one dark corner of the cabin. into its feather billows she flung herself and lay with her fingernails digging into her temples and her body racked with the incoherencies of hysteria. the man stooped to pick up the pistol and walked slowly over to the rough table where he laid it down noiselessly, as though with that quietness he were doing something to offset the fatal blatancy with which it had just spoken. he looked down at the lifeless figure with burning eyes entirely devoid of pity, then went with a soundless tread, in spite of his heavy-soled boots, to the bed and spoke softly to the woman--who was his sister. "ye've got ter quit weepin' fer a spell, honey," he announced with a tense authority which sought to recall her to herself. "i'm obleeged ter take flight right speedily now, an' afore i goes thar's things ter be studied out an' sottled betwixt us." but the half-stifled moan that came from the feather bed was a voice of collapse and chaos, to which speech was impossible. so the brother lifted her in arms that remained unshaken and sat on the edge of the bed looking into her eyes with an almost hypnotic forcefulness. "ef ye don't hearken ter me now, i'm bound ter tarry till ye does," he reminded her, "an' i'm in right tormentin' haste. hit means life and death ter me." as if groping her tortured way back from pits of madness, the woman strove to focus her senses, but her wild eyes encountered the dark and crumpled mass on the floor and again a low shriek broke from her. she turned her horrified face away and surrendered to a fresh paroxysm, but at length she stammered between gasps that wrenched her tightened throat: "kiver him up first, ken. kiver him up ... i kain't endure ter look at him thetaway!" although the moments were pricelessly valuable, the man straightened the contorted limbs of the dead body and covered it decently with a quilt. then he stood again by the bed. "ef i'd got hyar a minute sooner, sally," he said, slowly, and there was a trace of self-accusation in his voice, "hit moutn't hev happened. i war jest a mite too tardy--but i knows ye hed ter kill him. i knows ye acted in self-defence." from the bed came again the half-insane response of hysterical moaning, and the young mountaineer straightened his shoulders. "his folks," he said in a level voice, "won't skeercely listen ter no reason.... they'll be hell-bent on makin' somebody pay.... they'll plum hev ter hang some person, an' hit kain't be _you_." the woman only shuddered and twisted spasmodically as she lay there while her brother went doggedly on: "hit kain't be _you_ ... with yore baby ter be borned, sally. hit's been punishment enough fer ye ter endure him this long ... ter hev been wedded with a brute ... but ther child's got hits life ter live ... an' hit kain't be borned in no jail house!" "i reckon--" the response came weakly from the heaped-up covers--"i reckon hit's _got_ ter be thetaway, ken." "by god, no! yore baby's got ter w'ar a bad man's name--but hit'll hev a good woman's blood in hits veins. they'll low i kilt him, sally. let 'em b'lieve hit. i hain't got no woman nor no child of my own ter think erbout ... i kin git away an' start fresh in some other place. i loves ye, sally, but even more'n thet, i'm thinkin' of thet child thet hain't borned yit--a child thet hain't accountable fer none of this." * * * * * that had been yesterday. now, kenneth thornton, though that was not to be his name any longer, stood alone near the peak of a divide, and the mists of early morning lay thick below him. they obliterated, under their dispiriting gray, the valleys and lower forest-reaches, and his face, which was young and resolutely featured, held a kindred mood of shadowing depression. beneath that miasma cloak of morning fog twisted a river from which the sun would strike darts of laughing light--when the sun had routed the opaqueness suspended between night and day. in the clear gray eyes of the man were pools of laughter, too, but now they were stilled and shaded under bitter reflections. something else stretched along the hidden river-bed, but even the mid-day light would give it no ocular marking. that something which the eye denied and the law acknowledged meant more to this man, who had slipped the pack from his wearied shoulders, than did the river or the park-like woods that hedged the river. there ran the border line between the state of virginia and the state of kentucky and he would cross it when he crossed the river. so the stream became a rubicon to him, and on the other side he would leave behind him the name of kenneth thornton and take up the less damning one of cal maggard. he had the heels of his pursuers and, once across the state line, he would be beyond their grasp until the sheriff's huntsmen had whistled in their pack and gone grumbling back to conform with the law's intricate requirements. at that point the man-hunt fell into another jurisdiction and extradition papers would involve correspondence between a governor at richmond and a governor at frankfort. during such an interlude the fugitive hoped with confidence to have lost himself in a taciturn and apathetic wilderness of peak-broken land where his discovery would be as haphazard an undertaking as the accurate aiming of a lightning bolt. but mere escape from courts and prisons does not assure full measure of content. he had heard all his life that this border line separated the sheep of his own nativity from the goats of a meaner race, and to this narrow tenet he had given unquestioning belief. "i disgusts kaintuck'!" exclaimed the refugee half aloud as his strong hands clenched themselves, one hanging free and the other still grasping the rifle which as yet he had no intent of laying aside. "i plum disgusts kaintuck'!" the sun was climbing now and its pallid disk was slowly flushing to the wakefulness of fiery rose. the sky overhead was livening to turquoise light and here and there along the upper slopes were gossamer dashes of opal and amethyst, but this beauty of unveiling turrets and gold-touched crests was lost on eyes in which dwelt a nightmare from which there was no hope of awakening. to-day the sparsely settled countryside that he had put behind him would buzz with a wrath like that of swarming bees along its creek-bed roads, and the posse would be out. to-day also he would be far over in kentucky. "i mout hev' tarried thar an' fronted hit out," he bitterly reflected, "fer god in heaven knows he needed killin'!" but there he broke off into a bitter laugh. "god in heaven knows hit ... _i_ knows hit an' _she_ knows hit, but nairy another soul don't know an' ef they did hit wouldn't skeercely make no differ." he threw back his head and sought to review the situation through the eyes of others and to analyze it all as an outsider would analyze it. to his simplicity of nature came no thought that the assumption of a guilt not his own was a generous or heroic thing. his sister's pride had silenced her lips as to the brutality of this husband whose friends in that neighbourhood were among the little czars of influence. her suffering under an endless reign of terror was a well-kept secret which only her brother shared. the big, crudely handsome brute had been "jobial" and suave of manner among his fellows and was held in favourable esteem. only a day or two ago, when the brother had remonstrated in a low voice against some recent cruelty, the husband's wrath had blazed out. witnesses to that wordy encounter had seen thornton go white with a rage that was ominous and then bite off his unspoken retort and turn away. those witnesses had not heard what was first said and had learned only what was revealed in the indignant husband's raised voice at the end. "don't aim ter threaten me, ken. i don't suffer no man ter do thet--an' don't never darken my door henceforward." now it must seem that thornton had not only threatened but executed, and no one would suspect the wife. he saw in his mind's eye the "high court" that would try the alleged slayer of john turk; a court dominated by the dead man's friends; a court where witnesses and jurors would be terror-blinded against the defendant and where a farce would be staged: a sacrifice offered up. there had been in that log house three persons. one of them was dead and his death would speak for him with an eloquence louder than any living tongue. there were, also, the woman and thornton himself. between them must lie the responsibility. conscientiously the fugitive summarized the circumstances as the prosecution would marshal and present them. a man had been shot. on the table lay a pistol with one empty "hull" in its chamber. the woman was the dead man's wife, not long since a bride and shortly to become the mother of his child. if she had been the murdered man's deadly enemy why had she not left him; why had she not complained? but the brother had been heard to threaten the husband only a day or two since. he was in the dead man's house, after being forbidden to shadow its threshold. "hell!" cried thornton aloud. "ef i stayed she'd hev ter come inter c'ote an' sw'ar either fer me or ergin me--an' like es not, she'd break down an' confess. anyhow, ef they put her in ther jail-house i reckon ther child would hev hits bornin' thar. hell--no!" he turned once more to gaze on the vague cone of a mountain that stood uplifted above its fellows far behind him. he had started his journey at its base. then he looked westward where ridge after ridge, emerging now into full summer greenery, went off in endless billows to the sky, and he went down the slope toward the river on whose other side he was to become another man. kenneth thornton was pushing his way west, the quarry of a man-hunt, but long before him another kenneth thornton had come from virginia to kentucky, an ancestor so far lost in the mists of antiquity that his descendant had never heard of him; and that man, too, had been making a sacrifice. chapter ii sprung from a race which had gone to seed like plants in a long-abandoned garden, once splendid and vigorous, old caleb harper was a patriarchal figure nearing the sunset of his life. his forebears had been mountaineers of the kentucky cumberlands since the vanguard of white life had ventured westward from the seaboard. from pioneers who had led the march of progress that stock had relapsed into the decay of mountain-hedged isolation and feudal lawlessness, but here and there among the wastage, like survivors over the weed-choked garden of neglect, emerged such exceptions as old caleb; paradoxes of rudeness and dignity, of bigotry and nobility. caleb's house stood on the rising ground above the river, a substantial structure grown by occasional additions from the nucleus that his ancestor caleb parish had founded in revolutionary times, and it marked a contrast with its less provident neighbours. many cabins scattered along these slopes were dismal and makeshift abodes which appeared to proclaim the despair and squalor of their builders and occupants. just now a young girl stood in the large unfurnished room that served the house as an attic--and she held a folded paper in her hand. she had drawn out of its dusty corner a small and quaintly shaped horsehide trunk upon which, in spots, the hair still adhered. the storage-room that could furnish forth its mate must be one whose proprietors held inviolate relics of long-gone days, for its like has not been made since the life of america was slenderly strung along the atlantic seaboard and the bison ranged about his salt licks east of the mississippi. into the lock the girl fitted a cumbersome brass key and then for a long minute she stood there breathing the forenoon air that eddied in currents of fresh warmth. the june sunlight came, too, in a golden flood and the soft radiance of it played upon her hair and cheeks. outside, almost brushing the eaves with the plumes of its farthest flung branches, stood a gigantic walnut tree whose fresh leafage filtered a mottling of sunlight upon the age-tempered walls. the girl herself, in her red dress, was slim and colourful enough and dewy-fresh enough to endure the searching illumination of the june morning. dark hair crowned the head that she threw back to gaze upward into the venerable branches of the tree, and her eyes were as dark as her hair and as deep as a soft night sky. over beetling summits and sunlit valley the girl's glance went lightly and contentedly, but when it came back to nearer distances it dwelt with an absorbed tenderness on the gnarled old veteran of storm-tested generations that stood there before the house: the walnut which the people of her family had always called the "roof tree" because some fanciful grandmother had so named it in the long ago. "i reckon ye're safe now, old roof tree," she murmured, for to her the tree was human enough to deserve actual address, and as she spoke she sighed as one sighs who is relieved of an old anxiety. then, recalled to the mission that had brought her here, she thought of the folded paper that she held in her hand. so she drew the ancient trunk nearer to the window and lifted its cover. it was full of things so old that she paused reverently before handling them. once the grandmother who had died when she was still a small child had allowed her to glimpse some of these ancient treasures but memory was vague as to their character. both father and mother were shadowy and half-mythical beings of hearsay to her, because just before her birth her father had been murdered from ambush. the mother had survived him only long enough to bring her baby into the world and then die broken-hearted because the child was not a boy whom she might suckle from the hatred in her own breast and rear as a zealot dedicated to avenging his father. the chest had always held for this girl intriguing possibilities of exploration which had never been satisfied. the gentle grandfather had withheld the key until she should be old enough to treat with respect those sentimental odds and ends which his women-folk had held sacred, and when the girl herself had "grown up"--she was eighteen now--some whimsey of clinging to the illusions and delights of anticipation had stayed her and held the curb upon her curiosity. once opened the old trunk would no longer beckon with its mystery, and in this isolated life mysteries must not be lightly wasted. but this morning old caleb harper had prosaically settled the question for her. he had put that paper into her hand before he went over the ridge to the cornfield with his mule and plow. "thet thar paper's right p'intedly valuable, leetle gal," he had told her. "i wants ye ter put hit away safe somewhars." he had paused there and then added reflectively, "i reckon ther handiest place would be in ther old horsehide chist thet our fore-parents fetched over ther mountings from virginny." she had asked no questions about the paper itself because, to her, the opening of the trunk was more important, but she heard the old man explaining, unasked: "i've done paid off what i owes bas rowlett an' thet paper's a full receipt. i knows right well he's my trusty friend, an' hit's my notion thet he's got his hopes of bein' even more'n thet ter _you_--but still a debt sets mighty heavy on me, be hit ter friend or foe, an' hit pleasures me thet hit's sottled." the girl passed diplomatically over the allusion to herself and the elder's expression of favour for a particular suitor, but without words she had made the mental reservation: "bas rowlett's brash and uppety enough withouten us bein' beholden ter him fer no money debt. like as not he'll be more humble-like a'tter this when he comes a-sparkin'." now she sat on a heavy cross-beam and looked down upon the packed contents while into her nostrils crept subtly the odour of old herbs and spicy defences against moth and mould which had been renewed from time to time through the lagging decades until her own day. first, there came out a soft package wrapped in a threadbare shawl and carefully bound with home-twisted twine and this she deposited on her knees and began to unfasten with trembling fingers of expectancy. when she had opened up the thing she rose eagerly and shook out a gown that was as brittle and sere as a leaf in autumn and that rustled frigidly as the stiffened folds straightened. "i'll wager now, hit war a _weddin'_ dress," she exclaimed as she held it excitedly up to the light and appraised the fineness of the ancient silk with eyes more accustomed to homespun. then came something flat that fell rustling to the floor and spread into a sheaf of paper bound between home-made covers of cloth, but when the girl opened the improvised book, with the presentiment that here was the message out of the past that would explain the rest, she knitted her brows and sat studying it in perplexed engrossment. the ink had rusted, in the six score years and more since its inscribing, to a reddish faintness which shrank dimly and without contrast into the darkened background, yet difficulties only whetted her discoverer's appetite, so that when, after an hour, she had studied out the beginning of the document, she was deep in a world of romance-freighted history. here was a journal written by a woman in the brave and tragic days of the nation's birth. that part which she was now reading seemed to be a sort of preamble to the rest, and before the girl had progressed far she found a sentence which, for her, infused life and the warmth of intimacy into the document. "it may be that god in his goodenesse will call me to his house which is in heaven before i have fully written ye matters which i would sett downe in this journall," began the record. "since i can not tell whether or not i shall survive ye cominge of that new life upon which all my thoughtes are sett and shoulde such judgement be his wille, i want that ye deare childe shall have this recorde of ye days its father and i spent here in these forest hills so remote from ye sea and ye rivers of our deare virginia, and ye gentle refinements we put behind us to become pioneers." there was something else there that she could not make out because of its blurring, and she wondered if the blotted pages had been moistened by tears as well as ink, but soon she deciphered this unusual statement. "much will be founde in this journall, touching ye tree which i planted in ye first dayes and which we have named ye roofe tree after a fancy of my owne. i have ye strong faithe that whilst that tree stands and growes stronge and weathers ye thunder and wind and is revered, ye stem and branches of our family also will waxe stronge and robust, but that when it falls, likewise will disaster fall upon our house." one thing became at once outstandingly certain to the unsophisticated reader. this place in the days of its founding had been an abode of love unshaken by perils, for of the man who had been its head she found such a portrait as love alone could have painted. he was described as to the modelling of his features, the light and expression of his eyes; the way his dark hair fell over his "broade browe"--even the cleft of his chin was mentioned. that fondly inspired pen paused in its narrative of incredible adventures and more than spartan hardships to assure the future reader that, "ye peale of his laugh was as clear and tuneful as ye fox horn with which our virginia gentry were wont to go afield with horse and hound." there had possibly been a touch of wistfulness in that mention of a renounced life of greater affluence and pleasure for hard upon it followed the observation: "here, where our faces are graven with anxieties that besette our waking and sleeping, it seemeth that most men have forgotten ye very fashion of laughter. joy seemes killed out of them, as by a bitter frost, yet _he_ hath ever kept ye clear peale of merriment in his voice and its flash in his eye and ye smile that showes his white teeth." somehow the girl seemed to see that face as though it had a more direct presentment before her eyes than this faded portraiture of words penned by a hand long ago dead. he must have been, she romantically reflected, a handsome figure of a man. then naïvely the writer had passed on to a second description: "if i have any favour of comeliness it can matter naught to me save as it giveth pleasure to my deare husbande, yet i shall endeavour to sette downe truly my own appearance alsoe." the girl read and re-read the description of this ancestress, then gasped. "why, hit mout be _me_ she was a-writin' erbout," she murmured, "save only i hain't purty." in that demure assertion she failed of justice to herself, but her eyes were sparkling. she knew that hereabout in this rude world of hers her people were accounted both godly and worthy of respect, but after all it was a drab and poverty-ridden world with slow and torpid pulses of being. here, she found, in indisputable proof, the record of her "fore-parents". once they, too, had been ladies and gentlemen familiar with elegant ways and circumstances as vague to her as fable. henceforth when she boasted that hers were "ther best folk in ther world" she would speak not in empty defiance but in full confidence! but as she rose at length from her revery she wondered if after all she had not been actually dreaming, because a sound had come to her ears that was unfamiliar and that seemed of a piece with her reading. it was the laugh of a man, and its peal was as clear and as merry as the note of a fox horn. the girl was speedily at the window looking out, and there by the roadside stood her grandfather in conversation with a stranger. he was a tall young man and though plainly a mountaineer there was a declaration of something distinct in the character of his clothing and the easy grace of his bearing. instead of the jeans overalls and the coatless shoulders to which she was accustomed, she saw a white shirt and a dark coat, dust-stained and travel-soiled, yet proclaiming a certain predilection toward personal neatness. the traveller had taken off his black felt hat as he talked and his black hair fell in a long lock over his broad, low forehead. he was smiling, too, and she caught the flash of white teeth and even--since the distance was short--the deep cleft of his firm chin. framed there at the window the girl caught her hands to her breast and exclaimed in a stifled whisper, "land o' canaan! he's jest walked spang outen them written pages--he's ther spittin' image of that man my dead and gone great-great-great-gran'-mammy married." it was at that instant that the young man looked up and for a moment their eyes met. the stranger's words halted midway in their utterance and his lips remained for a moment parted, then he recovered his conversational balance and carried forward his talk with the gray-beard. the girl drew back into the shadow, but she stood watching until he had gone and the bend in the road hid him. then she placed the receipt that had brought her to the attic in the old manuscript, marking the place where her reading had been interrupted, and after locking the trunk ran lightly down the stairs. "gran'pap," she breathlessly demanded, "i seed ye a-talkin' with a stranger out thar. did ye find out who _is_ he?" "he give ther name of cal maggard," answered the old man, casually, as he crumbled leaf tobacco into his pipe. "he lows he's going ter dwell in ther old burrell thornton house over on ther nigh spur of defeated creek." * * * * * that night while the patriarch dozed in his hickory withed chair with his pipe drooping from his wrinkled lips his granddaughter slipped quietly out of the house and went over to the tree. out there magic was making under an early summer moon that clothed the peaks in silvery softness and painted shadows of cobalt in the hollows. the river flashed its response and crooned its lullaby, and like children answering the maternal voice, the frogs gave chorus and the whippoorwills called plaintively from the woods. the branches of the great walnut were etched against a sky that would have been bright with stars were it not that the moon paled them, and she gazed up with a hand resting lightly on the broad-girthed bole of the stalwart veteran. often she had wondered why she loved this particular tree so much. it had always seemed to her a companion, a guardian, a personality, when its innumerable fellows in the forest were--nothing but trees. now she knew. she had only failed to understand the language with which it had spoken to her from childhood, and all the while, when the wind had made every leaf a whispering tongue, it had been trying to tell her many ancient stories. "i knows, now, old roof tree," she murmured. "i've done found out erbout ye," and her hand patted the close-knit bark. then, in the subtle influence of the moonlight and the night that awoke all the young fires of dreaming, she half closed her eyes and seemed to see a woman who looked like herself yet who--in the phantasy of that moment--was arrayed in a gown of silk and small satin slippers, looking up into the eyes of a man whose hair was dark and whose chin was cleft and whose smile flashed upon white teeth. only as the dream took hold upon her its spirit changed and the other woman seemed to be herself and the man seemed to be the one whom she had glimpsed to-day. then her reveries were broken. in the shallow water of the ford down at the river splashed a horse's hoofs and she heard a voice singing in the weird falsetto of mountain minstrelsy an old ballade which, like much else of the life there, was a heritage from other times. so the girl brushed an impatient hand over rudely awakened eyes and turned back to the door, knowing that bas rowlett had come sparking. chapter iii it was a distraite maiden who greeted the visiting swain that night and one so inattentive to his wooing that his silences became long, under discouragement, and his temper sullen. earlier than was his custom he bade her good-night and took himself moodily away. then dorothy harper kindled a lamp and hastened to the attic where she sat with her head bowed over the old diary while the house, save for herself, slept and the moon rode down toward the west. often her eyes wandered away from the bone-yellow pages of the ancient document and grew pensive in dreamy meditation. this record was opening, for her, the door of intimately wrought history upon the past of her family and her nation when both had been in their bravest youth. she did not read it all nor even a substantial part of it because between scraps of difficult perusal came long and alluring intervals of easy revery. had she followed its sequence more steadily many things would have been made manifest to her which she only came to know later, paying for the knowledge with a usury of experience and suffering. yet since that old diary not only set out essential matters in the lives of her ancestors but also things integral and germane to her own life and that of the stranger who had to-day laughed in the road, it may be as well to take note of its contents. the quaint phrasing of the writer may be discarded and only the substance which concerned her narrative taken into account, for her sheaf of yellow pages was a door upon the remote reaches of the past, yet a past which this girl was not to find a thing ended and buried but rather a ghost that still walked and held a continuing dominion. in those far-off days when the crown still governed us there had stood in virginia a manor house built of brick brought overseas from england. in it colonel john parish lived as had his father, and in it he died in those stirring times of a nation's painful birth. he had been old and stubborn and his emotions were so mixed between conflicting loyalties that the pain of his hard choice hastened his end. tradition tells that, on his deathbed, his emaciated hand clutched at a letter from washington himself, but that just at the final moment his eyes turned toward the portrait of the king which still hung above his mantel shelf, and that his lips shaped reverent sentiments as he died. later that same day his two sons met in the wainscoted room hallowed by their father's books and filled with his lingering spirit--a library noted in a land where books were still few enough to distinguish their owner. between them, even in this hour of common bereavement, stood a coolness, an embarrassment which must be faced when two men, bound by blood, yet parted by an unconfessed feud, arrive at the parting of their ways. though he had been true to every requirement of honour and punctilio, john the elder had never entirely recovered from the wound he had suffered when dorothy calmer had chosen his younger brother caleb instead of himself. he had indeed never quite been able to forgive it. "so soon as my father has been laid to rest, i purpose to repair to mount vernon," came the thoughtful words of the younger brother as their interview, which had been studiedly courteous but devoid of warmth ended, and the elder halted, turning on the threshold to listen. "there was, as you may recall, a message in general washington's letter to my father indicating that an enterprise of moment awaited my undertaking," went on caleb. "i should be remiss if i failed of prompt response." * * * * * kentucky! until the fever of war with great britain had heated man's blood to the exclusion of all else virginia had rung with that name. la salle had ventured there in the century before, seeking a mythical river running west to china. boone and the long hunters had trod the trails of mystery and brought back corroborative tales of wonder and ophir richness. of these things, general washington and captain caleb parish were talking on a day when the summer afternoon held its breath in hot and fragrant stillness over the house at mount vernon. on a map the general indicated the southward running ranges of the alleghanies, and the hinterland of wilderness. "beyond that line," he said, gravely, "lies the future! those who have already dared the western trails and struck their roots into the soil must not be deserted, sir. they are fiercely self-reliant and liberty-loving, but if they be not sustained we risk their loyalty and our back doors will be thrown open to defeat." parish bowed. "and i, sir," he questioned, "am to stand guard in these forests?" george washington swept out his hand in a gesture of reluctant affirmation. "behind the mountains our settlers face a long purgatory of peril and privation, captain parish," came the sober response. "without powder, lead, and salt, they cannot live. the ways must be held open. communication must remain intact. forts must be maintained--and the two paths are here--and here." his finger indicated the headwaters of the ohio and the ink-marked spot where the steep ridges broke at cumberland gap. parish's eyes narrowed painfully as he stood looking over the stretches of washington's estate. the vista typified many well-beloved things that he was being called upon to leave behind him--ordered acres, books, the human contacts of kindred association. it was when he thought of his young wife and his daughter that he flinched. 'twould go hard with them, who had been gently nurtured. "do women and children go, too?" inquired parish, brusquely. "there are women and children there," came the swift reply. "we seek to lay foundations of permanence and without the family we build on quicksand." * * * * * endless barriers of wilderness peaks rose sheer and forbidding about a valley through which a narrow river flashed its thin loop of water. down the steep slopes from a rain-darkened sky hung ragged fringes of cloud-streamer and fog-wraith. toward a settlement, somewhere westward through the forest, a drenched and travel-sore cortège was plodding outward. a handful of lean and briar-infested cattle stumbled in advance, yet themselves preceded by a vanguard of scouting riflemen, and back of the beef-animals came ponies, galled of wither and lean of rib under long-borne pack saddles. behind lay memories of hard and seemingly endless journeying, of alarms, of discouragement. ahead lay a precarious future--and the wilderness. the two dorothys, captain caleb parish's wife and daughter, were ending their journey on foot, for upon them lay the duties of example and _noblesse oblige_--but the prideful tilt of their chins was maintained with an ache of effort, and when the cortège halted that the beasts might blow, caleb parish hastened back from his place at the front to his wife and daughter. "it's not far now," he encouraged. "to-night, at least, we shall sleep behind walls--even though they be only those of a block-house--and under a roof tree." both of them smiled at him--yet in his self-accusing heart he wondered whether the wife whose fortitude he was so severely taxing would not have done better to choose his brother. while the halted outfit stood relaxed, there sounded through the immense voicelessness of the wilderness a long-drawn, far-carrying shout, at which the more timid women started flutteringly, but which the vanguard recognized and answered, and a moment later there appeared on the ledge of an overhanging cliff the lithe, straight figure of a boy. he stood statuesquely upright, waving his coonskin cap, and between his long deerskin leggins and breech clout the flesh of his slim legs showed bare, almost as bronze-dark as that of an indian. "that is our herald of welcome," smiled caleb parish. "it's young peter doane--the youngest man we brought with us--and one of our staunchest as well. you remember him, don't you, child?" the younger dorothy at first shook her head perplexedly and sought to recall this youthful frontiersman; then a flash of recognition broke over her face. "he's the boy that lived on the woods farm, isn't he? his father was lige doane of the forest, wasn't he?' "and still is." caleb repressed his smile and spoke gravely, for he caught the unconscious note of condescension with which the girl used the term of class distinction. "only here in kentucky, child, it is as well to forget social grades and remember that we be all 'men of the forest.' we are all freemen and we know no other scale." * * * * * that fall, when the mountains were painted giants, magnificently glorified from the brush and palette of the frost; when the first crops had been gathered, a spirit of festivity and cheer descended on the block-houses of fort parish. then into the outlying cabins emboldened spirits began moving in escape from the cramp of stockade life. against the palisades of wautaga besieging red men had struck and been thrown back. cheering tidings had come of colonel william christian's expedition against the indian towns. the otari, or hill warriors, had set their feet into the out-trail of flight and acknowledged the chagrin of defeat, all except dragging canoe, the ablest and most implacable of their chiefs who, sullenly refusing to smoke the pipe, had drawn far away to the south, to sulk out his wrath and await more promising auspices. then caleb parish's log house had risen by the river bank a half mile distant from the stockade, and more and more he came to rely on the one soul in his little garrison whose life seemed talisman-guarded and whose woodcraft was a sublimation of instinct and acquired lore which even the young braves of the otari envied. young peter doane, son of "lige doane of the forest," and not yet a man in years, came and went through the wilderness as surely and fleetly as the wild things, and more than once he returned with a scalp at his belt--for in those days the whites learned warfare from their foes and accepted their rules. the little community nodded approving heads and asked no questions. it learned valuable things because of peter's adventurings. but when he dropped back after a moon of absence, it was always to caleb parish's hearth-stone that peter carried his report. it was over caleb parish's fire that he smoked his silent pipe, and it was upon caleb parish's little daughter that he bent his silently adoring glances. dorothy would sit silent with lowered lashes while she dutifully sought to banish aloofness and the condescension which still lingered in her heart--and the months rounded into seasons. the time of famine long known as the "hard winter" came. the salt gave out, the powder and lead were perilously low. the "traces" to and through the wilderness road were snow-blocked or slimy with intermittent thaws, and the elder dorothy parish fell ill. learned physicians might have found and reached the cause of her malady--but there were no such physicians. perhaps the longings that she repressed and the loneliness that she hid under her smile were costing her too dearly in their levies upon strength and vitality. she, who had been always fearless, became prey to a hundred unconfessed dreads. she feared for her husband, and with a frenzy of terror for her daughter. she woke trembling out of atrocious nightmares. she was wasting to a shadow, and always pretending that the life was what she would have chosen. it was on a bitter night after a day of blizzard and sleet. caleb parish sat before his fire, and his eyes went constantly to the bed where his wife lay half-conscious and to the seated figure of the tirelessly watchful daughter. softly against the window sounded a guarded rap. the man looked quickly up and inclined his ear. again it came with the four successive taps to which every pioneer had trained himself to waken, wide-eyed, out of his most exhausted sleep. caleb parish strode to the door and opened it cautiously. out of the night, shaking the snow from his buckskin hunting shirt, stepped peter doane with his stoical face fatigue drawn as he eased down a bulky pack from galled shoulders. "injins," he said, crisply. "get your women inside the fort right speedily!" the young man slipped again into the darkness, and parish, lifting the half-conscious figure from the bed, wrapped it in a bear-skin rug and carried it out into the sleety bluster. that night spent itself through a tensity of waiting until dawn. when the east grew a bit pale, caleb parish returned from his varied duties and laid a hand on his wife's forehead to find it fever-hot. the woman opened her eyes and essayed a smile, but at the same moment there rode piercingly through the still air the long and hideous challenge of a war-whoop. dorothy parish, the elder, flinched as though under a blow and a look of horror stamped itself on her face that remained when she had died. * * * * * spring again--and a fitful period of peace--but peace with disquieting rumours. word came out of the north of mighty preparations among the six nations and up from the south sped the report that dragging canoe had laid aside his mantle of sullen mourning and painted his face for war. dorothy parish, the wife, had been buried before the cabin built by the river bank, and dorothy, the daughter, kept house for the father whom these months had aged out of all resemblance to the former self in knee breeches and powdered wig with lips that broke quickly into smiling. and peter, watching the bud of dorothy's childhood swell to the slim charms of girlhood, held his own counsel and worshipped her dumbly. perhaps he remembered the gulf that had separated his father's log cabin from her uncle's manor house in the old virginia days, but of these things no one spoke in kentucky. three years had passed, and along the wilderness road was swelling a fuller tide of emigration, hot with the fever of the west. meeting it in counter-current went the opposite flow of the faint-hearted who sought only to put behind them the memory of hardship and suffering--but that was a light and negligible back-wash from an onsweeping wave. caleb parish smiled grimly. this spelled the beginning of success. the battle was not over--his own work was far from ended--but substantial victory had been won over wilderness and savage. the back doors of a young nation had suffered assault and had held secure. stories drifted in nowadays of the great future of the more fertile tablelands to the west, but caleb parish had been stationed here and had not been relieved. the pack train upon which the little community depended for needed supplies had been long overdue, and at caleb's side as he stood in front of his house looking anxiously east was his daughter dorothy, grown tall and pliantly straight as a lifted lance. her dark eyes and heavy hair, the poise of her head, her gracious sweetness and gentle courage were, to her father, all powerful reminders of the woman whom he had loved first and last--this girl's mother. for a moment he turned away his head. "some day," he said, abruptly, "if providence permits it, i purpose to set a fitting stone here at her head." "meanwhile--if we can't raise a stone," the girl's voice came soft and vibrant, "we can do something else. we can plant a tree." "a tree!" exclaimed the man, almost irritably. "it sometimes seems to me that we are being strangled to death by trees! they conceal our enemies--they choke us under their blankets of wet and shadow." but dorothy shook her head in resolute dissent. "those are just trees of the forest," she said, whimsically reverting to the old class distinction. "this will be a manor-house tree planted and tended by loving hands. it will throw shade over a sacred spot." her eyes began to glow with the growth of her conception. "don't you remember how dearly mother loved the great walnut tree that shaded the veranda at home? she would sit gazing out over the river, then up into its branches--dreaming happy things. she used to tell me that she found my fairy stories there among its leaves--and there was always a smile on her lips then." the spring was abundantly young and where the distances lengthened they lay in violet dreams. "don't you remember?" repeated the girl, but caleb parish looked suddenly away. his ear had caught a distant sound of tinkling pony bells drifting down wind and he said devoutly, "thank god, the pack train is coming." it was an hour later when the loaded horses came into view herded by fagged woodsmen and piloted by peter doane, who strode silently, tirelessly, at their head. but with peter walked another young man of different stamp--a young man who had never been here before. like his fellows he wore the backwoodsman's garb, but unlike them his tan was of newer wind-burning. unlike them, too, he bowed with a ceremony foreign to the wilderness and swept his coonskin cap clear of his head. "this man," announced peter, brusquely, "gives the name of kenneth thornton and hears a message for captain parish!" the young stranger smiled, and his engaging face was quickened with the flash of white teeth. a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead and his firm chin was deeply cleft. "i have the honour of bearing a letter from your brother, sir," he said, "and one from general washington himself." peter doane looked on, and when he saw dorothy's eyes encounter those of the stranger and her lashes droop and her cheeks flush pink, he turned on his heel and with the stiffness of an affronted indian strode silently away. "this letter from general washington," said caleb parish, looking up from his reading, "informs me that you have already served creditably with our troops in the east and that you are now desirous to cast your lot with us here. i welcome you, sir." kenneth thornton was swift to learn and when he went abroad with hunting parties or to swing the axe in the clearings, his stern and exacting task-masters found no fault with his strength or spirit. their ardent and humourless democracy detected in him no taint of the patronizing or supercilious, and if he was new to the backwoods, he paid his arrears of knowledge with the ready coin of eagerness. so kenneth thornton was speedily accepted into full brotherhood and became a favourite. the cheery peal of his laugh and his even cordiality opened an easy road to popularity and confidence. thornton had been schooled in england until the war clouds lowered, and as he talked of his boyish days there, and of the sights and festivities of london town, he found in caleb parish and his daughter receptive listeners, but in young doane a stiff-necked monument of wordless resentment. one summer night when the skies had spilt day-long torrents of rain and the sun had set red with the woods still sobbing and chill, a great fire roared on caleb parish's hearth. before it sat the householder with his daughter and kenneth thornton; as usual, too, silent and morose yet stubbornly present, was peter doane. oddly enough they were talking of the minuet, and kenneth rose to illustrate a step and bow that he had seen used in england. suddenly the girl came to her feet and faced him with a curtsey. kenneth thornton bent low from the waist, and, with a stately gesture, carried her fingers to his lips. "now, my lord," she commanded, "show the newest steps that they dance at court." "your humble servant, mistress dorothy," he replied, gravely. then they both laughed, and caleb parish was divided between smile and tears--but peter doane glowered and sat rigid, thinking of freshly reared barriers that democracy should have levelled. chapter iv a week later dorothy led kenneth thornton and peter doane to a place where beside a huge boulder a "spring-branch" gushed into a natural basin of stone. the ferns grew thick there, and the moss lay deep and green, but over the spot, with branches spreading nobly and its head high-reared, stood an ancient walnut and in the narrow circle of open ground at its base grew a young tree perhaps three feet tall. "i want to move that baby tree," said dorothy, and now her voice became vibrant, "to a place where, when it has grown tall, it can stand as a monument over my mother's grave." she paused, and the two young men offered no comment. each was watching the glow in her eyes and feeling that, to her, this ceremony meant something more than the mere setting out of a random seedling. "it will stand guard over our home," she went on, and her eyes took on an almost dreamy far-awayness. "it will be shade in summer and a reminder of coming spring in winter. it will look down on people as they live and die--and are born. at last," she concluded, "when i come to die myself, i want to be buried under it, too." when the young walnut had been lifted clear and its roots packed with some of its own native earth kenneth thornton started away carrying it in advance while dorothy and peter followed. but before they came to the open space young doane stopped on the path and barred the girl's way. "dorothy," he began, awkwardly, and with painful embarrassment, "i've got something thet must needs be said--an' i don't rightly know how to say it." she looked up into his set face and smiled. "can i help you say it?" she inquired, and he burst out passionately, "until _he_ come, you seemed to like me. now you don't think of nobody else but jest him ... and i hates him." "if it's hatred you want to talk about," she said, reproachfully, "i don't think i can help you after all." "hatred of him," he hastened to explain. "i've done lived in the woods--an' i ain't never learned pretty graces ... but i can't live without you, an' if he comes betwixt us...." the girl raised a hand. "peter," she said, slowly, "we've been good friends, you and i. i want to go on being good friends with you ... but that's all i can say." "and him," demanded the young man, with white cheeks and passion-shaken voice, "what of him?" "he asked me an hour ago," she answered, frankly. "we're going to be married." the face of the backwoodsman worked spasmodically for a moment with an agitation against which his stoic training was no defense. when his passion permitted speech he said briefly, "i wishes ye joy of him--damn him!" then he wheeled and disappeared in the tangle. "i'm sorry, dearest," declared thornton when she had told him the story and his arms had slipped tenderly about her, "that i've cost you a friend, but i'm proud beyond telling that this tree was planted on the day you declared for me. to me too, it's a monument now." that night the moon was clouded until late but broke through its shrouding before dorothy went to bed, and she slipped out to look at the young shoot and perhaps to think of the man who had taken her in his arms there. but as she approached she saw no standing shape and when she reached the spot she found that the freshly placed earth had been dug up. the tree had been spitefully dragged from its place and left lying with its roots extending up instead of its branches. plainly it was an act of mean vandalism and dorothy feared an emblem of deeper threat as well. already in the girl's thought this newly planted monument had become a sacred thing. to let it be so soon destroyed would be an evil augury and submission to a desecration. to tell kenneth thornton would kindle his resentment and provoke a dangerous quarrel. she herself must remedy the matter. so dorothy parish went for her spade, and late into the night she laboured at that second transplanting. the roots had not had time to dry or burn, because they had been upturned so short a time, and before the girl went to her bed the task was finished, and she dreamed of birds nesting in broad branches and other home-making thoughts more intimate, but also of vague dangers and grudge-bearings. but the next morning her face blanched when her father roused her before dawn. "kenneth thornton was waylaid and shot last night," he said, briefly. "they fear he's dying. he's been asking for you." about the door of thornton's cabin in the gray freshness of that summer dawn stood a clump of silent men in whose indignant eyes burned a sombre light which boded no good for the would-be murderer if he were found. as the girl came up, with her face pale and grief-stricken, they drew back on either side opening passageway for her, and dorothy went directly to the bed. caleb, though, halted at the threshold in response to a hand laid detainingly on his fringed sleeve. "we hates to accuse a white man of a deed like this," said jake rowlett, a time-gnawed old indian fighter, "but thornton made a statement to us--under oath. he recognized peter doane--and peter would of scalped him as well as shot him only he heard somebody rustlin' the brush an' got away." "peter doane!" caleb pressed a shaken hand to his bewildered forehead. "peter doane--but i can't credit that! peter has sat by my hearth night after night ... peter has eaten my salt ... peter has been our staunchest reliance!" caleb's glance travelled searchingly about the circle of faces and read there unanimous conviction and grim determination. "peter has done growed to be half injin hisself," came the decided answer. "thornton didn't swear to no lie when he knew he mout be dyin'." caleb straightened decisively and his eyes blazed in spurts of wrath. "go after him then," he ordered. "it won't do to let him get away." the pursuit parties that spread into the woods travelled fast and studiously--yet with little hope of success. no man better than peter doane himself would recognize his desperation of plight--and if he had "gone bad" there was but one road for his feet and the security of the colony depended upon his thwarting. pioneer chronicles crowned with anathema unspeakable their small but infamous roster of white renegades, headed by the hated name of samuel girty; renegades who had "painted their faces and gone to the indians!" these were the unforgivably damned! now at the council-fires of yellow-jacket, even at the war-lodge of dragging canoe himself, the voluntary coming of peter doane would mean feasting and jubilation and a promise of future atrocities. inside dorothy bent over the bed and saw the eyes of her lover open slowly and painfully. his lips parted in a ghost of his old, flashing smile. "is the tree safe?" he whispered. the girl stooped and slipped an arm under the man's shoulders. the masses of her night-dark hair fell brushing his face in a fragrant cascade and her deep eyes were wide, unmasking to his gaze all the candid fears and intensities of her love. then as her lips met his in the first kiss she had ever given him, unasked, it seemed to him that a current of exaltation and vitality swept into him that death could not overcome. "i'm going to get well," he told her. "life is too full--and without you, heaven would be empty." the next pack train did not arrive. but several weeks later a single, half-famished survivor stumbled into the fort. his hands were bound, his tongue swollen from thirst, and about his shoulders dangled a hideous necklace of white scalps. when he had been restored to speech he delivered the message for which his life had been spared. "this is what's left of your pack train," was the insolent word that peter doane--now calling himself chief mad-dog, had sent back to his former comrades. "the balance has gone on to yellow jacket, but some day i will come back for thornton's scalp--and my squaw." as the summer waned the young walnut tree sent down its roots to vigour and imperceptibly lifted its crest. its leaves did not wither but gained in greenness and lustre, and as it prospered so kenneth thornton also prospered, until when the season of corn shucking came again, he and dorothy stood beside it, and caleb, who had received his credentials as a justice of the peace, read for them the ritual of marriage. * * * * * at the adze-smoothed table of a house which, for all its pioneer crudity, reflected the spirit of tradition-loving inhabitants, sat a young woman whose dark hair hung braided and whose dark eyes looked up from time to time in thoughtful reminiscence. she was writing with a goose-quill which she dipped into an ink-horn, and as she nibbled at the end of her pen one might have seen that whatever she was setting down lay close to her heart. "since i can not tell," she wrote, "whether or not i shall survive ye comings of that new life upon which all my thoughts are set and should such judgment be his wille, i want that ye deare child shall have this record of ye days its father and i spent here in these forest hills so remote from ye sea and ye rivers of our dear virginia and ye gentle refinements we put behind us to become pioneers. this wish leads me to the writing of a journall." a shadow in the doorway cut the shaft of sunlight and the woman at the writing table turned. on the threshold stood kenneth thornton and by the hand he held a savage-visaged child clad in breech clout and moccasins, but otherwise naked. its eyes held the beady sharpness of the indian, and though hardly past babyhood, it stood haughtily rigid and expressionless. the face of the man was not flashing its smile now, but deeply grave, and as his wife's gaze questioned him he spoke slowly. "this is peter doane's boy," he said, briefly. dorothy thornton shrank back with a gesture of repulsion, and the man went on: "a squaw with a travelling party of friendly indians brought him in. mad-dog doane is dead. his life ended in a drunken brawl in an otari village--but before he died he asked that the child be brought back to us." "why?" "because," thornton spoke seriously, "blood can't be silenced when death comes. the squaw said chief mad-dog wanted his boy raised to be a white brave.... he's half white, of course." "and _he_ ventured to ask favours of _us_!" the woman's voice, ordinarily gentle, hardened, and the man led the child over and laid his own hand on her shoulder. "the child is not to blame," he reminded her. "he's the fruit of madness--but he has human life." dorothy rose, inclining her head in reluctant assent. "i'll fetch him a white child's clothes," she said. this was the story that the faded pages told and a small part of which dorothy harper read as she sat in the lamplight of the attic a century and a quarter later. chapter v the old thornton house on defeated creek had for almost two decades stood vacant save for an occasional and temporary tenant. a long time back a formal truce had been declared in the feud that had split in sharp and bitter cleavage the family connections of the harpers and the doanes. back into the limbo of tradition and vagueness went the origin of that "war". the one unclouded certainty was that the hatred had grown until even in this land of vendetta its levy of violent deaths had been appalling beyond those of other enmities. yet, paradoxically enough, the harpers in the later feud stages had followed a man named thornton and the doanes had fought at the behest of a rowlett. now on the same night that dorothy read in her attic smoke rose from the chimney of the long-empty house and a stranger, whose right of possession no one questioned, was to be its occupant. he sat now, in the moonlight, on the broken mill-stone that served his house as a doorstep--and as yet he had not slept under the rotting roof. about him was a dooryard gone to a weed-jungle and a farm that must be reclaimed from utter wildness. his square jaw was grimly set and the hands that rested on his knees were tensely clenched. his eyes held a far-away and haunted fixity, for they were seeing again the cabin he had left in virginia with its ugly picture of sudden and violent death and the body of a man he hated lying on the blood-stained floor. the hysteria-shaken figure of the woman he had left alone with that grisly companionship refused, too, to soften the troubling vividness of its remembered misery. he himself had not escaped his pursuers by too wide a margin, but he _had_ escaped. he had come by a circuitous course to this place where he hoped to find quiet under his assumed name of maggard, nor was his choice of refuge haphazard. a distantly related branch of his own family had once lived here, and the property had passed down to him, but the thornton who had first owned the place he had never known. the kentucky history of his blood was as unfamiliar to him as genealogies on mars, and while the night voices sounded in tempered cadences about him and the hills stood up in their spectral majesty of moonlight, he sat with a drawn brow. yet, because the vitality of his youth was strong and resilient, other and less grim influences gradually stole over him and he rose after a while with the scowl clearing from his face. into the field of his thoughts, like sunlight into a storm sky, came a new image: the image of a girl in a red dress looking at him from an attic window. the tight lips loosened, softened, and parted in a smile. "afore god," he declared in a low voice, "she war a comely gal!" kenneth thornton--now self rechristened cal maggard, was up and his coffee pot was steaming on the live coals long before the next morning's sun had pierced its shafts into the gray opaqueness that cloaked the valleys. he squatted on his heels before the fire, honing the ancient blade of the scythe that he had found in the cock loft, and that blade was swinging against the stubborn resistance of weed and briar-trailer before the drench of the dew had begun to dry. he did not stop often to rest, and before noon he straightened and stood breathing deep but rhythmically to survey a levelled space where he had encountered an impenetrable thicket. then cal maggard leaned his scythe and axe against a young hickory and went over to the corner of the yard where a spring poured with a crystal flow into a natural basin under the gnarled roots of a sycamore. kneeling there, stripped to the waist, he began laving his chest and shoulders and dipping his face deep into the cold water. so intent was he that he failed to hear the light thud of hoofs along the sand-cushioned and half-obliterated road which skirted his dilapidated fence line, and he straightened up at length to see a horseman who had drawn rein there and who now sat sidewise gazing at him with one leg thrown across his pommel. the horseman, tall and knit for tremendous strength, was clad in jeans overalls and a blue cotton shirt. his unshaven face was swarthy and high of cheekbone and his black hat, though shapeless and weather-stained, sat on his head with a jauntiness that seemed almost a challenge. eyes, both shrewd and determined, gave the impression of missing nothing, but his voice was pleasant as he introduced himself. "my name's bas rowlett, an' i reckon _you're_ cal maggard, hain't ye? i've done heered ye 'lowed ter dwell amongst us." maggard nodded. "come inside an' set ye a cheer," he invited, and the horseman vaulted to the ground as lightly as though he carried no weight, flinging his bridle rein over a picket of the fence. for a short space when the host had donned his shirt and provided his guest with a chair by the door the conversation ran laggingly between these two newly met sons of a taciturn race, yet beneath their almost morose paucity of words lay an itch of curiosity. they were gauging, measuring, estimating each other under wary mantles of indifference. rowlett set down in his appraisement, with a touch of scorn, the clean-shaven face and general neatness of the other, but as against this effeminacy he offset the steady-eyed fearlessness of gaze and the smooth power of shoulders and torso that he had seen stripped. maggard's rifle stood leaning against the chinked log wall near to the visitor's hand and lazily he lifted and inspected it, setting its heel-plate to his shoulder and sighting the weapon here and there. "thet rifle-gun balances up right nice," he approved, then seeing a red squirrel that sat chattering on a walnut tree far beyond the road he squinted over the sights and questioned musingly, "i wonder now, could i knock thet boomer outen thet thar tree over yon." "not skeercely, i reckon. hit's a kinderly long, onhandy shot," answered maggard, "but ye mout try, though." rowlett had hoped for such an invitation. he knew that it was more than an "unhandy" shot. it was indeed a spectacularly difficult one--but he knew also that he could do it twice out of three times, and he was not averse to demonstrating his master-skill. the rifle barked and the squirrel dropped, shot through the head, but maggard said nothing and rowlett only spat and set the gun down. after that he relighted his pipe. had this newcomer from across the virginia border been his peer in marksmanship, he reasoned, he would not have let the exploit rest there without contest, and his own competitive spirit prompted him to goad the obviously inferior stranger. "thar's an old cock-of-the woods hammerin' away atter grubs up yon," he suggested. "why don't ye try yore own hand at him--jest fer ther fun of ther thing?" he pointed to a dead tree-top perhaps ten yards more distant than his own target had been, where hung one of those great ivory-billed woodpeckers that are near extinction now except in the solitudes of these wild hills. maggard smiled again, as he shook his head noncommittally--yet he reached for the rifle. that silent smile of his was beginning to become provocative to his companion, as though in it dwelt something of quiet self-superiority. the weapon came to the stranger's shoulder with a cat-like quickness of motion and cracked with seemingly no interval of aim-taking, and the bird fell as the squirrel had done. rowlett flushed to his high cheekbones. this was a country of riflemen where skill was the rule and its lack the exception, yet even here few men could duplicate that achievement, or, without seeing it, believe it possible. it had been characterized, too, by the incredible swiftness of a sleight-of-hand performance. "hell's red hole," came the visitor's eruptive outburst of amazement. "ef ther man-person thet used ter dwell in this hyar house, and his kinfolks, hed of shot thet fashion, i reckon mebby ther rowletts wouldn't never hev run old burrell thornton outen these mountings." "did they run him out?" rowlett studied his companion much as he might have studied someone who calmly admits a stultifying ignorance. "hain't ye nuver heered tell of ther harper-doane war?" he demanded and maggard shook an unabashed head. "i hain't nuver heered no jedgmatic details," he amended, "i knowed thar was sich-like warfare goin' on here one time. my folks used ter dwell in kaintuck onc't but hit war afore my own day." "come on over hyar," prompted rowlett, and he led the way to the back of the house where half-buried in the tangle that had overrun the place stood the ruins of a heavy and rotting log stockade. "old burrell thornton dwelt hyar in ther old days," he vouchsafed, "an' old burrell bore ther repute of being ther meanest man in these parts. he dastn't walk in his own backyard withouten he kept thet log wall betwixt hisself an' ther mounting-side. so long as him an' old mose rowlett both lived thar warn't no peace feasible nohow. cuss-fights an' shootin's an' laywayin's went on without no eend, twell finely hit come on ter be sich a hell-fired mommick thet ther two outfits met up an' fit a master battle in claytown. hit lasted nigh on ter two days." "what war ther upcome of ther matter?" inquired the householder, and the narrator went on: "ther harpers an' thorntons went inside ther co'te house an' made a pint-blank fort outen hit, an' ther rowletts tuck up _thar_ stand in ther stores an' streets. they frayed on, thet fashion, twell ther doanes wearied of hit an' sot ther co'te house afire. some score of fellers war shot, countin' men an' boys, and old mose rowlett, thet was headin' ther doanes, war kilt dead. then--when both sides war plum frazzled ragged they patched up a truce betwixt 'em an' ther gist of ther matter war that old burrell thornton agreed ter leave kaintuck an' not never ter come back no more. he war too pizen mean fer folks ter abide him, an' his goin' away balanced up ther deadenin' of mose rowlett." "ye sez thet old hellion used ter dwell in this hyar house onc't?" "yes, sir, thet's what i'm noratin' ter ye. atter he put out his fire an' called his dawgs an' went away caleb harper tuck over ther leadin' of ther harpers and my uncle jim rowlett did likewise fer ther doanes. both on 'em war men thet loved law-abidin' right good an' when they struck hands an' pledged a peace they aimed ter see thet hit endured--an' hit did. but till word come thet old burrell thornton war dead an' buried, folks didn't skeercely breathe easy nohow. they used ter keep hearin' thet he aimed ter come back an' they knowed ef he did----" there the speaker broke off and shrugged his powerful shoulders. a brief silence fell, and through the sunflecks and the deep woodland shadows came the little voices that were all of peace, but into rowlett's eyes flashed a sudden-born ghost of suspicion. "how come _you_ ter git possession of ther place hyar?" he demanded. "ye didn't heir hit from old burrell thornton's folks, did ye?" the new occupant was prepared for this line of interrogation and he laughed easily. "long erbout a year back," he said, "a feller named thornton thet dwelt over thar in virginny got inter debt ter me an' couldn't pay out. he give me a lease on this hyar place, but i didn't hev no chanst ter come over hyar an' look at hit afore now." rowlett nodded a reassured head and declared heartily: "i'm right glad ye hain't one of thet thar sorry brood. nobody couldn't confidence _them_." rowlett, as he rekindled the pipe that had died in the ardour of his narration, studied the other through eyes studiously narrowed against the flare of his match. the newcomer himself, lost in thought, was oblivious of this scrutiny, and it was as one speaking from revery that he launched his next inquiry. "ther gal thet dwells with old man harper.... she hain't his wife, air she?" the questioner missed the sudden tensely challenged interest that flashed in the other's eyes and the hot wave of brick-red that surged over the cheeks and neck of his visitor. but bas rowlett was too adroit to betray by more than a single unguarded flash his jealous reaction to mention of the girl and he responded quietly and unemotionally enough. "she hain't no man's wife ... yit. old caleb's her grandpap." "i've done seed some powerful comely gals in my day an' time," mused maggard, abstractedly, "but i hain't nuver seed ther like of _her_ afore." bas thoughtfully fingered his pipe, and when he spoke his words came soberly. "seein' es how ye're a stranger hyarabouts," he suggested, "i reckon hit hain't no more then plain charity ter forewarn ye. she's got a lavish of lovers an' thar's some several amongst 'em that's pizen mean--mean enough ter prove up vi'lent and murderous ter any new man thet comes trespassin'." "oh, pshaw, thet's always liable ter happen. anyhow, i reckon i don't have ter worrit myself 'bout thet yit." "suit yoreself." this time the native spoke dryly. "but what ye says sounds unthoughted ter me. ef a man's mean enough ter foller murderin' somebody over a gal, he's more like ter do hit afore ther feller gits his holt on her then a'tterwards. when did ye see ther gal?" maggard shook himself like a dog roused from contented sleep and sat up straight. "i hain't nuver seed her but jest one time, an' i hain't nuver passed no word of speech with her," he replied. "when i come by ther house an' tarried ter make my manners with ther old man, she was a-standin' in an upstairs winder lookin' out an' i seed her thar through ther branches of that big old walnuck tree. she hed on a dress thet made me think of a red-bird, an' her checks minded me right shrewdly of ivy blooms." "does ye aim ter name hit ter her thet she puts ye in mind of--them things?" "i kinderly hed hit in head ter tell her." suddenly maggard's frank laugh broke out disconcertingly as he added an inquiry so direct that it caused the other to flush. "rowlett, be ye one of these hyar lavish of lovers ye jest told me erbout?" the mountaineer is, by nature, secretive to furtiveness, and under so outright a questioning the visitor stiffened with affront. but at once his expression cleared of displeasure and he met frankness with a show of equal candour. "i'm one of ther fellers thet's seekin' ter wed with her, ef thet's what ye means, albeit hit's my own business, i reckon," he said, evenly. "but i hain't one of them i warned ye erginst on account of meanness. myself i believes in every person havin' a fair chanst an' ther best man winnin'." the other nodded gravely. "i didn't aim at no offense," he hastened to declare. "i hain't nuver met ther gal an' like as not she wouldn't favour me with no second look nohow." "i loves ter see a man talk out-right," avowed the kentuckian with cordial responsiveness. "es fer me, i've done made me some sev'ral right hateful enemies, myself, because i seeks ter wed with her, an' i 'lowed ter warn ye in good time thet ye mout run foul of like perils." "i'm beholden ter ye fer forewarnin' me," came maggard's grave response. "ther old man hes done invited me ter sa'nter over thar an' sot me a cheer some time, though--an' i reckon i'll go." rowlett rose and with a good-humoured grin stretched his giant body. in the gesture was all the lazy power of a great cat. "i hain't got no license ter dissuade ye, ner ter fault ye," he declared, "but i hopes ter goddlemighty she hain't got no time of day fer ye." that afternoon maggard sat before the doorstep of old caleb harper's house when the setting sun was splashing from a gorgeous palette above the ragged crests of the ridges. it was colour that changed and grew in splendour with ash of rose and purpled cloud border and glowing orange streamer. against those fires the great tree stood with druid dignity, keeping vigil over the roof it sheltered. at length maggard heard a rustle and turned his head to see the girl standing in the doorway. he was a mountain man and mountain men are not schooled in the etiquette of rising when a woman presents herself. yet now he came to his feet, responding to no dictate of courtesy but lifted as by some nameless exaltation at the sight of her--some impulse entirely new to him and inexplicable. she stood there a little shyly at first, as slender and as gracefully upright as a birch, and her dark hair caught the fire of the sinking sun with a bronze glow like that of the turkey's wing. her eyes, over which heavy lashes drooped diffidently, were bafflingly deep, as with rich colour drowned in duskiness. "this hyar's my gal, dorothy," announced the old man and then she disappeared. that night maggard walked home with a chest rounded to the deep draughts of night air which he was drinking, and a heady elation in the currents of his veins. she had slipped in and out of the room as he had talked with the patriarch, after supper, flitting like some illusive shadow of shyness. he had had hardly a score of words with her, but the future would plentifully mend that famine. in the brilliant moonlight he vaulted the picket fence of his own place and saw the front of the cube-like house, standing before him, streaked with the dark of the logs and the white of the chinking. about it was the patch of scythe-cleared ground as blue as cobalt in the bright night, and back of it the inky rampart of the mountainside. but as he approached the door of the cabin the silver bath of light picked out and emphasized a white patch at its centre, and he made out that a sheet of paper was pinned there. "i reckon rowlett's done left me some message or other," he reflected as he took the missive down and went inside to light his lantern and build a fire on the hearth--since even the summer nights were shrewdly chilling here in the hills. when the logs were snapping and he had kicked off his heavy boots and kindled his pipe, he sprawled luxuriously in a back-tilted chair and held his paper to the flare of the blaze to read it. at first he laughed derisively, then his brows gathered in a frown of perplexity and finally his jaw stiffened into grimness. the note was set down in crudely printed characters, as though to evade the identifying quality of handwriting, and this was its truculent message: no trespassin'. the gal ain't fer _you_. once more of goin' over yon and they'll find you stretched dead in a creek bed. this is writ with god in heaven bearin' witness that it's true. chapter vi cal maggard sat gazing into the blaze that leaped and eddied fitfully under the blackened chimney. in one hand drooped the sheet of paper that he had found fastened to his door and in the other the pipe which had been forgotten and had died. he looked over his shoulder at the door which he had left ajar. through its slit he could see a moonlit strip of sky, and rising slowly he circled the room, holding the protection of the shadowy walls until he reached and barred it. that much was his concession to the danger of the threat, and it was the only concession he meant to make. into this place he had come unknown and under this roof he had slept only one night. he had injured no man, offended no woman or child, yet the malevolent spirit of circumstance that had made a refugee of him in virginia seemed to have pursued him and found him out. perhaps rowlett had been right. the harper girl was, among other mountain women, like a moon among stars. her local admirers might hate and threaten one another, but against an intruder from elsewhere they would unite as allies. such a prize would be fought for, murdered for if need be--but one ray of encouragement played among the clouds. any lover who felt confidence in his own success would not have found such tactics needful--and if she herself were not committed, she was not yet won by any rival. in that conclusion lay solace. the next morning found maggard busied about his dooryard, albeit with his rifle standing ready to hand, and to-day he wore his shirt with the arm-pit pistol holster under its cover. his vigilance, too, was quietly alert, and when a mule came in sight along the trail which looped over the ridge a half mile distant and was promptly swallowed again by the woods, his ears followed its approach by little sounds that would have been silent to a less sensitively trained hearing. it was a smallish, mouse-coloured mule that emerged at length to view and it looked even smaller than it was because the man who straddled it dwarfed it with his own ponderous stature and a girth which was almost an anomaly in a country of raw-boned gauntness. the big man slid down, and his thick neck and round face were red and sweat-damp though the day was young and cool. "i made a soon start this mornin'," he enlightened: "ter git me some gryste ground, an' i didn't eat me no vittles save only a few peanuts. i'm sich a fool 'bout them things thet most folks round hyar calls me by ther name of 'peanuts.'" "i reckon i kin convenience ye with some sort of snack," maggard assured him. "ef so be ye're hungry--an' kin enjoy what i've got." fed and refreshed, "peanuts" causey started on again and before he had been long gone bas rowlett appeared and sent his long halloo ahead of him in announcement of his coming. "i jist lowed i'd ride over an' see could i tender ye any neighbourly act," he began affably and maggard laughed. "thet thar's right clever of ye," he declared. "fer one thing, ye kin tell me who air ther big, jobial-seeming body thet gives ther name of peanuts causey. i reckon ye knows him?" rowlett grunted. "he's a kind of loaferer thet goes broguein' 'round scatterin' peanut hulls an' brash talk everywhich way an' yon," he gave enlightenment. "folks don't esteem him no turrible plenty. hit's all right fer hawgs ter fatten but hit don't become a man none. myself i disgusts gutty fellers." cal maggard had drawn out his pipe and was slowly filling it. as though the thought were an amusing one he inquired drawlingly: "be he one of ther fellers thet seeks ter wed harper's gal, too?" at that question rowlett snorted his disdain. "him? thet tub of fat-meat? wa'al now ye names hit ter me, i reckon he does loiter 'round thar erbout all he das't--he's ther hang-roundin'est feller ye ever seed--but ther only chanst he's got air fer every other man ter fall down an' die." "i fared over thar last night," said maggard with a level glance at his companion, "an' i met ther gal. she seemed right shy-like an' didn't hev much ter say one way ner t'other." as he spoke he searched the face of his visitor but the only expression that it gave forth in response to the announcement was one of livened and amiable interest. then, after a brief pause, the virginian laid a hand on the elbow of his neighbour and lowered his voice. "i wisht ye'd come inside a minute. thar's a matter i'd love ter hev ye counsel me erbout." with a nod of acquiescence the visitor followed the householder through the door, and maggard's face grew soberly intent as he picked up a sheet of paper from the table and held it out. "yestiddy ye forewarned me thet ef i went over thar i'd gain me some enemies," he said. "hit 'pears like ye made a right shrewd guess ... read thet.... i found hit nailed ter my door when i come home last night." hewlett took the paper and corrugated his brows over its vindictive message; then his high cheekbones flushed and from his unshaven lips gushed a cascade of oath-embroidered denunciation. "afore god almighty," he ripped out in conclusion, "kin any man comprehend ther sneakin', low-down meanness of a feller thet seeks ter terrify somebody sich fashion es thet? he don't das't disclose hisself and yit he seeks ter run ye off!" "he hain't a' goin' ter run me off none--whosoever he be," was the calm rejoinder, and rowlett looked up quickly. "then ye aims ter go right ahead?" "i aims ter go over thar ergin termorrer evenin'.... i'd go terday only i don't seek ter w'ar my welcome out." rowlett nodded. his voice came with convincing earnestness. "i told ye yestiddy thet i aimed ter wed with thet gal myself ef so be i proved lucky at sweetheartin' her. i hain't got no gay int'rest in aidin' ner abettin' ye, but yit i don't hold with no such bull-dozin' methods. what does ye aim ter do erbout hit?" "i aims ter pin this hyar answer on ther door whar i found ther letter at," replied maggard, crisply, "an' ef hit comes ter gun-battlin' in ther bresh--i don't seek ter brag none--but ye seed me shoot yestiddy." rowlett took and slowly read the defiant response which the other had pencilled and a grim smile of approval came to his face: to whoever it consarns. i aim to stay here and go wherever i takes the notion. i aim to be as peaceable as i'm suffered to be--and as warlike as i has to be. cal maggard. "i wonders, now," mused rowlett, half-aloud, "who that damn craven mout be?" suddenly his swarthy face brightened with an idea and he volunteered: "let me hev thet thar paper. i won't betray ter no man what's in hit but mebby i mout compare them words with ther handwrite of some fellers i knows--an' git at ther gist of the matter, thet fashion." it seemed a slender chance yet a possibility. a man who was everywhere acquainted might make use of it, whereas the stranger himself could hardly hope to do so. but as maggard thrust the note forward in compliance he took second thought--and withdrew it. "no," he said, slowly. "i'm obleeged ter ye--but ye mout lose this hyar paper an' like es not, i'll hev need of hit herea'tter." with evident disappointment rowlett conceded the argument by a nod of his head. "mebby ye're right," he said. "but anyhow we'd better s'arch round about. ef thar's a shoe-print left anywheres in ther mud or any sich-like thing, i'd be more like ter know what hit denotes then what a stranger would." together they went up and down the road, studying the dusty and rock-strewn surface with backwoods eyes to which little things were more illuminating than large print. they circled back of the ruined stockade and raked the rising laurel tangles with searching scrutiny. finally rowlett, who was several paces in advance, beckoned to the other and gave a low whistle of discovery. behind a low rock the thick grass was downpressed as though some huge rabbit had been huddled there. "some person's done fixed hisself a nestie hyar--ter spy on yore dwellin' house," he confidently asserted, then as he stood studying the spot he reached into the matted tangle and drew out a hand closed on some small object. for a moment he held it open before his own eyes, then tossed over to maggard a broken peanut shell. neither of them made any comment just then, but as they turned away rowlett murmured, as though to himself: "of course, _any_ feller kin eat peanuts." all that afternoon cal maggard lay hidden in the thicket overlooking his front door and, as a volunteer co-sentinel, bas rowlett lay in a "laurel-hell" watching from the rear, but their vigilante was unrewarded. that night, though, while maggard sat alone, smoking his pipe by his hearth, two shadowy figures detached themselves, at separate times and points, from the sooty tangle of the mountain woods some mile and a half away, and met at the rendezvous of a deserted cabin whose roof was half collapsed. they held the shadows and avoided the moonlight and they moved like silhouettes without visible features. they struck no matches and conferred in low and guarded tones, squatting on their heels and haunches in the abandoned interior. "he went over ter harper's house yestiddy evenin', an' he's like ter go right soon ergin'," said one. "all ye've got ter do air ter keep in tech with me--so any time i needs ye i kin git ye. i hain't plum made up my mind yit." the other shadowy and hunched figure growled unpleasantly, then bit from a tobacco twist and spat before he answered. "i hain't got no hankerin' fer no more laywayin's," he objected. "ef ye resolves that he needs killin', why don't ye do hit yoreself? hit hain't nothin' ter me." "i've done told ye why i kain't handily do hit myself. nobody hain't ergoin'ter suspicion _you_--an' es fer what's in hit fer ye--ef so be i calls on ye--we've done sottled that." the other remained churlishly silent for awhile. palpably he had little stomach for this jackal task and it was equally obvious that he feared refusal even more than acceptance of the stewardship. "hit hain't like as if i was seekin' ter fo'ce ye ter do suthin' ye hedn't done afore," the persuasive voice reminded him, and again the snarling response growled out its displeasure. "no, an' ye hain't said nothin' cons'arnin' what ye knows erbout me, nuther. ye hain't even drapped a hint thet any time ye takes ther notion ter talk out ter ther high-cote ye kin penitenshery me--but thet's jest because ye knows ye don't haf ter. by god, sometimes i think's hit would well-nigh profit me ter layway _you_ an' be shet of ye." the second voice was purring now, with a hint of the claw-power under the softness. "thet would be a right smart pity, though. thar _is_ one other body thet knows--an' ef so be i got kilt he'd be right speedy ter guess ther man thet done hit--an' ther reason, too. i reckon hit'll profit ye better ter go on bein' friends with me." again long silence, then grudgingly the murderer-elect rose to his feet and nodded reluctant assent. "so be it," he grumbled. "i gives ye my hand ter deaden him whensoever ye says ther word. but afore we parts company let's talk ther matter over a leetle more. i wouldn't love ter hev ye censure me for makin' no error." "ther main thing," came the instruction of the employer, "air this: i wants ter be able ter get ye quick an' hev ye ack quick--ef so be i needs ye, no matter when that be." chapter vii when cal maggard closed and locked his cabin door late the next afternoon he stood regarding with sombre eyes his message of defiance which, it seemed, no one had come to read. yet, as he turned his back a smile replaced the scowl, for he was going to see a girl. at the bend where the trail crossed the shallow creek, and a stray razor-back wallowed at the roadside, maggard saw a figure leaning indolently against the fence. "i suspicioned ye'd be right likely ter happen along erbout this time," enlightened bas rowlett as he waved his hand in greeting. "so i 'lowed i'd tarry an' santer along with ye." "i'm beholden ter ye," responded maggard, but he knew what the other had been too polite to say: that this pretended casualness marked the kindly motive of affording escort because of the danger under which he himself was travelling unfamiliar roads. over the crests heavy banks of clouds were settling in ominous piles of blackness and lying still-heaped in the breathlessness that precedes a tempest, but the sun still shone and rowlett who was leading the way turned into a forest trail. as they went, single file, through a gorge into which the sun never struck save from the zenith; where the ferns grew lush and the great leaves of the "cucumber tree" hung motionless, they halted without a word and a comprehending glance shot between them. when two setters, trained to perfect team work, come unexpectedly upon the quail scent in stubble, that one which first catches the nostril-warning becomes rigid as though a breath had petrified him--and at once his fellow drops to the stiff posture of accord. so now, as if one hand had pulled two strings, cal maggard and bas rowlett ceased to be upright animals. the sound of a crackled twig off to the right had come to their ears, and it was a sound that carried the quality of furtiveness. instantly they had dropped to their bellies and wriggled snake-like away from the spots where they had stood. instantly, too, they became almost invisible and two drawn weapons were thrust forward. there they lay for perhaps two minutes, with ears straining into the silence, neither exaggerating nor under-estimating the menace that might have caused that sound in the underbrush. after a while rowlett whispered, "what did ye hear?" "'peared like ter me," responded maggard, guardedly, "a twig cracked back thar in ther la'rel." rowlett nodded but after a space he rose, shaking his head. "ef so be thar's anybody a-layin' back thar in ther bresh, i reckon he's done concluded ter wait twell he gits ye by yourself," he decided. "let's be santerin' along." so they went forward until they came to a point where they stood on the unforested patch of a "bald knob." there rowlett halted again and pointed downward. beneath them spread the valley with the band of the river winding tenuously through the bottoms of the harper farm. about that green bowl the first voices of the coming storm were already rumbling with the constant growl of thunder. "thar's ther house--and thar's ther big tree in front of hit," said rowlett. "ef i owned ther place i'd shorely throw ther axe inter hit afore it drawed a lightnin' bolt down on ther roof." cal maggard, who had known walnuts only growing in the forest, gazed down now with something of wonderment at this one which stood alone. a sense of its spreading magnificence was borne in upon him, and though the simile was foreign to his mind, it seemed as distinct and separate from the thousands of other trees that blended in the leagues of surrounding forestry as might a mounted and sashed field marshal in the centre of an army of common soldiery. even in the dark atmosphere of gathering storm its spread of foliage held a living, golden quality of green and its trunk an inky blackness that gave a startling vividness. he did not know that this tree which grows stiff of head and narrow of shoulder in the woods alters its character when man provides it with a spacious setting, and that it becomes the noblest of our native growths. he did not know that when ovid wrote of folk in the golden age, who lived upon: acorns that had fallen from the towering trees of jove, he called acorns what we call nuts, and that it was not the oak but the walnut that he celebrated. but maggard did know it had been through the leafage of that splendid tree that he had first glimpsed the girl's face, and he did know that never before had he seen a thing of trunk and branch and leaf that had so impressed him with its stateliness and vital beauty. if he were master at that house, he thought, he would not cut it down. "i'm obleeged ter ye fer comin' thus fur with me," he observed, then supplemented drily, "an' still more fer not comin' no further." the other laughed. "i hain't ergoin' ter 'cumber yore projeck's none ternight," he declared, good-humouredly, then added fairly enough, "but termorrer night _i_ aims ter go sparkin' thar myself--an' i looks ter ye to do as much fer me an' give me a cl'ar road." maggard had hardly reached the house when, with all the passionate violence of the hills, the tempest broke. safe inside, he talked and smoked with the patriarch and his thoughts wandered, as he sat there by the hearth, back to the room from which now and then drifted a fragment of plaintively crooning song. the stag horns over the fireplace and the flintlock gun that lay across their prongs spoke of days long past, before the deer and bear had been "dogged to death" in the cumberlands. there were a few pewter pieces, too--and these the visitor knew were found only in houses that went back to revolutionary days. this, mused kenneth thornton, was the best house and the most fertile farm in all the wild surrounding country, and irony crept into his smile with the thought that it was a place he could not enter save under an anonymous threat of death. by the time supper had been eaten, the storm voices had dwindled from boisterous violence to exhausted quiet, and even the soft patter of warm rain died away until through the door, which now stood ajar, the visitor could see the moonlight and the soft stars that seemed to hang just out of arm's reach. dorothy had slipped quietly into the room and chosen a seat at the chimney corner where she sat as voiceless as a nun who has taken vows of silence. soon the old man's head began to nod in drowsy contentment. at first he made dutiful resistance against the pleasant temptation of languor--then succumbed. the young man, who had been burning with impatience for this moment, made a pretense of refilling his pipe. over there out of the direct flare and leaping of the flames the girl sat in shadow and he wanted to see her face. yet upon him had descended an unaccustomed embarrassment which found no easy door opening upon conversation. so they sat in a diffident silence that stretched itself to greater awkwardness, until at last dorothy rose abruptly to her feet and thornton feared that she meant to take flight. "'pears like ter me," she asserted, suddenly, "hit's nigh suffocatin' hot in hyar." "i war jest a-studyin' erbout thet myself," affirmed maggard whose quickness of uptake was more eager than truthful. "ther moon's a-shinin' outdoors. let's go out thar an' breathe free." as though breathing free were the most immediate of her needs, the girl rose and stood for a moment with the firelight catching the pink of her cheeks and bronzing her heavy hair, then she turned and led the way out to the porch where, in the moisture of the fresh-washed air, the honeysuckle vines were heavy with fragrance. the walnut tree, no longer lashed into storm incantations, stood now in quiet majesty, solitary though, at a respectful distance, surrounded. the frogs and whippoorwills were voiceful, and from the silvery foreground, shadow-blotted with cobalt, to the indigo-deep walls of the ranges, the earth spilled over influences of sentient youth. maggard gazed down at the girl and the girl, with a hand resting on a porch post, stood looking off out of eyes that caught and gave back the soft light from the moon. to maggard she seemed unconditionally lovely, but the fetters of shyness still held them both. "i don't know many folks hyarabouts yit," he said with impetuous suddenness. "i'd plumb love ter hev ye befriend me." dorothy turned toward him and her lips relaxed their shyness into a friendly smile--then impulsively she demanded: "did yore foreparents dwell hyarabouts a long time back?" thornton's face, with the moonlight upon it, stiffened into a mask-like reticence at this touching upon the sensitive topic which threatened his identification as a hunted man. "i've done heered thet they lived somewhars in kaintuck ginerations afore my time," he made evasive answer. "what made ye ask me that question?" then it was she who became hesitant but after a little she suggested, "come on down hyar under thet old walnuck tree. seems like i kin talk freer thar." together they went to the place where the shadows lay deep, like an island in a lake of moonshine, and the girl talked on in the hurried, shy fashion of one with a new secret and the need of a confidant. "ther mornin' ye fust come by ... an' stopped thar in ther high road ... i'd jest been readin' somethin' thet ... was writ by one of my foreparents ... way back, upwards of a hundred y'ars ago, i reckon." she paused but he nodded his interest so sympathetically that she went on, reassured; "she told how come she planted this hyar tree ... in them days when ther injins still scalped folks ... an' she writ down jest what her husband looked like." "what _did_ he look like?" inquired the man, gravely, and the girl found herself no longer bashful with him but at ease, as with an old friend. "hit war right then i looked out an' seed ye," she said, simply, "an' 'peared like ye'd plum bodily walked outen them pages of handwrite. thet's why i asked whether yore folks didn't dwell hyar onc't. mebby we mout be kin." cal maggard shook his head. "my folks moved away to virginny so fur back," he informed her, "thet hit's apt ter be right distant kinship." "this was all fur back," she reminded him, and in order that the sound of her voice might continue, he begged: "tell me somethin' else erbout this tree ... an' what ye read in ther book." she was standing close to him, and as she talked it seemed to him that the combined fragrances of the freshly washed night all came from her. he was conscious of the whippoorwill calls and the soft crooning of the river, but only as far-away voices of accompaniment, and she, answering to dreamy influences, too, went on with her recitals from the journal of the woman who had been a lady in virginia and who probably lay buried under the spot on which they stood. "hit's right amazin' ter listen at ye," he said at length. "but plentiful amazin' things comes ter pass." an amazing thing was coming to pass with him at that moment, for his arms were twitching with an eagerness to close about her, and he seemed struggling against forces of impulse stronger than himself. it was amazing because he had sworn to avoid the folly of chancing everything on too hasty a love declaration, and because the discipline of patient self-control was strong in him. it was amazing, too, because, with a warning recently received and appreciated, his ears had become deaf to all sounds save her voice, and when the thicket stirred some fifty yards away he heard nothing. even the girl herself would ordinarily have paused to bend her head and listen to an unaccustomed sound, but in her as well as in him the close-centred magic was working absorption. each of them felt the tense, new something that neither fully understood, but which set them vibrating to a single impulse as the two prongs of a tuning fork answer to one note. neither of them thought of the figure that hitched its way toward them--more cautious after that first warning rustle--to watch and listen--the figure of an armed man. for the girl reality seemed to recede into the gossamer of dreams. she could fancy herself the other woman who had lived and died before her--and the face of the man in the moonlight might have been that of the pioneer thornton. fancy was stronger than actuality. "hit almost seems like," she whispered, "that ther old tree's got a spell in hit--ter bewitch folks with." "ef hit has ... hit's a spell i loves right good," he fervently protested. he heard her breath come quick and sudden, as if under a hypnotic force, and following the prompting of some instinctive mentor, he held out his arms toward her. still she stood with the wide-eyed raptness of a sleepwalker, and when cal maggard moved slowly forward, she, who had been so shy an hour ago, made no retreat. it was all as though each of them reacted to the command of some controlling volition beyond themselves. the man's arms closed about her slender body and pressed it close to his breast. his lips met her upturned ones, and held them in a long kiss that was returned. each felt the stir of the other's breath. to each came the fluttering tumult of the other's heart. then after a long while they drew apart, and the girl's hands went spasmodically to her face. "what hev we been doin', cal?" she demanded in the bewildered tone of returning realization. "i don't skeercely know ye yit, nuther." "mebby hit war ther spell," he answered in a low but triumphant voice. "ef hit war, i reckon god hisself worked hit." the figure in the tangle had drawn noiselessly back now and slipped off into the woods a few hundred yards away where it joined another that stood waiting there. "i hain't mad with ye, cal," said dorothy, slowly. "i hain't even mortified, albeit i reckon i ought ter be sick with shame ... but i wants ye ter go home now. i've got need ter think." as they stood together at the fence they heard bas rowlett's voice singing down the road, and soon his figure came striding along and stopped by the stile. "howdy, dorothy," he called, then recognizing that this was a leave-taking he added, "cal, ef ye're startin' home, i'll go long with ye, fer comp'ny." the moon was westering when the two men reached the turn of the road and there rowlett paused and began speaking in a cautious undertone. "i didn't come along accidental, cal. i done hit a-purpose. i got ter studyin' 'bout that cracklin' twig we heered in ther bresh an' hit worrited me ter think of yore goin' home by yoreself. i concluded ter tarry fer ye an' guide ye over a trace thet circles round thet gorge without techin' hit." "i'm right sensibly beholden ter ye," answered maggard, the more embarrassed because he now knew this generous fellow to be a vanquished rival. "but 'atter ternight ye've got ter suffer me ter take my own chances." together they climbed the mountainside until they reached the edge of a thicket that seemed impassable but through which the guide discovered a narrow way. before they had come far they halted, breathing deep from the steep ascent, and found themselves on a shelf of open rock that commanded a view of the valley and the roof of the harper house, on which the moonlight slept. [illustration: "_'hit almost seems like,' she whispered, 'that ther old tree's got a spell in hit--ter bewitch folks with.'_"] "thar's ther last glimpse we gits ternight of ther house an' ther old tree," said rowlett who stood a few feet away and, as maggard turned to look, the night stillness broke into a bellowing that echoed against the precipice and the newcomer lurched forward like an ox struck with a sledge. as he fell maggard's hand gripped convulsively at his breast and at the corners of his mouth a thin trickle of blood began to ooze. but before his senses went under the closing tide of darkness and insensibility the victim heard rowlett's pistol barking ferociously back into the timber from which the ambushed rifle had spoken. he heard rowlett's reckless and noisy haste as he plowed into the laurel where he, too, might encounter death, and raising his voice in a feeble effort of warning he tried to shout out: "heed yoreself, bas ... hit's too late ter save me." chapter viii to the man lying in the soaked grass and moss of the sandstone ledge came flashes of realization that were without definite beginning or end, separated by gaps of insensibility. out of his limbs all power and volition seemed to have evaporated, and his breath was an obstructed struggle as though the mountain upon which he lay were lying instead upon his breast. through him went hot waves of pain under which he clenched his teeth until he swooned again into a merciful numbness. he heard in an interval of consciousness the thrashing of his companion's boots through the tangle and the curses with which his companion was vainly challenging his assailant to stand out and fight in the open. then, for a little while, he dropped endlessly down through pits of darkness and after that opened his eyes to recognize that he was being held with his head on rowlett's knee. rowlett saw the fluttering of the lids and whispered: "i'm goin' ter tote ye back thar--ter harper's house. hit's ther only chanst--an' i reckon i've got ter hurt ye right sensibly." bas rose and hefted him slowly and laboriously, straightening up with a muscle-straining effort, until he stood with one arm under the limp knees and one under the blood-wet shoulders of his charge. for a moment he stood balancing himself with his feet wide apart, and then he started staggering doggedly down the stony grade, groping, at each step, for a foothold. in the light of the sinking moon the slowly plodding rescuer offered an inviting target, with both hands engaged beyond the possibility of drawing or using a weapon, but no shot was fired. the distance was not great, but the pace was slow, and the low moon would shortly drop behind the spruce fringe of the ridges. then the burden-bearer would have to stumble forward through confused blackness--so he hastened his steps until his own breath rattled into an exhausted rasp and his own heart hammered with the bursting ache of effort. when he had reached the half-way point he put his load down and shouted clamorously for help, until the black wall of the harper house showed an oblong of red light and the girl's voice came back in answer. "i've got a dyin' man hyar," he called, briefly, "an' i needs aid." then as maggard lay insensible in the mud, bas squatted on his heels beside him and wiped the sweat drench from his face with his shirt-sleeve. it was with unsteady eyes that he watched a lantern crawling toward him: eyes to which it seemed to weave the tortuous course of a purposeless glow-worm. then the moon dipped suddenly and the hills, ceasing to be visible shapes, were felt like masses of close crowded walls, but at length the lantern approached and, in its shallow circle of sickly yellow, it showed two figures--that of the old man and the girl. dorothy carried the light, and when she held it high and let its rays fall on the two figures, one sitting stooped with weariness and the other stretched unconscious, her eyes dilated in a terror that choked her, and her face went white. but she said nothing. she only put down the lantern and slipped her arms under the shoulders that lay in the wet grass, shuddering as her hands closed on the warm moisture of blood, and rowlett rose with an effort and rallied his spent strength to lift the inert knees. while the old man lighted their footsteps the little procession made its painful way down what was left of the mountainside, across the road, and up into the house. * * * * * when haggard opened his eyes again he was lying with his wounds already bathed and roughly bandaged. plainly he was in a woman's room, for its clean particularity and its huge old four-poster bed spread with a craftily wrought "coverlet" proclaimed a feminine proprietorship. a freshly built fire roared on a generous hearth, giving a sense of space broadening and narrowing with fickle boundaries of shadow. the orange brightness fell, too, on a figure that stood at the foot-board looking down at him with anxiety-tortured eyes; a figure whose heavy hair caught a bronze glimmering like a nimbus, and whose hands were held to her breast with a clutching little suspended gesture of dread. voices vaguely heard in disjointed fragments of talk called him back to actuality. the old man was speaking: "... i fears me he kain't live long.... 'pears like ther shot war a shore deadener...." and from rowlett came an indignant response "... i heered ther crack from right spang behind us ... i wheeled 'round an' shot three shoots back at ther flash." then maggard heard, so low that it seemed a joyous and musical whisper, the announcement from the foot of his bed: "i'm goin' ter fetch uncle jase burrell now, ter tend yore hurts, cal," she said, softly. "i jest couldn't endure ter start away twell i seed ye open yore eyes, though." maggard glanced toward bas rowlett who stood looking solicitously down at him and licked his lips. there was an acknowledgment which decency required his making in their presence, and he keyed himself for a feeble effort to speak. "rowlett thar...." he began, faintly, and a cough seemed to start fresh agonies in his chest so that he had to wait awhile before he went on. "mighty few men would hev stood by me ... like he done.... ef i'd been his own blood-brother...." there he gulped, choked, and drifted off again. cal maggard next awoke with a strangely refreshed sense of recovery and a blessed absence of pain. he seemed still unable to move, and he said nothing, for in that strange realization of a brain brought back to focus came a shock of new amazement. bas rowlett bent above his pillow, but with a transformed face. the eyes that were for the moment turned toward the door burned with a baleful hatred and the lips were drawn into a vicious snarl. this, too, must be part of the light-headedness, thought maggard, but instinctively he continued to simulate unconsciousness. this man had been his steadfast and self-forgetful friend. so the wounded man fought back the sense of clear and persistent reality, which had altered kindly features into a gargoyle of vindictiveness, and lay unmoving until rowlett rose and turned his back. then, through the slits of warily screened eyes, he swept a hasty glance about the room and found that except for the man who had carried him in and himself it was empty. probably that hate-blackness on the other face was for the would-be assassin and not for himself, argued maggard. rowlett went over and stood by the hearth, staring into the fire, his hands clenching and unclenching in spasmodic violence. this was a queer dream, mused maggard, and more and more insistently it refused to seem a dream. more surely as he watched the face which the other turned to glare at him did the instinct grow that he himself was the object of that bitter animosity of expression. he lay still and watched rowlett thrust a hand into his overalls pocket and scatter peanut shells upon the fire--objects which he evidently wished to destroy. as he did this the standing figure laughed shortly under his breath--and full realization came to the wounded man. the revelation was as complete as it was ugly. as long as he lay unmoving the pain seemed quiescent, and his head felt crystal clear--his thought efficient. perhaps he was dying--most probably he was. if so this was a lucid interval before death, and in it his mind was playing him no tricks. the supposed friend loomed in an unmasked and traitorous light which even the preconceived idea could not confuse or mitigate. maggard did not want to give credence to the certainty that was shaping itself--and yet the conviction had been born and could not be thrust back into the womb of the unborn. all of rowlett's friendliness and loyalty had been only an alibi! it had been rowlett who had led him, unsuspecting, into ambush! maggard's coat and pistol-holster hung at the headboard of his bed. now with a cat-soft tread upon the creaking puncheons of the floor rowlett approached them. he paused first, bending to look searchingly down at the white face on the pillow, and the eyes in that face remained almost but not quite closed. the hand that rested outside the coverlet, too, lay still and limp like a dead hand. reassured by these evidences of unconsciousness, bas rowlett drew a deep breath of satisfaction. the diabolical thought had come to him that by shaking the prone figure he could cause a hemorrhage that would assure death--and the evil fire in his eyes as his hands stole out toward his intended victim betrayed his reflection. the seemingly insensible listener, with a spartan effort, held his pale face empty of betrayal as the two impulsive hands came closer. but as quickly the arms drew back, and the expression clouded with doubt. "no...." reflected bas without words. "no, hit ain't needful nohow ... an' jase burrell mout detect i'd done hit." the bending figure straightened again and its hands began calmly rifling the pockets of the wounded man's coat. through the narrow slits of eyes that dissembled sleep maggard watched, while rowlett opened and recognized the threatening letter that had been nailed to the door. the purloiner nodded, and his lips twisted into a smile of triumph, as he thrust the sheet of paper into his own pocket. no longer now could there remain any vestige of doubt in maggard's mind--no illusion of mistaking the true for the untrue, and in the vengeful fury that blazed eruptively through him he forgot the hurt of his wounding. he could not rise from his bed and give battle. had the other not reconsidered his diabolical impulse to shake him into a fatal hemorrhage he could not even have defended himself. his voice, in all likelihood, would not carry to the door of the next room--if indeed any one were there. physically, he was defenseless and inert, but all of him beyond the flesh was galvanized into quicksilver acuteness and determination. he was praying for a reprieve of life sufficient to call this judas friend to an accounting--and if that failed, for strength enough to die with his denunciation spoken. yet he realized the need of conserving his tenuous powers and so, gauging his abilities, he lay motionless and to all seeming unconscious, while the tall figure continued to tower over him. cal maggard had some things to say and if his power of speech forsook him before he finished it was better not to make the start. these chances he was calculating, and after rowlett had turned his back, the man in the bed opened his eyes and experimented with the one word, "bas!" he found that the monosyllable not only sounded clear, but had the quiet and determined quality of tone at which he had striven, and as it sounded the other wheeled, flinching as if the word had been a bullet. but at once he was back by the bed, and maggard's estimate of him as a master of perfidy mounted to admiration, for the passion clouds had in that flash of time been swept from his eyes and left them disguised again with solicitude and friendliness. "by god, cal!" the exclamation bore a counterfeited heartiness. "i didn't skeercely suffer myself ter hope y'd ever speak out ergin!" "i'm obleeged, bas." maggard's voice was faint but steady now. "thar's a thing i've got ter tell ye afore my stren'th gives out." beguiled by a seeming absence of suspicion into the belief that maggard had just then awakened to consciousness, rowlett ensconced himself on the bedside and nodded an unctuous sympathy. the other closed his eyes and spoke calmly and without raising his lids. "ye forewarned me, bas.... we both of us spoke out p'int blank ... erbout ther gal ... an' we both went on bein' ... plum friendly." "thet war ther best way, cal." "yes.... then ye proffered ter safeguard me.... ye didn't hev no need ter imperil yoreself ... but ye _would_ hev hit so." "i reckon ye'd hev done likewise." "no. i misdoubts i wouldn't ... anyhow ... right from ther outset on you didn't hev ter be friendly ter me ... but ye was." "i loves fa'r mindedness," came the sanctimonious response. a brief pause ensued while maggard rested. he had yet some way to go, and the last part of the conversation would be the hardest. "most like," he continued at last, "i'll die ... but i've got a little bitty, slim chanst ter come through." "i hopes so, cal." "an' ef i _does_, i calls on god in heaven ter witness thet afore ther moon fulls ergin ... i'm a-goin' ter _kill_--somebody." "who, cal?" the white face on the pillow turned a little and the eyes opened. "i hain't keerin' none much erbout ther feller thet fired ther shot...." went on the voice. "ther man i aims ter git ... air ther one thet hired him.... _he's_ goin' ter die ... _hard_!" "what makes ye think"--the listener licked his lips furtively--"thar war more'n one?" "because i knows who ... t'other one is." rowlett rose from his seat, and lifted a clenched fist. the miscreant's thoughts were in a vortex of doubt, fear, and perplexity--but perhaps maggard suspected "peanuts" causey, and rowlett went on with an admirable bit of acting. "name him ter me, cal," he tensely demanded. "he shot at both of us. he's my man ter kill!" "when ye lay thar ... by my house ... watchin' with me...." went on the ambushed victim in a summarizing of ostensible services, "what made ye discomfort yoreself, fer me, save only friendliness?" "thet war all, cal." "an' hit war ther same reason thet made ye proffer ter take away thet letter an' seek ter diskiver who writ hit, warn't hit ... an' ter sa'rch about an' find thet peanut hull ... an' ter come by hyar an' show me a safe way home.... all jest friendliness, warn't hit?" "hain't thet es good a reason es any?" the voice on the bed did not rise but it took on a new note. "thar couldn't handily be but jest ... one better one ... bas." "what mout thet be?" "ther right one. ther reason of a sorry craven thet aimed at a killin' ... an' sought ter alibi hisself." rowlett stood purple-faced and trembling in a transport of maniac fury with which an inexplicable fear ran cross-odds as warp and woof. the other had totally deluded him until the climax brought its accusation, and now the unmasked plotter took refuge in bluster, fencing for time to think. "thet's a damn lie an' a damn slander!" he stormed. "ye've done already bore witness afore these folks hyar thet i sought ter save ye." "an' i plum believed hit ... then. now i knows better. i sees thet ye led me inter ambush ... thet ye planted them peanut hulls.... thet ye writ thet letter ... an' jest now ye stole hit outen my pocket." "thet's a lie, too. i reckon yore head's done been crazed. i toted ye in hyar an' keered fer ye." "ye aimed ter finish out yore alibi," persisted maggard, disdainfully. "ye didn't low i seed ye steal ther letter ... but i gives ye leave ter tek hit over thar an' and burn hit up, rowlett--same es them peanut hulls.... i hain't got no need of nuther them ... nur hit." rowlett's hand, under the sting of accusation, had instinctively pressed itself against his pocket. now guiltily and self-consciously it came away and he found himself idiotically echoing his accuser's words: "no need of hit?" "no, i don't want nuther law-co'tes ner juries ter help me punish a man thet hires his killin' done second-handed.... all i craves air one day of stren'th ter stand on my feet." with a brief spasm of hope rowlett bent forward and quickly decided on a course of temporizing. if he could encourage that idea the man would probably die--with sealed lips. "i'm willin' ter look over all this slander, cal," he generously acceded; "ye've done tuck up a false notion in yore light-headedness." "this thing lays betwixt me an' you," went on the low-pitched but implacable voice from the bed, "but ef i ever gits up again--you're goin' ter wisht ter god in heaven ... hit war jest only ther penitenshery threatenin' ye." again rowlett's anger blazed, and his self-control slipped its leash. "afore god, ef ye warn't so plum puny an' tuckered out, i wouldn't stand hyar an' suffer ye ter fault me with them damn lies." "is thet why ye was ponderin' jest now over shakin' me till i bled inside myself?... i seed thet thought in yore eyes." the breath hissed out of rowlett's great chest like steam from an over-stressed boiler, and a low bellow broke from his lips. "i kin still do thet," he declared in a rage-choked voice. "i _did_ hire a feller ter kill ye, but he failed me. now i'm goin' ter finish ther job myself." then the door opened and old caleb harper called from the threshold: "did i hear somebody shout out in hyar? what's ther matter, bas?" as the menacing face hung over him, maggard saw it school itself slowly into a hard composure and read a peremptory warning for silence in the eyes. the outstretched hands had already touched him, and now they remained holding his shoulders as the voice answered: "cal jest woke up. i reckon he war outen his head, an' i'm heftin' him up so's he kin breath freer." old man harper came over to the bed and rowlett released his hold and moved away. "i've done been studyin' whether dorothy's goin' ter make hit acrost ter jase burrell's or not," said caleb, quaveringly. "i fears me ther storm hes done washed out the ford." then he crossed to the hearth and sat down in a chair to light his pipe. chapter ix cal maggard lay unmoving as the old man's chair creaked. over there with his back turned toward the fire stood bas rowlett, his barrel-like chest swelling heavily with that excitement which he sought to conceal. to caleb harper, serenely unsuspicious, the churlish sullenness of the eyes that resented his intrusion, went unmarked. it was an intervention that had come between the wounded man and immediate death, and now rowlett cursed himself for a temporizing fool who had lost his chance. he stood with feet wide apart and his magnified shadow falling gigantically across floor and wall--across the bed, too, on which his intended victim lay defenseless. if cal maggard had been kneeling with his neck on the guillotine block the intense burden of his suspense could hardly have been greater. so long as caleb harper sat there, with his benign old face open-eyed in wakefulness, death would stand grudgingly aloof, staring at the wounded man yet held in leash. if those eyes closed in sleep the restive executioner would hardly permit himself to be the third time thwarted. yet the present reprieve would for a few moments endure, since the assassin would hesitate to goad his victim to any appeal for help. slowly the fire began to dwindle and the shadows to encroach with a dominion of somberness over the room. it seemed to the figure in the bed as he struggled against rising tides of torpor and exhaustion that his own resolution was waning with the firelight and that the murk of death approached with the thickening shadows. he craved only sleep yet knew that it meant death. with a morose passion closely akin to mania the thoughts of the other man, standing with hands clenched at his back, were running in turbulent freshet. to have understood them at all one must have seen far under the surface of that bland and factitious normality which he maintained before his fellows. in his veins ran a mongrelized strain of tendencies and vices which had hardened into a cruel and monstrous summary of vicious degeneracy. yet with this brain-warping brutality went a self-protective disguise of fair-seeming and candour. rowlett's infatuation for dorothy harper had been of a piece with his perverse nature--always a flame of hot passion and never a steadfast light of unselfish love. he had received little enough encouragement from the girl herself, but old caleb harper had looked upon him with partiality, and since, to his own mind, possession was the essential thing and reciprocated affection a minor consideration, he had until now been confident of success. once he had married dorothy harper, he meant to break her to his will, as one breaks a spirited horse, and he had entertained no misgivings as to his final mastery. once unmasked, bas rowlett could never regain his lost semblance of virtue--and this battered creature in the bed was the only accuser who could unmask him. if the newcomer's death had been desirable before, it was now imperative. the clock ticked on. the logs whitened, and small hissing tongues of blue flame crept about them where there had been flares of vermilion. like overstrained cat-gut drawn tauter and tauter until the moment of its snapping is imminent, the tension of that waiting grew more crucial and tortured. bit by bit into cal maggard's gropings after a plan crept the beginnings of an idea, though sometimes under the stupefying waves of drowsiness he lost his thread of thought. old caleb was not yet asleep, and as the room grew chill he shivered in his chair, and rose slowly, complaining of the misery in his joints. he threw fresh fuel on the fire and then, over-wearied with the night's excitement, let his head fall forward on his breast and his breath lengthen to a snore. then in a low but peremptory voice maggard said: "rowlett, come hyar." with cautious but willing footfall rowlett approached, but before he reached the bedside a curt undertone warned him, "stop right thar ... ef ye draws nigher i'll call out. kin ye hear me?... i aims ter talk low." "i'm hearkenin'." "all right. give me yore pledge, full-solemn an' in ther sight of god almighty ... thet ye'll hold yore hand till i gits well ... or else dies." "whar'fore would i do thet?" "i'll tell you fer why. ef ye don't ... i'll wake old caleb up an' sw'ar ter a dyin' statement ... an' i'll tell ther full, total truth.... does ye agree?" the other hesitated then evaded the question. "s'posin' i does give ye my pledge ... what then?" "then ef i dies what i knows'll die with me.... but ef i lives ... me an' you'll settle this matter betwixt ourselves so soon es i kin walk abroad." that maggard would ever leave that bed save to be borne to his grave seemed violently improbable, and if his silence could be assured while he lay there, success for the plotter would after all be complete. yet rowlett pretended to ponder the proposition which he burned ardently to accept. "why air ye willin' ter make thet compact with me?" he inquired dubiously, and the other answered promptly: "because ter send ye ter sulter in ther penitenshery wouldn't pleasure me ner content me ... no more then ter see ye unchurched fer tale-bearin'. ye've got ter _die_ under my own hands.... ef ye makes oath an' abides by hit ... ye needn't be afeared thet i won't keep mine, too." for a brief interval the standing man withheld his answer, but that was only for the sake of appearances. then he nodded his head. "i gives ye my hand on hit. i sw'ars." something like a grunt of bitter laughter came from the bed. "thet hain't enough ... fotch me a bible." "i don't know whar hit's at." "i reckon they've got one--in a godly dwellin'-house like this. find hit--an' speedily ... or i'll call out." rowlett turned and left the room, and presently he returned bearing a cumbersome and unmistakable tome. "now kneel down," came the command from the bed, and the command was reluctantly obeyed. "repeat these hyar words atter me ... 'i swa'rs, in ther sight an' hearin' of god almighty....'" and from there the words ran double, low voiced from two throats, "'thet till sich time as cal maggard kin walk abroad, full rekivered ... i won't make no effort ter harm ner discomfort him ... no wise, guise ner fashion.... ef i breaks this pledge i prays god ter punish me ... with ruin an' death an' damnation in hell hyaratter!" "an' now," whispered maggard, "kiss ther book." as the weirdly sworn malefactor came slowly to his feet the instinct of craft and perfidy brought him back to the part he must play. "now thet we onderstands one another," he said, slowly, "we're swore enemies atter ye gits well. meantime, i reckon we'd better go on _seemin'_ plum friendly." "jist like a couple of blood-brothers," assented maggard with an ironic flash in his eyes, "an' now blood-brother bas, go over thar an' set down." rowlett ground his teeth, but he laughed sardonically and walked in leisurely fashion to the hearth. there he sat with his feet outspread to the blaze, while he sought solace from his pipe--and failed to find it. possibly stray shreds of delirium and vagary mingled themselves with strands of forced clarity in cal maggard's thinking that night, for as he lay there a totally unreasonable comfort stole over him and seemed real. he had the feeling that the old tree outside the door still held its beneficent spell and that this magic would regulate for him those elements of chance and luck without which he could not hope to survive until dorothy and uncle jase came back--and dorothy had started on a hard journey over broken and pitch-black distances. fanciful as was this figment of a sick imagination, the result was the same as though it had been a valid conviction, for after a while old man caleb roused himself and stretched his long arms. then he rose and peered at the clock with his face close to its dial, and once more he replenished the fire. "hit's past midnight now, bas," he complained with a querulous note of anxiety in his words. "i'm plum tetchious an' worrited erbout dorothy." for an avowed lover the seated man gave the impression of churlish unresponsiveness as he made his grumbling reply. "i reckon she hain't goin' ter come ter no harm. she hain't nobody's sugar ner salt." caleb ran his talon-like fingers through his mane of gray hair and shook his patriarchal head. "ther fords air all plum ragin' an' perilous atter a fresh like this.... i hain't a-goin' ter enjoy no ease in my mind ef _somebody_ don't go in s'arch of her--an' hit jedgmatically hain't possible fer me ter go myself." slowly, unwillingly, and with smouldering fury rowlett rose from his chair. he was a self-declared suitor, a man who had boasted that no night was too wild for him to ride, and a refusal in such case would stultify his whole attitude and standing in that house. "i reckon ye'll suffer me ter ride yore extry critter, won't ye?" he inquired, glumly, "an' loan me a lantern, too." * * * * * after the setting of the moon the night had become a void of blackness, but it was a void in which shadows crowded, all dark but some more inkily solid than others--and of these shadows some were forests, some precipices, and some chasms lying trap-like between. dorothy harper and the mule she rode were moving somewhere through this world of sooty obscurity. sometimes in the bottoms, where the way ran through soft shale, teaming wheels had cut hub-deep furrows where a beast could break a leg with a miscalculated step. sometimes, higher up, a path wide enough only for the setting down of foot before foot skirted a cliff's edge--and the storm might at any point have washed even that precarious thoroughfare away in a gap like a bite taken out of a soft apple. but along those uncertain trails, obeying something surer than human intelligence, the beast piloted his rider with an intuitive steadiness, feeling for his foothold, and the girl, being almost as wise as he, forebore from any interference of command save by the encouragement of a kindly voice. once in a swollen ford where the current had come boiling up mount and rider were lifted and swept downstream, and for a matter of long moments it was a toss-up whether water-power or mule-power would prevail. through the caldron roar of storm-fed waters, then, the girl could hear the heavy, straining breath in the beast's lungs, and the strong lashing of its swimming legs. she caught her lip till it bled between her teeth and clung tight and steady, knowing her danger but seeking to add no ounce of difficulty to the battle for strength and equilibrium of the animal under her. and they had won through and were coming back. at her side now rode uncle jason, the man of diverse parts who was justice of the peace, adviser in dissension, and self-taught practitioner of medicine. he had been roused out of his sleep and had required no urging. he had listened, saddled, and come, and now, when behind them lay the harder part of the journey, they heard other hoofs on the road and made out a shadowy horseman who wheeled his mount to ride beside them. then for the first time in a long while the girl opened her tight-pressed lips to shape the gasping question which she was almost terrified to ask. "how is he, bas? air he still alive?" when at last they stood by the bedside, the volunteer doctor pressed his head to the hardly stirring chest and took the inert wrist between his fingers. then he straightened up and shook a dubious head. "thar hain't but jist only a flicker of pulse-beat left," he declared. "mebby he mout live through hit--but ef he does hit'll p'int-blank astonish me." chapter x through the rest of that night old jase lay on a pallet spread before the fire, rising at intervals out of a deathlike slumber to slip his single suspender strap over his bent shoulder, turn up the lantern, and inspect his patient's condition. on none of these occasions did he find the girl, who spent that night in a straight-backed chair at the bedside, asleep. always she was sitting there with eyes wide and brimming with suffering and fear, and a wakeful, troubled heart into which love had flashed like a meteor and which it threatened, now, to sear like a lightning bolt. it seemed to her that life had gone aimlessly, uneventfully on until without warning or preparation it had burst into a glory of discovery and in the same breath into a chaos of destruction. "kain't ye give me no encouragement yit, uncle jase?" she whispered once when he came to the bedside, with a convulsive catching at her throat, though her eyes were dry and hot, and the old man, too ruggedly honest to soften the edge of fact with evasion, shook his head. "i hain't got no power ter say yit--afore i sees how he wakes up termorrer," he admitted. "why don't ye lay down, leetle gal? i'll summons ye ef airy need arises." but the girl shook her head and later the old man, stirring on his pallet, heard her praying in an almost argumentative tone of supplication: "ye sees, almighty god, hit don't call for no master _big_ miracle ter save him ... an' ye've done fotched ther dead back ter life afore now." that night dorothy harper grew up. for the first time she recognized the call of her adult womanhood which centred about one man and made its own universe. she would not be a child again. * * * * * the town of lake erie was no town at all, but a scant cluster of shack-like buildings at the crossing of two roads, which were hardly roads at all, either. the place had been called lake erie when the veterans who had gone to the "war of twelve" came home from service with perry--for in no war that the nation has waged has this hermit people failed of response and representation. this morning it stood as an unsightly detail against a background of impressive beauty. back of it rose wooded steeps, running the whole lovely gamut of greenery and blossoming colour to a sun-filled sky which was flawless. the store of jake crabbott was open and already possessed of its quorum for the discussion of the day's news. and to-day there _was_ news! a dozen hickory-shirted and slouch-hatted men lounged against the wall or on empty boxes and broken chairs about its porch and door. the talk was all of the stranger who had come so recently from virginia and who had found such a hostile welcome awaiting him. spice was added to the debate by a realization in the mind of every man who joined in it that the mysterious firer of those shots might be--and probably was--a member of the present conclave. jake crabbott who ran the store maintained, in all neighbourhood differences, the studious attitude of an incorruptible neutral. old grandsire templey, his father-in-law, sat always in the same low chair on the porch in summer and back of the stove in winter, with his palsied hands crossed on his staff-head and his toothless gums mumbling in inconsequential talk. old grandsire was querulous and hazy in his mind but his memory went back almost a century, and it clarified when near events were discarded and he spoke of remoter times. now he sat mumbling away into his long beard, and in the door stood his son-in-law, a sturdy man, himself well past middle-age, with a face that was an index of hardihood, shrewdness, and the gift for knowing when and how to hold his tongue. on the steps of the porch, smiling like a good-humoured leviathan and listening to the talk, sat "peanuts" causey, but he was not to be allowed to sit long silent, because of all those gathered there he alone had met and talked with the stranger. "i fared past his dwellin' house day before yistiddy," declared causey in response to a question, "an' i 'lowed he war a right genial-spoken sort of body." the chorus of fresh interrogations was interrupted by a man who had not spoken before. he rose from his seat and stepped across toward peanuts, and he was not prepossessing of appearance as he came to his feet. joe doane, whom the pitiless directness of a rude environment had rechristened "hump" doane, stood less than five feet to the crown of his battered hat, and the hat sat on an enormous head out of which looked the seamed and distorted face of a hunchback. but his shoulders were so broad and his arms so long and huge that the man had the seeming of gorilla hideousness and gorilla power. the face, too, despite its soured scowl, held the alert of a keen mentality and was dominated by eyes whose sleeping fires men did not lightly seek to fan into blazes of wrath. no man of either faction stood with a more uncompromising sincerity for law and peace--but hump doane viewed life through the eyes of one who has suffered the afflictions and mortification of a cripple in a land that accepts life in physical aspects. his wisdom was darkened with the tinge and colour of the cynic's thought. he trusted that man only who proved his faith by his works, and believed all evil until it was disproven. like a nervous shepherd who tends wild sheep he feared always for his flock and distrusted every pelt that might disguise and mask a possible wolf of trouble. "what did ye say this hyar stranger calls hisself, peanuts?" he demanded, bluntly, and when the other had told him he repeated the name thoughtfully. then he shot out another question with the sharp peremptoriness of a prosecuting attorney, and in the high, rasping voice of his affliction. "what caused him ter leave virginny?" the stout giant grinned imperturbably. "he didn't look like he'd relish ter be hectored none with sich-like questions es thet, an' i wasn't strivin' ter root inter his private business without he elected of his own free will ter give hit out ter each an' every." young pete doane, the cripple's son, who fancied his own wit, hitched his chair backward and tilted it against the wall. "i reckon a man don't need no severe reason but jest plain common sense fer movin' outen virginny inter kaintuck." hump swept a disdainful glance at his offspring and that conversational volunteer ventured no further repartee. "by ther same token," announced the elder doane, crushingly, "thar's trash in virginny thet don't edify kaintuck folks none by movin' in amongst 'em." young pete, whose entrance into the discussion had been so ruthlessly stepped upon by his own sire, sat now sulkily silent, and his face in that sombre repose was a study. though his name was that of the ancestor who had "gone to the indians" and introduced the red strain into the family there was no trace of that mingling in young peter's physiognomy. indeed the changes of time had transferred all the recognizable aspects of that early blood-line to the one branch represented by bas rowlett, possibly because the doanes had, on the distaff side, introduced new blood with greater frequency. young pete was blond, and unlike his father had the receding chin and the pale eyes of a weak and impressionable character. bas rowlett was a hero whom he worshipped, and his nature was such as made him an instrument for a stronger will to use at pleasure. the sturdy father regarded him with a strange blending of savage affection and stern disdain, brow-beating him in public yet ready to flare into eruptive anger if any other recognized, as he did, the weaknesses of his only son. the crowd paused, too, to receive and question a newcomer who swung himself down from a brown mare and strolled into the group. sim squires was a fellow of medium height and just under middle-age, whose face was smooth shaven--or had been some two days back. he smiled chronically, just as chronically he swung his shoulders and body with a sort of swagger, but the smile was vapid, and the swagger an empty boast. "i jest heered erbout this hyar ruction a leetle while back," he announced with inquisitive promptness, "an' i rid straightway over hyar ter find me out somethin'." "thar comes bas rowlett now," suggested the storekeeper, waving his hand toward the creek-bed road along which a mule and rider came at a placid fox-trot. "he's ther feller that fotched ther stranger in, an' shot back at ther la'rel. belikes he kin give us ther true sum an' amount of ther matter." as sim squires and peanuts causey glanced up at the approaching figure one might have said that into the eyes of each came a shadow of hostility. on sim's face the chronic grin for once faded, and he moved carelessly to one side--yet under the carelessness one or two in that group discerned a motive more studied. though no one knew cause or nature of the grievance, it was generally felt that bad blood existed between bas and sim, and sim was not presumed to court a collision. when bas rowlett had dismounted and come slowly to the porch, the loungers fell silent with the interest accorded one of the principal actors in last night's drama, then the hunchback demanded shortly: "bas, we're all frettin' ourselves ter know ther gist of this hyar trouble ... an' i reckon ye're ther fittin' man ter tell us." the new arrival glanced about the group, nodding in greeting, until his eyes met those of sim squires--and to sim he did not nod. squires, for his part, had the outward guise of one looking through transparent space, but peanuts and bas exchanged greetings a shade short of cordial, and peanuts did not rise, though he sat obstructing the steps and the other had to go around him. "i reckon ye've done heered all i kin tell ye," said bas, gravely. "i'd done been over ter ther furriner's house some siv'ral times bekase he war a neighbour of mine--an' he seemed a mighty enjoyable sort of body. he war visitin' at old man harper's las' night an' i met up with him on ther highway. he'd done told me he'd got a threatenin' letter from somebody thet was skeered ter sign hit, so i proffered ter walk along home with him, an' as we come by ther rock-clift somebody shot two shoots.... i toted him back ter harper's dwellin' house, an' he's layin' thar now an' nobody don't know yit whether he'll live or die. thet's all i've got ther power ter tell ye." "hed this man maggard ever been over hyar afore? did he know ther harpers when he come?" hump doane still shot out his questions in an inquisitorial manner but bas met its peremptory edginess with urbanity, though his face was haggard with a night of sleeplessness and fatigue. "he lowed ter me that his folks hed lived over hyar once a long time back.... thet's all i knows." hump doane wheeled on the old man, whose life had stretched almost to the century span, and shouted: "gran'sire, did ye ever know any maggards dwellin' over hyar? thar hain't been none amongst us in my day ner time." "maggards ... maggards?... let me study," quavered the frosty-headed veteran in his palsied falsetto. "i kin remember when ther boys went off ter ther war of twelve ... i kin remember thet.... thar war doanes an' rowletts an' thorntons...." "i hain't askin' ye erbout no doanes ner thorntons. i'm askin' ye war thar any maggards?" for a long time the human repository of ancient history pondered, fumbling through the past. "let's see--this hyar's ther y'ar one thousand and nine hundred.... thar's some things i disremembers. maggards ... maggards?... i don't remember no maggards.... no, siree! i don't remember none." the cripple turned impatiently away, and bas rowlett speculatively inquired: "does ye reckon mebby he war a-fleein' from some enemy over in virginny--an' thet ther feller followed atter him an' got him?" "seems like we'd hev heered of ther other stranger from some source or other," mused hump. "hit hain't none of my business nohow--onless--" the man's voice leaped and cracked with a belligerent violence--"onless hit's some of old burrell thornton's feisty kin, done come back ter tek up his wickedness an' plaguery whar he left off at." bas rowlett sat down on an empty box and his shoulders sagged wearily. "hit's old burrell's house he come ter," he admitted. "but yit he told me he'd done tuck hit fer a debt. i hain't knowed him long, but him an' me hed got ter be good friends an' ther feller thet shot him come nigh gettin' me, too. es fer me i'd confidence ther feller ter be all right." "ef he dies," commented the deformed cynic, grimly, "i'll confidence him, too--an' ef he lives, i'll be plum willin' ter see him prove hisself up ter be honest. twell one or t'other of them things comes ter pass, i hain't got nothin' more ter say." chapter xi the room that dorothy harper had given over to the wounded man looked off to the front, across valley slope and river--commanding the whole peak and sky-limited picture at whose foreground centre stood the walnut tree. uncle jase came often and as yet he had been able to offer no greater assurance than a doubtful shake of the head. bas rowlett, too, never let a day pass without his broad shadow across the door, and his voice sounding in solicitous inquiry. but dorothy had assumed an autocracy in the sick room which allowed no deviations from its decree of uninterrupted rest, and the plotter, approaching behind his mask of friendship, never found himself alone with the wounded man. between long periods of fevered coma cal maggard opened his eyes weakly and had strength only to smile up at the face above him with its nimbus of bronze set about the heaviness of dark hair--or to spend his scarcely audible words with miserly economy. yet as he drifted in the shadowy reaches that lie between life and death it is doubtful whether he suffered. the glow of fever through his drowsiness was rather a grateful warmth, blunted of all responsible thinking, than a recognized affliction, and the realization of the presence near him enveloped him with a languorous contentment. the sick man could turn his head on his pillow and gaze upward into cool and deep recesses of green where the sun shifted and sifted golden patches of light, and where through branch and twig the stir of summer crooned a restful lullaby. often a squirrel on a low limb clasped its forepaws on a burgher-fat stomach, and gazed impudently down, chattering excitedly at the invalid. from its hanging nest, with brilliant flashes of orange and jet, a baltimore oriole came and went about its housekeeping affairs. as half-consciously and dreamily he gazed up, between sleeping and waking, the life of the tree became for him that of a world in miniature. but when he heard the door guardedly open and close, he would turn his gaze from that direction as from a minor to a major delight--for then he knew that on the other side of the bed would be the face of dorothy harper. "right smart's goin' ter _dee_pend on how hard he fights hisself," uncle jase told dorothy one day as he took up his hat and saddle-bags. "i reckon ef he feels sartin he's got enough ter live fer--he kin kinderly holp nature along right lavish." that same day maggard opened his eyes while the girl was sitting by his bedside. his smile was less dazzling out of a thin, white face, than it had been through the tan of health, but such as it was he flashed it on her gallantly. "i don't hone fer nothin' else ter look at--when you're hyar," he assured her. "but when you _hain't_ hyar i loves ter look at ther old tree." "ther old tree," she replied after him, half guiltily; "i've been so worrited, i'd nigh fergot hit." his smile altered to a steady-eyed seriousness in which, too, she recognized the intangible quality that made him seem to her different from all the other men she had known. he had been born and lived much as had the men about him. he had been chained to the same hard and dour materialism as they, yet for him life had another essence and dimension, because he had been born with a soul capable of dreams. "thet fust night--when i lay a-waitin' fer ye ter come back--an' misdoubtin' whether i'd last thet long," he told her almost under his breath, "seemed like ter me thet old tree war kinderly a-safeguardin' me." she bent closer and her lips trembled. "mebby hit did safeguard ye, cal," she whispered. "but i prayed fer ye thet night--i prayed hard fer ye." the man closed his eyes and his features grew deeply sober. "i'd love ter know ther pint-blank truth," he said next. "am i a-goin' ter live or die?" she struggled with the catch in her breath and hesitated so long with her hands clenched convulsively together in her lap that he, still lying with lids closed, construed her reticence into a death sentence and spoke again himself. "afore i come over hyar," he said, quietly, "i reckon hit wouldn't hev made no great differ ter me nuther way." "ye've got a chanst, cal, and uncle jase 'lows," she bent closer and now she could command her voice, "thet ef ye wills ter live ... survigrous strong enough--yore chanst is a better one ... then ef ye ... jist don't keer." his eyes opened and his lips smiled dubiously. "i sometimes lays hyar wonderin' whether i truly does keer or not." "what does ye mean, cal?" he paused and lay breathing as though hardly ready to face so vital an issue, then he explained: "ye said ye wasn't mad with me ... thet night ... under ther tree ... but yit ye said, too ... hit war all a sort of dream ... like es ef ye warn't plum shore." "yes, cal?" "since then ye've jest kinderly pitied me, i reckon ... an' been plum charitable.... i've got ter know.... war ye mad at me when ye pondered hit in ther daylight ... stid of ther moonshine?" the girl's pale face flushed to a laurel-blossom pink and her voice was a ghost whisper. "i hain't nuver been mad with ye, cal." "could ye--" he halted and spoke in a tense undernote of hope that hardly dared voice itself--"could ye bend down ter me an' kiss me ... ergin?" she could and did. then with her young arms under his head and her own head bowed until her lips pressed his, the dry-eyed, heart-cramping suspense of these anxious days broke in a freshet of unrestrained tears. she had not been able to cry before, but now the tears came flooding and they brought such a balm as comes with rain to a parched and thirsting garden. for a space the silence held save for the tempest of sobs that were not unhappy and that gradually subsided, but after a little the rapt happiness on the man's face became clouded under a thought that carried a heavy burden of anxiety and he seemed groping for words that were needed for some dreaded confession. "when a man fust falls in love," he said, "he hain't got time ter think of nuthin' else ... then all ther balance of matters comes back ... an' needs ter be fronted. thar's things i've got ter tell ye, dorothy." "what matters air them, cal? i hain't thought of nuthin' else yit." "ye didn't know nuthin' erbout me when i come hyar ... ye jest tuck me on faith, i reckon...." he halted abruptly there, and his face became drawn into deep lines. then he continued dully: "when i crossed over ther virginny line ... a posse was atter me--they sought ter hang me over thar ... fer murder." he felt her fingers tighten over his in spasmodic incredulity and saw the stunned look in her eyes, but she only said steadily, "go on ... i knows ye _hed_ ter do hit. tell me ther facts." he sketched for her the grim narrative of that brief drama in the log cabin beyond the river and of the guilt he had assumed. he told it with many needful pauses for breath, but refused to stop until the story had reached its conclusion, and as she listened, the girl's face mirrored many emotions, but the first unguarded shock of horror melted entirely away and did not return. "ef ye'd acted any other fashion," came her prompt and spirited declaration when the recital reached its end, "i couldn't nuther love ye ner esteem ye. ye tuck blame on yoreself ter save a woman." for a time she sat there gazing out through the window, her thoughts busy with the grim game in which this man whom she loved had been so desperately involved. she knew that he had spoken the whole truth ... but she knew, too, that over them both must hang the unending shadow of a threat, and after a little she acknowledged that realization as she said with a new note of determination in her voice: "thar hain't no p'int in our waitin' over-long ter be wedded. folks thet faces perils like we does air right wise ter git what they kin outen life--whilst they kin." "we kain't be wedded none too soon fer me," he declared with fervour. "albeit yore grandpap's got ter be won over fust. he's right steadfast to bas rowlett, i reckon." as anxiously as dorothy followed the rise and fall in the tide of her lover's strength it is doubtful if her anxiety was keener than that of bas rowlett, who began to feel that he had been cheated. unless something unforeseen altered the trend of his improvement, cal maggard would recover. he would not keep his oath to avenge his way-laying before the next full moon because it would require other weeks to restore his whole strength and give back to him the use of his gun hand, but the essential fact remained that he would not die. bas had entered into a compact based upon his belief that the other _would_ die--a compact which as the days passed became a thing concrete enough and actual enough to take reckoning of. of course bas meant to kill his enemy. as matters now stood he must kill him--but he would only enhance his own peril by seeking to forestall the day when his agreement left him free to act. so bas still came to inquire with the solicitude of seeming friendship, but outside that house he was busy breathing life into a scheme of broad and parlous scope, and in all but a literal sense that scheme was a violation of his oath-bound compact. it was when cal sat propped against pillows in a rocking chair, with his right arm in a splint, and old caleb smoked his pipe on the other side of the window, that dorothy suddenly went over and standing by maggard, laid her arm across his shoulders. "gran'pap," she said with a steadiness that hid its underlying trepidation, "cal an' me aims ter wed ... an' we seeks yore blessin'." the old mountaineer sat up as though an explosion had shaken him out of his drowsy complacency. the pipe that he held in his thin old fingers dropped to the floor and spilled its ashes unnoted. he gazed at them with the amazement of one who has been sitting blindly by while unseen forces have had birth and growth at his elbow. "wed?" he exclaimed at last in an injured voice. "why, i hedn't nuver suspicioned hit was nuthin' but jest plain charity fer a stranger thet hed suffered a sore hurt." "hit's been more then thet sence ther fust time we seed one another," declared the girl, and the old man shifted his gaze, altered its temper, too, from bewilderment to indignation, and sat with eyes demanding explanation of the man who had been sheltered and tended under his roof. "does ye aim ter let ther gal do all ther talkin'?" he demanded. "hain't ye got qualities enough ter so much as say 'by yore leave' fer yoreself?" cal maggard met his accusation steadily as he answered: "dorothy 'lowed she wanted ter tell ye fust-off her ownself. thet's why i hain't spoke afore now." the wrath of surprise died as quickly as it had flared and the old man sat for a time with a far-away look on his face, then he rose and stood before them. he seemed very old, and his kindly features held the venerable gravity and inherent dignity of those faces that look out from the frieze of the prophets. he paused long to weigh his words in exact justice before he began to speak, and when the words at last came they were sober and patient. "i hain't hed nobody ter spend my love on but jest thet leetle gal fer a lengthy time ... an' i reckon she hain't a-goin' ter go on hevin' me fer no great spell longer.... i'm gittin' old." caleb looked infirm and lonely as he spoke. he had struggled through his lifetime for a realization of standards that he vaguely felt to be a bequest of honour from god-fearing and self-respecting ancestors--and in that struggle there had been a certain penalty of aloofness in an environment where few standards held. the children born to his granddaughter and the man she chose as her mate must either carry on his fight for principle or let it fall like an unsupported standard into the mouldy level of decay. these things were easy to feel, hard to explain, and as he stood inarticulate the girl rose from her knees and went over to him, and his arm slipped about her waist. "i hain't nuver sought ter fo'ce no woman's will," he said at last and his words fell with slow stress of earnestness. "but i'd always sort of seed in my own mind a fam'ly hyar--with another man ter tek my place at hits head when i war dead an' gone. i'd always thought of bas rowlett in that guise. he's a man thet's done been, in a manner of speakin', like a son ter me." "bas rowlett----" began dorothy but the old man lifted a hand in command for silence. "let me git through fust," he interrupted her. "then ye kin hev yore say. thar's two reasons why i'd favoured bas. one of them was because he's a sober young man thet's got things hung up." there he paused, and the quaint phrase he had employed to express prosperity and thrift summed up his one argument for materialistic considerations. "thet's jest one reason," went on caleb harper, soberly, "an' save fer statin' hit es i goes along i hain't got nuthin' more ter say erbout hit--albeit hit seems ter me a right pithy matter fer young folks ter study erbout. i don't jedgmatically know nothin' erbout _yore_ affairs," he nodded his head toward maggard. "so fur's i've got any means ter tell, ye mout be independent rich or ye mout not hev nothin' only ther shirt an' pants ye sots thar in ... but thet kin go by, too. ef my gal kain't be content withouten ye, she kin sheer with ye ... an' i aims ter leave her a good farm without no debt on hit." the girl had been standing silent and attentive while he talked, but the clear and delicate modelling of her face had changed under the resolute quality of her expression until now it typified a will as unbreakable as his own. her chin was high and her eyes full of lightnings, held back yet ready to break, if need be, into battle fires. now her voice came in that low restraint in which ultimatums are spoken. "whatever ye leaves me in land an' money hain't nuthin' ter me--ef i kain't love ther man i weds with. an' whilst i seeks ter be dutiful--thar hain't no power under heaven kin fo'ce me ter wed with no other!" the old man seemed hardly to hear the interruption as he paused, while in his eyes ancient fires seemed to be awakening, and as he spoke from that point on those fires burned to a zealot's fervour. "nuther one of ye don't remember back ter them days when ther curse of ther harper-doane war lay in a blood pestilence over these hyar hills ... but i remembers hit. in them sorry times folks war hurtin' fer vittles ter keep life in thar bodies ... yit no man warn't safe workin' out in his open field. i tells ye death was ther only lord thet folks bowed down ter in them days ... and ther woman thet saw her man go forth from ther door didn't hev no confident assurance she'd ever see him come back home alive. my son caleb--dorothy's daddy--went out with a lantern one night when ther dogs barked ... and we fotched him in dead." he paused, and seemed to be looking through the walls and hills to things that lay buried. "them few men thet cried out fer peace an' law-abidin' war scoffed at an' belittled.... them of us that preached erginst bloodshed was cussed an' damned. then come ther battle at claytown ter cap hit off with more blood-lettin'. "one of ther vi'lent leaders war shot ter death--an' t'other one agreed ter go away an' give ther country a chanst ter draw a free breath in peace onc't more." again he fell silent, and when after a long pause he had not begun again dorothy restively inquired: "what's thet got ter do with me an bas rowlett, gran'pap?" "i'm a-comin' ter thet ... atter thet pitch-battle folks began turnin' ter them they'd been laughin' ter scorn ... they come an' begged me ter head ther thorntons an' ther harpers. they went similar ter jim rowlett an' besaught him ter do ther like fer ther rowletts an' ther doanes. they knowed that despite all ther bad blood an' hatefulness me an' jim was friends an' thet more then we loved our own kin an' our own blood, we loved peace fer every man ... us two!" cal maggard was watching the fine old face--the face out of which life's hardship and crudity had not quenched the majesty of unassuming steadfastness. "an' since we ondertook ter make ther truce and ter hold it unbroke, hit's done stood unbroke!" the old man's voice rang suddenly through the room. "an' thet's been nigh on ter twenty ya'rs ... but jim's old an' i'm old ... an' afore long we'll both be gone ... an' nuther one ner t'other of us hain't sich fools es not ter know what we've been holdin' down.... nuther one ner t'other of us don't beguile hisself with ther notion thet all them old hates air dead ... or thet ef wild-talkin', loose-mouthed men gains a hearin' ... they won't flare up afresh." he went over to the place where his pipe had fallen and picked it up and refilled it, and when he fell silent it seemed as though there had come a sudden stillness after thunder. then in a quieter tone he went on once more: "old jim hain't got no boy ter foller him, but he confidences bas. i hain't got no son nuther but i confidences my gal. ther two of us hev always 'lowed thet ef we could see them wedded afore we lays down an' dies, we'd come mighty nigh seein' ther old breach healed--an' ther old hates buried. them two clans would git tergither then--an' thar'd jest be one peaceful fam'ly 'stid of two crowds of hateful enemies." dorothy had hardly moved since she had spoken last. during her grandfather's zealous pronouncement her slender uprightness had remained statue-like and motionless, but in her deep eyes all the powerful life forces that until lately had slept dormant now surged into their new consciousness and invincible self-assertion. now the head crowned with its masses of dark hair was as high as that of some barbaric princess who listens while her marriage value is appraised by ambassadors, and the eyes were full of fire too steadily intense for flickering. the arch of her bosom only revealed in movement the palpitant emotion that swayed her, with its quick rise and fall, but her voice held the bated quiet of a tempest at the point of breaking. "i'd hate ter hev anybody think i wasn't full loyal ter my kith an' kin. i'd hate ter fail my own people--but i hain't no man's woman ter be bartered off ner give away." she paused, and in the long-escaping breath from her lips came an unmistakable note of scorn. "ye talks of healin' a breach, gran'pap, but ye kain't heal no breach by tyin' a woman up ter a man she kain't never love. thar'd be a breach right hyar under this roof ter start with from ther commencement." that much she had been able to say as a preface in acknowledgment of the old man's sincerity of purpose, but now her voice rang with the thrill of personal liberty and its deeper claim. her beauty grew suddenly gorgeous with the surge of colour to her cheeks and the flaming of her eyes. she stood the woman spirit incarnate, which can at need be also the tigress spirit, asserting her home-making privilege, and ready to do battle for it. "fam'ly means a man an' a woman--an' children," she declared, "an' ther man thet fathers my babies hes need ter be ther man i _loves_!" caleb inclined his head. he had spoken, and now as one closes a book he dismissed the matter with a gesture. "i've done give ye my reasons," he said, "but i hain't nuver sought ter fo'ce no woman, an' hit's too late ter start. ther two of ye sets thar like a jury thet's done heered ther argyment. my plan wouldn't be feasible nohow onlessen yore heart war in hit, dorothy, an' i sees es plain as day whar yore heart's at. so i reckon i kin give ye my blessin' ef ye're plum shore ye hain't makin' no error." chapter xii the old man struck a match and held it to his pipe and then as he turned to leave the room maggard halted him. "i kain't suffer ye ter go away without i tells ye suthin'," he said, "an' i fears me sorely when ye hears hit ye're right like ter withhold yore blessin' atter all." the patriarch wheeled and stood listening, and dorothy, too, caught her breath anxiously as the young man confessed. for a time old caleb stood stonily immovable while the story, which the girl had already heard, had its second telling. but as the narration progressed the gray-haired mountaineer bent interestedly forward, and by the time it had drawn to its close his eyes were no longer wrathful but soberly and judicially thoughtful. he ran his fingers through his gray hair, and incredulously demanded, "who did ye say yore grandsire was?" "his name was caleb thornton--he went ter virginny sixty ya'rs back." "caleb thornton!" through the mists of many years the old man was tracking back along barefoot trails of boyhood. "caleb thornton! him an' me hunted an' fished tergither and worked tergither when we wasn't nothin' but small shavers. we was like twin brethren an' folks called us good caleb an' bad caleb. i was ther bad one!" the old lips parted in a smile that was tenderly reminiscent. "why boy, thet makes ye blood-kin of mine ... hit makes yore business my business ... an' yore trouble my trouble. i'm ther head of ther house now--an' ye're related ter me." "i hain't clost kin," objected cal, quickly. "not too clost ter wed with dorothy." "ey god, no, boy, ye hain't but only a distant cousin--but a hundred an' fifty y'ars back our foreparent war ther same man. an' ef ye've got ther same heart an' the same blood in ye thet them old-timers hed, mebby ye kin carry on my work better than any rowlett--an' stand fer peace and law!" here spoke the might of family pride and mountain loyalty to blood. "then ye kin give us yore blessin' atter all--despite ther charge thet hangs over me?" "my blessin'? why, boy, hit's like a dead son hed done come back ter life--an' false charges don't damn no man!" the aged face had again become suffused with such a glow as might have mantled the brow of a prophet who had laboured long and preached fierily for his belief, until the hoar-frost of time had whitened his head. it was as if when the hour approached for him to lay down his scrip and staff he had recognized the strength and possible ardour of a young disciple to come after him. but after a little that emotional wave, which had unconsciously straightened his bent shoulders and brought his head erect, subsided into the realization of less inspiriting facts. "atter all," he said, thoughtfully, "i've got ter hev speech with old jim rowlett afore this matter gits published abroad. he's done held ther same notions i have--about dorothy an' bas--an' i owes hit ter him ter make a clean breast of what's come ter pass." the wounded man in the chair was gazing off through the window, and he was deeply disturbed. he stood sworn to kill or be killed by the man whom these two custodians of peace or war had elected in advance as a clan head and a link uniting the factions. if he himself were now required to assume the mantle of leadership, it was hard to see how that quarrel could be limited to a private scope. "when i come over hyar," he said, steadily and deliberately, "i sought ter live peaceable--an' quiet. i didn't aim, an' i don't seek now, ter hold place as head of no feud-faction." "nuther did i seek ter do hit." the old man's voice was again the rapt and fiery utterance of the zealot. "thar wasn't nuthin' i wouldn't of chose fust--but when a man's duty calls ter him, ef he's a true man in god's eyes, he hain't got no rather in the matter which ner whether. he's beholden ter obey! besides--" the note of fanatical exaltation diminished into a more placid evenness--"besides, i've done told ye i only sought ter hev ye lead toward peace an' quiet--not ter mix in no warfarin'." so a message went along the waterways to the house where old jim rowlett dwelt, and old jim, to whose ears troubling rumours had already come stealing, mounted his "ridin'-critter" and responded forthwith and in person. he came, trustful as ever of his old partner, in the task of shepherding wild flocks, yet resentful of the girl's rumoured rebellion against what was to have been, in effect, a marriage of state. before starting he had talked long and earnestly with his kinsman, bas rowlett, and as a result he saw in bas a martyr nobly bearing his chastening, and in the stranger a man unknown and tinged with a suspicious mystery. jim rowlett listened in silent politeness to the announcement of the betrothal and presently he rose after a brief, unbending visit. "caleb," he said, "through a long lifetime me an' you hev been endurin' friends. we aims ter go on bein', an albeit i'd done sot my hopes on things thet hain't destined ter come ter pass, i wishes these young folks joy." that interview was in the nature of a public announcement, and on the same day at jake crabbott's store the conclave discussed it. it was rumoured that the two old champions of peace had differed, though not yet in open rupture, and that the stranger, whose character was untested, was being groomed to stand as titular leader of the thorntons and the harpers. many rowlett and doane faces darkened with foreboding. "what does bas say?" questioned some, and the answer was always the same: "bas hain't a-talkin' none." but sim squires, who was generally accredited with a dislike of bas rowlett, was circulating among those harpers and thorntons who bore a wilder repute than did old caleb, and as he talked with them he was stressing the note of resentment that an unknown man from the hated state of virginia should presume to occupy so responsible a position when others of their own blood and native-born were being overlooked. * * * * * one afternoon the girl and her lover sat together in the room where she had nursed him as the western ridges turned to ashy lilac against a sky where the sun was setting in a fanfare of delicate gorgeousness. that evening hush that early summer knows, between the day's full-throated orchestration and the night song of whippoorwills, held the world in a bated stillness, and the walnut tree stood as unstirring as some age-crowned priest with arms outstretched in evening prayer. hand in hand the two sat in the open window. they had been talking of those little things that are such great things to lovers, but over them a silence had fallen through which their hearts talked on without sound. slowly the sunset grew brilliant--then the foregrounds gave up their detail in a soft veiling of purple dusk, and the tree between the house and the road became a dark ghost-shape, etched in the unmoving majesty of spread and stature. "hit hain't jest a tree," whispered the girl with an awe-touched voice, "hit's _human_--but hit's bigger an' wiser an' stronger then a human body." the man nodded his head for so it seemed to him, a woodsman to whom trees in their general sense were common things. in this great growth he felt a quality and a presence. its moods were as varied as those of life itself--as it stood triumphing over decades of vicissitude, blight, and storm. "i wonder ef hit knows," said the girl, abruptly, "who hit war thet shot ye, cal?" the man shook his head and smiled. "mebby hit don't jedgmatically _know_," he made answer, seeking as he had often sought before to divert her thoughts from that question and its secret answer: "but so long es hit stands guard over us, i reckon no enemy won't skeercely _succeed_." chapter xiii the blossom had passed from the laurel and rhododendron and the june freshness had freckled into rustiness before the day came when dorothy harper and cal maggard were to be married, and as yet the man had not been able to walk beyond the threshold of the house, and to the people of the neighbourhood his face had not become familiar. once only had cal been out of doors and that was when leaning on the girl's arm he had gone into the dooryard. dorothy did not wish the simple ceremony of their marriage to take place indoors, but that when uncle jase, the justice of the peace, joined their hands with the words of the simple ritual, they should stand under the shade of the tree which, already hallowed as a monument, should likewise be their altar. so one afternoon, when the cool breath of evening came between sunset and dusk, they had gone out together and for the first time in daylight he stood by the broad-girthed base of the walnut's mighty bole. "see thar, cal," breathed the girl, as she laid reverent fingers upon the trunk where initials and a date had been carved so long ago that now they were sunken and seamed like an old scar. "them letters an' dates stands fer ther great-great-great gran'mammy thet wrote ther book--an' fer ther fust kenneth thornton. they're our fore-parents, an' they lays buried hyar. hit's all in ther front pages of thet book upsta'rs in ther chist." the ground on which they stood was even now, for the mounds so long ago heaped there had been levelled by generations of time. later members of that house who had passed away lay in the small thicket-choked burial ground a hundred yards to the side. "hit's a right fantastic notion," complained old caleb who had come out to join them there, "ter be wedded outdoors under a tree, stid of indoors under a roof," but the girl turned and laid a hand on his arm, and her eyes livened with a glow of feeling and tenderness. "hit was right hyar thet we diskivered we loved one another," she said, softly, "an' ef ye'd ever read thet book upstairs i reckon ye'd onderstand. our foreparents planted this tree hyar in days of sore travail when they'd done come from nigh ter ther ocean-sea at gin'ral george washington's behest, an' they plum revered hit from thet time on." she paused, looking up fondly into the magnificent fulness of branches where now the orioles had hatched their brood and taught the fledglings to fly, then her eyes came back and her voice grew rapt. "them revolutionary folk of our own blood bequeathed thet tree ter us--an' we heired hit from 'em along with all thet's good in us. they lays buried thar under hit, an' by now i reckon hits roots don't only rest in ther ground an' rock thet's underneath hit--but in ther graves of our people theirselves. some part of them hes done passed inter thet old tree, i reckon, ter give virtue ter hits sap an' stren'th. thet's why thar hain't no other place ter be married at." the july morning of their wedding day dawned fresh and cloudless, and from remote valleys and coves a procession of saddled mounts, ox-carts, and foot travellers, grotesque in their oddly conceived raiment of festivity, set toward the house at the river's bend. they came to look at the bride, whose beauty was a matter of local fame, and for their first inquisitive scrutiny of the stranger who had wooed with such interest-provoking dispatch and upon whom, rumour insisted, was to descend the mantle of clan leadership, albeit his blood was alien. but the bridegroom himself lay on his bed, the victim of a convalescent's set-back, and it seemed doubtful whether his strength would support him through the ceremony. when he attempted to rise, after a night of returned fever, his muscles refused to obey the mandates of his will, and uncle jase burrell, who had arrived early to make out the license, issued his edict that cal maggard must be married in bed. but at that his patient broke into defiant and open rebellion. "i aims ter stand upright ter be wed," he scornfully asserted, "ef i don't nuver stand upright ergin! ask dorothy an' her gran'pap an' bas rowlett ter come in hyar. i wants ter hev speech with 'em all together." uncle jase yielded grudgingly to the stronger will and within a few minutes those who had been summoned appeared. bas rowlett came last, and his face bore the marks of a sleepless night, but he had undertaken a role and he purposed to play it to its end. in after days, days for which bas rowlett was planning now, he meant that every man who looked back on that wedding should remember and say of him: "bas, he war thar--plum friendly. nobody couldn't be a man's enemy an' act ther way bas acted." in his scheme of conspiracy the art of alibi building was both cornerstone and arch-key. [illustration: "_even bas rowlett, whose nerves were keyed for an ordeal, started and almost let the leaning bridegroom fall_"] now it pleased cal, even at a time when other interests pressed so close and absorbingly, to indulge himself in a grim and sardonic humour. the man who had "hired him killed" and whom in turn he meant to kill stood in the room where he himself lay too weak to rise from his bed, and toward that man he nodded his head. "good mornin', bas," he accosted, and the other replied, "howdy, cal." then maggard turned to the others. "this man, bas rowlett," he said, "sought to marry dorothy hisself. ye all knows thet, yet deespite thet fact when i come hyar a stranger he befriended me, didn't ye, bas?" "we spoke ther truth ter one another," concurred rowlett, wondering uneasily whither the conversational trend was leading, "an' we went on bein' friends." "an' now afore ye all," maggard glanced comprehensively about the group, "albeit hit don't need no more attestin', he's goin' ter prove his friendship fer me afresh." a pause followed, broken finally from the bed. "i kain't stand up terday--an' without standin' up i couldn't hardly be rightfully wedded--so bas air agoin' ter support me, and holp me out thar an' hold me upright whilst i says ther words ... hain't ye, bas?" the hardly taxed endurance of the conspirator for a moment threatened to break in failure. a hateful scowl was gathering in his eyes as he hesitated and maggard went on suavely: "anybody else could do hit fer me--but i've got ther feelin' thet i wants ye, bas." "all right," came the low answer. "i'll aim ter convenience ye, cal." he turned hastily and left the room, and bending over the bed uncle jase produced the marriage license. "i'll jest fill in these blank places," he announced, briskly, "with ther names of dorothy harper an' cal maggard an' then we'll be ready fer ther signatures." but at that maggard raised an imperative hand in negation. "no," he said, shortly and categorically, "i aims ter be married by my rightful name--put hit down thar like hit is--kenneth parish thornton--all of hit!" caleb harper bent forward with a quick gesture of expostulation. "ef ye does thet, boy," he pleaded, "ye won't skeercely be wedded afore ther officers will come atter ye from over thar in virginny." "then they kin come," the voice was obdurate. "i don't aim ter give almighty god no false name in my weddin' vows." uncle jase, to whom this was all an inexplicable riddle, glanced perplexedly at old caleb and caleb stood for the moment irresolute, then with a sigh of relief, as though for discovery of a solution, he demanded: "did ye ever make use of yore middle name--over thar in virginny?" "no. i reckon nobody don't skeercely know i've got one." "all right--hit belongs ter ye jist as rightfully as ther other given name. write hit down parish thornton in thet paper, jase. thet don't give no undue holt ter yore enemies, boy, an' es fer ther last name hit's thicker then hops in these parts, anyhow." in all the numbers of the crowd that stood about the dooryard that day waiting for the wedding party to come through the door one absence was recognized and felt. "old jim hewlett didn't come," murmured one observant guest, and the announcement ran in a whisper through the gathering to find an echo that trailed after it. "i reckon he didn't aim ter countenance ther matter, atter all." then the door opened and dorothy came out, with a sweet pride in her eyes and her head high. at her side walked the man whose face they had been curiously waiting to see. they acknowledged at a glance that it was an uncommon face from which one gained feeling of a certain power and mastery--yet of candour, too, and fearless good nature. but the crowd, hungry for interest and gossip, breathed deep in a sort of chorused gasp at the dramatic circumstance of the bridegroom leaning heavily on the arm of bas rowlett, the defeated lover. already uncle jase stood with his back to the broad, straight column whose canopy of leafage spread a green roof between the tall, waving grass that served as a carpet and the blue of a smiling sky. through branches, themselves as heavy and stalwart as young trees, and through the myriads of arrow-pointed leaves that rustled as they sifted and shifted the gold flakes of sunlight, sounded the low, mysterious harping of wind-fingers as light and yet as profound as those of some dreaming organist. the girl, with her eyes fixed on that living emblem of strength and tranquillity, felt as though instead of leaving a house, she were entering a cathedral--though of man-built cathedrals she knew nothing. it was the spirit which hallows cathedrals that brought to her deep young eyes a serenity and thanksgiving that made her face seem ethereal in its happiness--the spirit of benediction, of the presence of god and of human sanctuary. so she went as if she were treading clouds to the waiting figure of the man who was to perform the ceremony. when the clear voice of the justice of the peace sounded out as the pair--or rather the trio--stood before him at the foot of the great walnut, the astonishment which had been simmering in the crowd broke into audible being again and with a rising tempo. the tone with which old jase read the service was full and sonorous and the responses were clear as bell metal. on the fringe of the gathering an old woman's whispered words carried to those about her: "did ye heer thet? jase called him parish thornton--i thought he give ther name of cal maggard!" even bas rowlett, whose nerves were keyed for an ordeal, started and almost let the leaning bridegroom fall. the loft of old caleb's barn had been cleared for that day, and through the afternoon the fiddles whined there, alternating with the twang of banjo and "dulcimore." old spike crooch, who dwelt far up at the headwaters of little tribulation, where the "trails jest wiggle an' wingle about," and who bore the repute of a master violinist, had vowed that he "meant ter fiddle at one more shin-dig afore he laid him down an' died"--and he had journeyed the long way to carry out his pledge. he had come like a ghost from the antique past, with his old bones straddling neither horse nor mule, but seated sidewise on a brindle bull, and to reach the place where he was to discourse music he had made a "soon start" yesterday morning and had slept lying by the roadside over night. now on an improvised platform he sat enthroned, with his eyes ecstatically closed, the violin pressed to his stubbled chin, and his broganned feet--with ankles innocent of socks--patting the spirited time of his dancing measure. outside in the yard certain young folk who had been reared to hold dancing ungodly indulged in those various "plays" as they called the games less frowned upon by the strait-laced. but while the thoughtless rollicked, their elders gathered in small clumps here and there and talked in grave undertones, and through these groups old caleb circulated. he knew how mysterious and possibly significant to these news-hungry folk had seemed the strange circumstance of the bridegroom's answering, in the marriage service, to a name he had not previously worn and he sought to draw, by his own strong influence, the sting of suspicion from their questioning minds. but bas rowlett did not remain through the day, and when he was ready to leave, old caleb followed him around the turn of the road to a point where they could be alone, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "bas," he said, feelingly, "i'd hate ter hev ye think i hain't a-feelin' fer ye terday. i knows right well ye're sore-hearted, boy, an' thar hain't many men thet could hev took a bitter dose like ye've done." rowlett looked gloomily away. "i hain't complainin' none, caleb," he said. "no. but i hain't got master long ter live--an' when jim an' me both passes on, i fears me thar'll be stressful times ahead. i wants ye ter give me yore hand thet ye'll go on standin' by my leetle gal an' her fam'ly, bas. else i kain't die satisfied." bas rowlett stood rigidly and tensely straight, his eyes fixed to the front, his forehead drawn into furrows. then he thrust out his hand. "ye've done confidenced me until now," he said simply, "ye kin go on doin' hit. i gives ye my pledge." chapter xiv among the men who danced at that party were sim squires and pete doane, but when they saddled and mounted at sunset, they rode divergent ways. each of the two was acting under orders that day, and each was spreading an infection whose virus sought to stir into rebirth the war which the truce had so long held in merciful abeyance. aaron capper, who was as narrow yet as religious as an inquisition priest, had always believed the thorntons to be god's chosen and the doanes to be children of satan. the bonds of enforced peace had galled him heavily. three sons had been killed in the battle at claytown and he felt that any truce made before he had evened his score left him wronged and abandoned by his kinsmen. now sim squires, mounted on a swift pacing mare, fell in beside aaron, his knee rubbing the knee of the grizzled wayfarer, and sim said impressively: "hit looks right bodaciously like es ef ther war's goin' ter bust loose ergin, aaron." the other turned level eyes upon his informant and swept him up and down with a searching gaze. "who give ye them tidin's, son? i hain't heered nothin' of hit, an' i reckon ef ther harpers war holdin' any council they wouldn't skeercely pass me by." "i don't reckon they would, aaron." sim now spoke with a flattery intended to placate ruffled pride. "ther boys thet's gittin' restive air kinderly lookin' ter _you_ ter call thet council. caleb harper hain't long fer this life--an' who's goin' ter take up his leadership--onless hit be you?" aaron laughed, but there was a grim complaisance in the tone that argued secret receptiveness for the idea. "'peared like hit war give out ter us terday thet this hyar young stranger war denoted ter heir thet job." "cal maggard!" sim squires spat out the name contemptuously and laughed with a short hyena bark of derision. "thet woods-colt from god-knows-whar? him thet goes hand in glove with bas rowlett an' leans on his arm ter git married? hell!" aaron took refuge in studied silence, but into his eyes had come a new and dangerously smouldering darkness. "i'll ponder hit," he made guarded answer--then added with humourless sincerity, "i'll ponder--an' pray fer god's guidin'." and as sim talked with aaron that afternoon, so he talked to others, even less conservative of tendency, and pete doane carried a like gospel of disquiet to those whose allegiance lay on the other side of the feud's cleavage--yet both talked much alike. in houses remote and widely scattered the security of the longstanding peace was being insidiously undermined and shaken and guns were taken furtively out and oiled. but in a deserted cabin where once two shadowy figures had met to arrange the assassination of cal maggard three figures came separately now on a night when the moon was dark, and having assured themselves that they had not been seen gathering there, they indulged themselves in the pallid light of a single lantern for their deliberations. bas rowlett was the first to arrive, and he sat for a time alone smoking his pipe, with a face impatiently scowling yet not altogether indicative of despair. soon he heard and answered a triple rap on the barred door, and though it seemed a designated signal he maintained the caution of a hand on his revolver until a figure entered and he recognized the features of young peter doane. "come in, pete," he accosted. "i reckon ther other feller'll git hyar d'reck'ly." the two sat smoking and talking in low tones, yet pausing constantly to listen until again they heard the triple rap and admitted a third member to their caucus. here any one not an initiate to the mysteries of this inner shrine would have wondered to the degree of amazement, for this newcomer was an ostensible enemy of bas rowlett's whom in other company he refused to recognize. but sim squires entered unhesitatingly and now between himself and the man with whom he did not speak in public passed a nod and glance of complete harmony and understanding. when certain subsidiary affairs had been adjusted--all matters of upbuilding for rowlett's influence and repute--bas turned to sim squires. "sim," he said, genially, "i reckon we're ready ter heer what ye've got on _yore_ mind now," and the other grinned. "ther thorntons an' harpers--them thet dwells furthest back in ther sticks--air a doin' a heap of buzzin' an' talkin'. they're right sim'lar ter bees gittin' ready ter swarm. i've done seed ter that. i reckon when this hyar stranger starts in ter rob ther honey outen thet hive he's goin' ter find a tol'able nasty lot of stingers on his hands." "ye've done cautioned 'em not ter make no move afore they gits ther word, hain't ye--an' ye've done persuaded 'em ye plum hates me, hain't ye?" again sim grinned. "satan hisself would git rightfully insulted ef anybody cussed an' damned him like i've done _you_, bas." "all right then. i reckon when ther time comes both ther doanes and harpers'll be right sick of mr. cal maggard or mr. parish thornton or mr. who-ever-he-is." they talked well into the night, and peter doane was the first to leave, but after his departure sim squires permitted a glint of deep anxiety to show in his narrow and shifty eyes. "hit's yore own business ef ye confidences pete doane in yore own behalf, bas," he suggested, "but ye hain't told him nuthin' erbout _me_, hes ye?" bas rowlett smiled. "i hain't no damn fool, sim," he reassured. "thar don't nobody but jest me an' you know thet ye shot cal maggard--but ye war sich a damn disable feller on ther job thet rightly i ought ter tell yore name ter ther circuit-rider." "what fer?" growled the hireling, sulkily, and the master laughed. "so's he could put hit in his give-out at meetin' an shame ye afore all mankind," he made urbane explanation. * * * * * july, which began fresh and cool, burned, that year, into a scorching heat, until the torrid skies bent in a blue arch of arid cruelty and the ridges stood starkly stripped of their moisture. forests were rusted and freckled and roads gave off a choke of dust to catch the breath of travellers as the heat waves trembled feverishly across the clear, hot distances. like a barometer of that scorched torpor, before the eyes of the slowly convalescing thornton stood the walnut tree in the dooryard. a little while ago it had spread its fresh and youthful canopy of green overhead in unstinted abundance of vigour. now it stood desolate, with its leaves drooping in fever-hot inertia. the squirrel sat gloomily silent on the branches, panting under its fur, and the oriole's splendour of orange and jet had turned dusty and bedraggled. when a dispirited wisp of breeze stirred in its head-growth its branches gave out only the flat hoarseness of rattling leaves. one morning before full daylight old caleb left the house to cross the low creek bed valley and join a working party in a new field which was being cleared of timber. he had been away two hours when without warning the hot air became insufferably close and the light ghost of breeze died to a breathless stillness. the drought had lasted almost four weeks, and now at last, though the skies were still clear, that heat-vacuum seemed to augur its breaking. an hour later over the ridge came a black and lowering pall of cloud moving slowly and bellying out from its inky centre with huge masses of dirty fleece at its margin--and in the little time that dorothy stood in the door watching, it spread until the high sun was obscured. the distant but incessant rumbling of thunder was a chorussed growling of storm voices against a background of muffled drum-beat, and the girl said, a shade anxiously, "gran'pap's goin' ter git drenched ter ther skin." while the inky pall spread and lowered until it held the visible world in a gray-green corrosion of gloom the stillness became more pulseless. then with a crashing salvo of suddenness the tempest broke--and it was as though all the belated storms of the summer had merged into one armageddon of the elements. a rending and splintering of timber sounded with the shriek of the tornado that whipped its lash of destruction through the woods. the girl, buffeted and almost swept from her feet, struggled with her weight thrown against the door that she could scarcely close. then the darkness blotted midday into night, and through the unnatural thickness clashed a frenzy of detonations. out of the window she and her husband seemed looking through dark and confused waters which leaped constantly into the brief and blinding glare of such blue-white instants of lightning as hurt the eyes. the walnut tree appeared and disappeared--waving arms like a high-priest in transports of frenzy, and adding its wind-song to the mighty chorus. the sturdily built old house trembled under that assaulting, and when the first cyclonic sweep of wind had rushed by the pelting of hail and rain was a roar as of small-arms after artillery. "gran'pap," gasped dorothy. "i don't see how a livin' soul kin endure--out thar!" then came a concussion as though the earth had broken like a bursted emery wheel, and a hall of white fire seemed to pass through the walls of the place. dorothy pitched forward, stunned, to the floor and at the pit of his stomach cal maggard felt a sudden sickness of shock that passed as instantly as it had come. he found himself electrically tingling through every nerve as the woman rose slowly and dazedly, staring about her. "did hit strike ... ther house?" she asked, faintly, and then with the same abruptness as that with which darkness had come, the sky began to turn yellowish again and they could see off across the road through the amber thickness of returning daylight. "no," her husband said, hesitantly, "hit warn't ther house--but hit was right nigh!" the girl followed his startled gaze, and there about the base of the walnut tree lay shaggy strips of rent bark. running down the trunk in the glaring spiral of a fresh scar two hand-breadths wide went the swath along which the bolt had plunged groundward. for a few moments, though with a single thought between them, neither spoke. in the mind of dorothy words from a faded page seemed to rewrite themselves: "whilst that tree stands ... and weathers the thunder and wind ... our family also will wax strong and robust ... but when it falls----!" cal rose slowly to his feet, and the girl asked dully, "where be ye goin'?" "i'm goin'," he said as their eyes met in a flash of understanding, "ter seek fer yore gran'pap." "i fears me hit's too late...." her gaze went outward and as she looked the man needed no explanation. "ef he's--still alive," she added, resolutely, with a return of self-control, "ther danger's done passed now. hit would kill ye ter go out in this storm, weak as ye be. let's strive ter be patient." ten minutes later they heard a knock on the door and opened it to find a man drenched with rain standing there, whose face anticipated their questions. "me and old caleb," he began, "was comin' home tergither ... we'd got es fur as ther aidge of ther woods ..." he paused, then forced out the words, "a limb blew down on him." "is he ... is he...?" the girl's question got no further, and the messenger shook his head. "he's dead," came the simple reply. "the other boys air fotchin' him in now." chapter xv into the grave near the house the rough pine coffin, which had been knocked together by neighbour hands, was lowered by members of both factions whose peace the dead man had impartially guarded. no circuit-rider was available, but one or two godly men knelt there and prayed and over the green valley, splendidly resurrected from the scorch and thirst of the drought, floated untrained voices raised in the old hymns. then as the crowd scattered along its several ways a handful of men delayed their departure, and when the place had otherwise emptied itself they led cal maggard to his front door where, without realization that they were selecting a spot of special significance, they halted under the nobly spread shade of the tree. the walnut, with the blight of dry weeks thrown off, had freshened its leafage into renewed vigour--and though its scar was fresh and raw, its vital stalwartness was that of a veteran who has once more triumphed over his wounding. the few men who had remained were all doanes, in clan affiliation if not in name, and they stood as solemnly silent as they had been by the open grave but with heads no longer uncovered and with a grimmer quality in their sober eyes. it was hump doane, the man with the twisted back, who broke the silence as spokesman for the group, and his high, sharp voice carried the rasping suggestion of a threat. "afore we went away from here," he said with a note of embarrassment, "we 'lowed thet we hed need ter ask ye a few questions, mr. thornton." "i'm hearkenin' ter ye," came the non-committal rejoinder, and the hunchback went on: "ther man we've jest laid ter rest was ther leader of ther harpers an' ther thorntons but over an' above thet he was ther friend of every man thet loved peace-abidin' and human betterment." that tribute cal acknowledged with a grave inclination of his head, but no word. "so long as he lived ther truce thet he'd done made endured. now thet he's dead hit would be a right distressful thing ef hit collapsed." maggard's candid eyes engaged those of the others in level glance as he inquired, "is thar any self-respectin' man thet feels contrariwise, mr. doane?" "thet's what we seeks ter find out. with caleb dead an' gone, no man kin handily foretell what ther thorntons aims ter do--an' without we knows we kain't breathe free." "why does ye come ter me?" "because folks tells hit thet ther old man named ye ter stand in his stead--an' ef ye does thet we hev need ter put some questions up ter ye." "i hain't said i sought no leadership--but speak right out fer yoreselves," invited maggard. "all right. we knows thet ye come hyar from _somewhars_ else--an' we don't know whar from. because ye're old caleb's heir, what ye does an' what ye says gets ter be mighty pithy an' pertinent ter us." "i've done come ter kinderly reelize that, myself, hyar of late." "ye comes from virginny, folks says; air thet true?" "thet's true." "an' ye give one name when ye come an' tuck another atter ye'd been hyar a while, air thet true likewise?" maggard stiffened but he bowed his head in assent. "all right, then--i reckon ye kin see fer yorself thet ef we've got ter trust our business in yore hands tor'ds keepin' ther truce, we've jedgmatically got ter confidence ye. we seeks ter hev ye ter tell us why ye left virginny an' why ye changed yore name. we wants ter send a man of our own pick an' choosin' over thar an' find out fer ourselves jest what yore repute war in yore own home afore ye come hyar." cal could feel the tingling of antagonism in a galvanic current along his spine. he knew that his eyes had flashed defiance before he had quelled their impulse and controlled his features, but he held his lips tight for a rebellious moment and when he opened them he asked with a velvety smoothness: "ye says nobody didn't mistrust caleb harper. why didn't ye ask him, whilst he war still a-livin', whether he'd made an heir outen a man thet couldn't be confidenced?" "so long es he lived," came the hunchback's quick and stingingly sharp retort, "we didn't need ter ask no questions atall an' thar warn't no prophets amongst us ter foresay he was goin' ter die suddent-like, without tellin' us what we needed ter know. will ye give us them facts thet we're askin' fer--or won't ye?" "i won't," said maggard, shortly. "i stand ter be jedged by ther way i demeans myself--an' i don't suffer no man ter badger me with questions like es ef i war some criminal in ther jail-house." the grotesque face of the hunchback hardened to the stony antagonism of an issue joined. his dwarfed and twisted body seemed to loom taller and more shapely as if the power of the imprisoned spirit were expanding its ugly shell from within, and an undeniable dignity showed itself flashingly through the caricatured features. back of him, his silent colleagues stiffened, too, and though they were all tall men, with eyes flaming in unspoken wrath, they seemed smaller in everything but bodily stature than he. after a brief pause, hump doane wheeled and addressed himself to his companions. "i reckon thet's all, men," he said, briefly, and cal maggard recognized that the silence with which they turned away from him was more ominous than if they had berated him. yet before he reached the stile doane halted and stood irresolute with his gaze groundward and his chin on his breast, then summoning his fellows with a jerk of the thumb, he turned back to the spot where cal maggard had remained unmoving at the base of the great tree, and his face though still solemn was no longer wrathful. "sometimes, mr. thornton," he said with a slow weighing of his words, "men thet aims at accord fails ter comprehend each other--an' gits ther seemin' of cavillin'. mebby we kinderly got off on ther wrong foot an' i kain't go away from hyar satisfied without i'm plum sartain thet ye onderstands me aright." maggard had learned to read the type of human features and human contact clearly enough to place this man in his rightful page and column of life. he recognized an honesty and sincerity that might be trusted under the test of torture itself, purposes undeviatingly true--and the narrow intensity of fanaticism. he would have liked to make an ally of this man, and a friend, yet the question that had been raised could not be answered. "i hain't only willin' but plum anxious ter hear all ye've got ter say, mr. doane," he made serious reply, and the other after a judicial pause went on: "hit hain't no light an' frivolous sperit of meddlin' thet brings me hyar askin' ye questions thet seems imp'dent an' nosy. hit's a dire need of safeguardin' ther peace of our folks--aye, an' thar lives, too, like es not." he paused, leaving room for an answer that would make easier his approach to an understanding, but no answer came, and he continued: "ye hain't got no handy way of knowin' like me an' some of these other men thet's always lived hyarabouts, what a ticklish balance things rests on in this section. a feller mout reasonably surmise thet a peace what hes stood fer twenty y'ar an' more would go on standin'--but mebby in yore time ye've done seed a circus-show--hev ye?" maggard nodded, wondering what moral was to be drawn from tan-bark ring and canvas top, and his interviewer continued: "then like es not ye've seed one of them fellers in tights an' tin spangles balancin' a ladder on his chest with a see-saw atop hit--an' a human bein' settin' on each eend of thet see-saw. hit looks like he does hit plum easy--but ef he boggles or stumbles, them folks up thar falls down, sure as hell's hot." "i reckon thet's right." "wa'al, thar's trouble-makin' sperits amongst both ther doanes an' ther harpers--an' they seeks ter start all thet hell up a-bilin' ergin like ther devil's own cauldron.... ef we've done maintained peace 'stid of war fer upwards of twenty y'ars hit's because old caleb an' a few more like him hes been balancin' thet ladder till th'ar hearts was nigh ter bustin' with ther weight of hit. peace hain't nuver stood upright amongst us by hits own self--an' hit won't do hit now. ef ye stands in old caleb's shoes, mr. thornton, ye've got ter stand balancin' thet ladder, too." "we hain't hed no disagreement es ter thet, mr. doane. i craves law-abidin' life an' friendly neighbours as master strong es _you_ does." "an' yit," continued the cripple, earnestly, "ef thet old-time war ever busts loose afresh hit'll make these hyar numerous small streams, in a manner of speakin', run red with men's blood an' salty with women's tears, too, i fears me. i've done dream't of a time when all thet pizen blight would be swep' away from ther hills like a fog--an' i sought ter gain yore aid in hastenin' thet day. a man kain't skeercely plead with his enemy but he kin with his friend--an' that's how i hoped i'd be met." "yore friend is what i'd love ter be." maggard stood with his hand resting on the bark of the tree, as though out of it he might hope to draw some virtue from the far past which it commemorated or from the dust of those wiser men whose graves its roots penetrated. his eyes were darkly clouded with the trouble and perplexity of his dilemma. to refuse still was to stand on a seeming point either of over-stubborn pride or of confessed guilt. to accede was to face the court that wanted him for murder and that would prostitute justice to hang him. "them things ye dreams of an' hopes fer," he went on in a voice thrilling with earnestness and sincerity, "air matters thet i've got heart an' cravin' ter see come erbout. an' yit--i kain't answer yore question. hit's ther only test ye could seek ter put me ter--thet i wouldn't enjoy ter meet outright----" "then, even atter what i've told ye, ye still refuses me?" "even atter what ye've told me, an' deespite thet i accords with all ye seeks ter compass hyarabouts, i've _got_ ter refuse ye. i hain't got no other choice." this time hump doane and his delegation did not turn back, but crossed the stile and passed stiffly on. thornton, for now it was useless to think of himself longer as cal maggard, stood straight-shouldered until the turn of the road took them beyond sight, then his head came down and his eyes clouded into a deep misery. that night the moon rode in a sky where the only clouds were wisps of opal-fleece and the ranges were flat-toned and colossal ramparts of cobalt. down in the valley where the river looped its shimmering thread the radiance was a wash of platinum softly broken by blue-gray islands of shadow. dorothy thornton stood, a dim and ghostly figure of mute distress, by the grave in the thicketed burial ground where the clods had that day fallen and the mound still stood glaringly raw with its freshly spaded earth, and parish thornton stood by her side. but while she mourned for the old man who had sought to be father and mother to her, he thought, too, of the sagacious old shepherd without whose guidance the flocks were already showing tendencies to stampede in panic. parish thornton would have given much for a word of counsel to-night from those silent lips, and hardly realizing what impulse prompted him he raised his eyes to the great gray-purple shadow-shape of the tree. its roots lay in those revolutionary graves and its top-most plumes of foliage seemed to brush the starry sky, where the spirits of the dead might be having their longer and serener life. half comprehended yet disquieting with its vague portent, a new element of thought was stirring in the mind of the young man. by nature he was an individualist whose inherent prompting was to walk his own way neither interfering with his neighbour nor permitting his neighbour to encroach unduly upon him. had he been a quoter of scripture his chosen text might have been, "am i my brother's keeper?" and if that had been the natural colour of his mind and nature it was deepened and intensified by his circumstance. the man whom the law seeks and whom it charges with murder must keep to himself and within himself if he would escape notice and capture. yet now the older impulses that had driven and urged his pioneering ancestors were beginning to claim voice, too, and this voice demanded of him "can any man live alone?" somehow that plea from the hunchbacked doane had, with its flaming sincerity, left its unforgettable mark upon him. his own affairs included a need of hiding from virginia sheriffs and of reckoning with bas rowlett, and yet he began to wonder if his own private affairs were not after all only part of a whole, and as such smaller than the whole. if a man is born to play a part greater in its bearings than the merely personal he cannot escape his destiny, and to-night some stirring of that cloudy realization was troubling thornton. "let's get some leaves offen ther old tree," suggested the girl in a hushed voice, "an' make a kind of green kiverlet over him." she shuddered as she added, "ther ground's plum naked!" when they had performed their whimsical service--these two representatives of a grimly unimaginative race of stoics--they went again and stood together under the tree and into the girl's grief and the man's forebodings crept an indefinable anodyne of quiet and consolation. that tree had known death before, and always after death it had known rebirth. it could stand serene and placid over hearts bruised as was her own because it had heard the echoes of immortality and seen the transient qualities of human grief. now she could realize only death and death's wounding, but to it the seasons came and went as links in an unbroken chain. beneath it slept the first friends who had loved it. somewhere in the great, star-strewn spaces above it perhaps dwelt the souls of unborn men and women who would love it hereafter. somehow its age-old and ever-young message seemed to come soothingly to her heart. "all end is but beginning, and no end is final. the present is but hesitation between past and future. shadows and sunlight are abstract things until you see them side by side--filtered through my branches. winds are silent until they find voice through my leaves.... my staunch column gives you your standard of uprightness ... beneath me red men and white have fought and whispered of love ... as my bud has come to leaf and in turn fallen so generation has followed generation. for the present i bear the word of steadfastness and courage. for the future, i bear the promise of hope." dorothy's lissome beauty took on a touch of something supernatural from the magic of moonlight and soft shadow and the man slipped his arm about her, while they looked off across the tempered nocturne of the hills and heard the lullaby of the night breeze in the branches overhead. "i war thinkin', cal," said the girl in a hushed voice, "of what would of happened ter me ef ye hedn't come. i'd be ther lonesomest body in ther mountings of kaintuck--but, thank god, ye _did_ come." * * * * * an agency for disturbing the precarious balance of peace was at work, and the mainspring of its operation was the intriguing mind of bas rowlett. bas had had nothing to gain and everything to lose by weakening the pacific power of old caleb, whose granddaughter he sought to wed, but with a successful rival, whom he must kill or be killed by, usurping the authority to which he had himself expected to succeed, his interests were reversed. if he could not rule, he could wreck, and the promiscuous succession of tragedies that would follow in the wake of such an avalanche had no terrors to give bas pause. many volunteers would arise to strike down his enemy and leave him safe on the outskirts of the conflict. he could stand apart unctuously crying out for peace and washing his hands after the fashion of pontius pilate. manifestly the provocation must seem to come from the harper-thornton faction in order that their doane-rowlett adversaries might righteously take the path of reprisal. the device upon which the intriguer decided was one requiring such delicate handling in both strategy and marksmanship that he dared not trust it to either young pete doane or the faithful sim squires. indeed, he could trust no one but himself, and so one evening he lay in the laurel back of the house where dwelt his universally respected kinsman, old jim rowlett. bas had no intention of harming the old man who sat placidly smoking, yet he was bent on making it seem evident and certain that someone had sought to assassinate him, and so it was not at the breast that he aimed his rifle but at the peak of the tall-crowned slouch hat. the sights of his rifle showed clean as the rustless barrel rested on a log. bas himself lay stretched full-length in that position which gives the greatest surety of marksmanship. his temples were moist with nervous sweat, and once he took the rifle down from his shoulder and flexed his muscles in rest. then he aimed again and pressed the trigger. he could not tarry now, but he paused long enough to see the punctured hat spin downward from the aged head and the old man rise, bewildered but unhurt, with a dazed hand experimentally rubbing his white crown. then bas grinned, and edging backward through the brush as a woman rushed screaming out, he made his way to the house of parish thornton. the first gun had been fixed in the new harper-doane war. bas knew that the tidings of the supposed attempt on the patriarch's life would go winging rapidly through the community, and it pleased his alibi instinct to be at his enemy's house at a time which would seem almost contemporaneous with the shooting. to have reached his own place would have taken longer. but when he arrived thornton was not indoors. he was strong enough now to move about the place a little, though he still fretted under a weakness that galled him, so bas found dorothy alone. "i reckon, leetle gal," he made a sympathetic beginning, "yore heart's right sore these days since yore gran'pap died. my own heart's sore fer ye, too." "he was mighty devoted ter ye, bas," said the girl, and the man who had just come from an act of perfidy nodded a grave head. "i don't know whether he ever named hit ter ye, dorothy," came his slow words, "but thet day when ye war wedded he tuck me off ter one side an' besought me always ter stand by ye--an' befriend ye." "ye acted mouty true-hearted thet day, bas," she made acknowledgment and the conspirator responded with a melancholy smile. "i reckon i don't hev ter tell ye, i'd do most anything fer ye, leetle gal. i'd hed hopes thet didn't turn out--but i kin still be a friend. i'd go through hell fer ye any time." he rose suddenly from his seat on the kitchen threshold, and into his eyes came a flash of feeling. she thought it love, but there was an unexpectedly greedy quality in it that frightened her. then at once the man recovered himself, and turned away, and the girl breathed easy again. "i'm beholden ter ye fer many things," she said, softly. suddenly and with no reason that she could explain, his recent words, "i'd do most anything fer ye," set her thoughts swirling into a new channel ... thoughts of things men do, without reward, for the women they love. this man, she told herself in her ignorance of the truth, had sacrificed himself without complaint. she knew of only one greater sacrifice, and of that she could never think without a cloud of dread shutting off the sunlight of her happiness. even bas would hardly have done what her husband had done for his sister: assumed a guilt of murder which made of himself an exile and a refugee whom the future always threatened. then somehow, as bas sat silent, she saw again that hunger in his eyes, a hunger so wolf-like that it was difficult to harmonize it with his record of generous self-effacement; a hunger so avidly rapacious that a dim and unacknowledged uneasiness stirred in her heart. but at that moment they heard a shout from the front, and peanuts causey came hurriedly around the corner of the house. his great neck and fat face were fiery red with heat and excitement, and he panted as he gave them his news. "old jim rowlett's done been shot at from ther bresh!" he told them. "he escaped death, but men says ther war's like ter bust, loose ergin because of hit." "my god!" exclaimed bas rowlett in a tone of shocked incredulity; "old jim hain't got no enemies. a man would hev need ter be a fiend ter harm him! i've got ter git over thar straightway." yet the crater did not at once burst into molten up-blazing. for a while yet it smouldered--held from eruption by the sober counsel of the man who had been fired on and who had seemingly escaped death by a miracle. adherents of the two factions still spoke as they met on the road, but when they separated each turned his head to watch the other out of sight and neither trusted an unprotected back to the good faith of any possible adversary. to the house of aaron capper, unobtrusively prompted by sim squires, went certain of the harper kin who knew not where else to turn--ignoring parish thornton as a young pretender for whom they had little more liking than for the enemy himself. the elderly clansman received them and heard their talk, much of which was wild and foolish. all disclaimed, and honestly disclaimed, any knowledge of the infamy that had been aimed at old jim rowlett, but even in their frothy folly and yeasty clamour none was so bereft as to deny that the harpers must face accountability. if war were inevitable, argued the hotheads, it were wisdom to strike the first blow. yet aaron, who had during the whole long truce been fretting for a free hand, listened now with a self-governed balance that astonished his visitors. "men," said he with a ring of authority in his voice, "thar hain't no profit in headlong over-hastiness. i've been foreseein' this hour an' prayin' fer guidance. we've got ter hev speech with young parish thornton afore we turns a wheel." sim squires had not been enlisting his recruits from the ranks of those who wished to turn to thornton, and from them rose a yelping clamour of dissent, but aaron quelled that mutiny aborning and went evenly on. "ef warfare lays ahead of us we hev need ter stand tergether solid--an' thar's good men amongst us thet wouldn't nuver fergive affrontin' old caleb's memory by plum lookin' over his gal's husband. thet's my counsel, an' ef ye hain't a-goin' ter heed hit----" the quiet voice ripped abruptly into an explosiveness under which some of them cowered as under a lash. "then i reckon thar'll be thorntons an' harpers thet _will_--an they'll fight both ther doanes an' your crowd alike." chapter xvi parish thornton sat on the doorstep of the house gazing abstractedly upward where through soft meshes of greenery the sunlight filtered. here, he told himself, he ought to be happy beyond any whisper of discontent--save for the fret of his lingering weakness. through the open door of the house came the voice of dorothy raised in song, and the man's face softened and the white teeth flashed into a smile as he listened. then it clouded again. parish thornton did not know all the insidious forces that were working in the silences of the hills, but he divined enough to feel the brewing of a storm, which, in its bursting, might strike closer and with more shattering force than the bolt that had scarred the giant tree trunk. two passions claimed his deep acknowledgment of allegiance and now they stood in conflict. one was as clear and flawlessly gracious as the arch of blue sky above him--and that was his love; the other was as wild and impetuous as the tempests which sprang to ungoverned life among these crags--and that was his hate. when he had sworn to bas rowlett that the moon should not "full again" before he avenged his betrayal with death, he had taken that oath solemnly and, he sincerely believed, in the sight of god. it was, therefore, an oath that could be neither abandoned nor modified. the man who must die knew, as did he himself and the heavenly witness to the compact, that his physical incapacity had been responsible for his deferred action--but now with returning strength he must make amends of promptness. he would set out to-day on that enterprise of cleansing his conscience with performance. in killing bas rowlett he would be performing a virtuous act. as to that he had no misgiving, but an inner voice spoke in disturbing whispers. he could not forget hump doane's appeal--and prophecy of tribulation. by killing bas now he might even loose that avalanche! "an' yit ef i tarries a few days more," he argued stubbornly within himself, "hit's ergoin' ter be even wusser. i'm my own man now--an' licensed ter ack fer myself." he rose and stiffened resolutely, against the tide of doubt, and his fine face darkened with the blood malignity of his heritage. he went silently into the house and began making his preparations. his pistol holster should have fitted under his left arm-pit but it was useless there now with no right hand to draw or use it. so parish thornton thrust it into his coat pocket on the left-hand side, and then at the door he halted in a fresh perplexity. he could not embark on a mission that might permit of no returning without bidding dorothy good-bye--and as he thought of that farewell his face twitched and the agate hardness wavered. so he stood for awhile in debate with himself, the relentlessness of the executioner warring obdurately with the tenderness of the lover--and while he did so a group of three horsemen came into view on the highway, moving slowly toward his house. when the trio of visitors had dismounted, an elderly man, whose face held a deadly sort of gravity, approached, introducing himself as aaron capper and his companions as sim squires and lincoln thornton. "albeit we hain't well beknowest ter one another," aaron reminded him, "we're all kinfolks more or less--an' we've done rid over ter hev speech with ye cons'arnin' right sober matters." "won't ye come inside an' sot ye cheers?" invited parish, but the elder man shook his head as he wiped his perspiring and dust-caked face on the sleeve of his shirt. "ther breeze is stirrin' tol'able fresh out hyar," suggested aaron, "an thet old walnuck tree casts down a right grateful shade. i'd jest es lieve talk out hyar--ef hit suits ye." so under the tree, where a light breeze stirred with welcome tempering across the river, the four men squatted on their heels and lighted their pipes. "thar hain't no profit in mincin' matters none," began old aaron, curtly. "i lost me three boys when they fit ther battle of claytown twenty y'ars back--an' now hit looks powerful like ther war's fixin' ter bust out afresh. ef hit does i aims ter take me full toll fer tha'r killin'." parish thornton--who had ten minutes before been planning a death infliction of his own--raised his brows at this unsoftened bluntness of announcement, but he inquired of aaron capper as he had done of hump doane: "why does ye come ter me?" "we comes ter ye," aaron gave him unambiguous answer, "because ef ther harpers hev got ter fight, that hain't no health in divided leaderships ner dilatary delays.... some men seems ter hold thet because ye wed with old caleb's gal, ye're licensed ter stand in old caleb's shoes ... whilst others seems plum resolved not ter tolerate ye atall an' spits ye outen thar mouths." "which of them lots does _you_ men stand with?" the question came soberly, yet something like a riffle of cynical amusement glinted in the eyes of parish thornton as he put it. "i hain't made up my mind yit. all i knows is thet some fellers called on me ter head ther harpers ... an' afore i give 'em any answer, i 'lowed thet hit become us ter hev speech with ye fust. we owed ye thet much because ther doanes'll pint-blank deem thet ther trouble started when ye wed bas rowlett's gal--an' whatever _we_ does, _they'll_ hold ye accountable." the heir to caleb harper's perplexities stood leaning against the tree. there were still moments when his strength seemed to ebb capriciously and leave him giddy. after a moment, though, he smiled quietly and glanced about the little group. "when i come over hyar," he said, "i didn't ask nothin' but ter be left alone. i married dorothy, an' old caleb confidenced me. i've got my own affairs ter tend an' i'm satisfied ter tend 'em. so fur es frayin' an' fightin' goes"--his voice mounted suddenly and the half-whimsical humour died instantly in his eyes--"i've got some of my own ter study erbout--an' i don't have ter meddle with other folkses' quarrels." "then ye aims ter stand aside an' let things take thar own course?" "thet's what i 'lowed ter do, but ye've jest done told me thet the doanes don't aim ter _let_ me stand aside. s'pose ye tells me some more." "all right," said aaron, brusquely. "ef thet's what ye wants i'll tell ye a lavish." dorothy had come to the front door and looked out, and seeing the men still mopping hot faces, she had brought out a pitcher of cool buttermilk and a pewter mug. the backs of the three visitors were turned toward the house, and her feet on the grass had made no sound so that only parish himself had known of her coming and he had, with a lifting of the brows, signalled her to wait until old aaron finished speaking. "i've done sought by prayer an' solemn ponderin' ter take counsel with almighty god," declared the spokesman. "ther blood of them three boys of mine hes been cryin' out ter me fer twenty y'ars but yet i knows thet ef ther war does come on again hit's goin' ter bring a monstrous sum of ruination an' mischief. so i comes ter ye--es caleb harper's heir--ter heer what ye've got ter say." dorothy thornton's eyes widened as, standing with the pitcher and the ancient mug in her hands, she listened to that speech. then as the full import of its feudal menace broke upon her understanding the blossom colour flowed out of her smooth cheeks and neck, leaving them ivory white. she saw herself as the agency which had drawn her husband into this vortex, and bitterly reflected that this had been her dowry and the gift of her love! parish's glance held by that stunned fixety in her expression attracted the attention of the others and old aaron capper, turning his head, saw her and let a low oath of exasperation escape him. "send her away!" he snapped, angrily. "this hyar hain't no woman's business. how much did she hyar?" parish thornton went forward and took the pitcher and pewter mug from his wife's hand, then he shook his head, and his voice altered to a new ring, quiet, yet electrically charged with dominance. "no," he ripped out, shortly. "i hain't ergoin' ter send her away. ye says hit hain't no woman's business, and yit she's caleb harper's gran'daughter--an' because of her weddin' with me--harpers an' doanes alike--ye won't suffer me ter foller out my own affairs in my own fashion, onmolested!" aaron came to his feet, bristling indignantly and with new protests rising to his lips, but an imperious gesture of command from parish silenced him into a bewildered obedience. it had become suddenly impossible to brow-beat this man. "dorothy," said her husband, "i reckon ye heered enough ter know what brought these men hyar. they norates thet ther doanes holds me accountable fer whatever ther harpers does--good or evil--because i stands as heir ter yore gran'pap. they tells me likewise thet ther harpers hain't got no settled leader, an' only two things hinders me from claimin' thet job myself: fust place, i don't crave ter mingle in thar ructions, and second place they won't hev none of me. seems like i'm ther gryste betwixt two mill-stones ... an' bein' es ye're my wife, thet's a state of things thet consarns _you_ es well es me." a valkyrie fire glowed in the dark eyes of the young woman and her hands clenched themselves tautly. the colour that had gone out of her cheeks came back with a rush of vividness which seemed to transform her as a lighted wick transforms a candle. "when my gran'pap war a-strivin' aginst all manner of odds fer peace," she said, disdainfully, "thar was them thet kept hamperin' him by whoopin' on ther troublemakers--an' i've done heered him say thet one turrible hard man ter reason with bore ther name of aaron capper." the elderly spokesman of the delegation flushed brick-red and his heavy lashes gathered close in a menacing scowl. "no man didn't love caleb harper no better'n me," he protested, indignantly, "but ef we've got ter fight hit profits us ter hit fust--an' hit hard." "now, i've got somethin' ter tell ye," went on parish, and though they did not know just when or how the change had been wrought, each of the three visitors began to realize that a subtle shifting of places had come over their relations to their host. at first they had spoken categorically and he had listened passively. now when he spoke they felt the compulsion of hearkening to him as to one whose words carried authority. personalities had been measured as are foils in the hands of fencers, and parish thornton was being recognized to hold the longest and keenest blade. "i've done sought ter show ye, outen yore own mouths," he said, soberly, "thet at one an' ther same time ye was demandin' ter know what i aimed ter do an' tellin' me i couldn't do nothin'. now i tells ye thar's one thing i jedgmatically _hain't_ a-goin' ter do, an' thet is ter stand by an' suffer them two mill-stones ter grind me ter no powder." he paused, and the girl had moved forward until she stood at his side with her outstretched hand resting against the bark of the old tree in a reverent touch of caress. she ignored the others and spoke to her husband. "back thar in ther beginnin's, cal," she said, clinging to the name by which she had first known him, "our foreparents planted this tree--an' founded this country--an' held hit erginst ther injuns. they was leaders then--afore any man hed ever heered of cappers an' squireses an' ther like. i reckon ef men needs a leader now, hit runs in yore blood ter be one ... but a leader fer betterment--an' one thet gives orders 'stid of takin' 'em." she turned then, and with her chin regally high, she left them, and a brief silence held after her going. "i reckon i couldn't hardly hev said hit thet well, myself," announced parish thornton, quietly, "but yit hit erbout sums up my answer ter ye." "whatever ye says from now on, erbout takin' me er leavin' me, ther _enemy's_ done picked me out es ther head man of ther harpers--an' what they'd love best would be ter see ye all cavillin' amongst yoreselves. caleb harper picked me out, too. now i aims ter stand by his choosin'--an' i aims ter be heeded when i talks." aaron and parish stood eye to eye, searching and measuring each other with gazes that sought to penetrate the surface of words and reach the core of character. the older man, angry, and insulted though he felt himself, began to realize about his heart the glow of that unwilling admiration which comes of compulsion in the presence of human mastery and pays tribute to inherent power. the quiet assurance of this self-announced chieftain carried conviction that made argument idle--and above all else the thorntons needed an unchallengeable leader. "afore god," he murmured, "i believes ye're a _man_!" then after a pause he added: "but nobody don't know ye well enough--an' afore a man kin be trusted ter give orders he's got ter prove hisself." parish thornton laughed. "prove yoreself, then, aaron," he challenged, "ye talks erbout yore hunger ter avenge yore dead boys--albeit they fell in a pitch-battle an' ye don't know who deadened 'em--an' ther fire of thet wrath's been coolin' fer a full score of ya'rs. why did ye let hit simmer so long?" "because i was pledged ter peace an' i wasn't no truce-buster. i sought ter remain steadfast and bide my time." "all right. then ef fresh war-farin' kin be carcumvented, ye still stands beholden by thet pledge, don't ye?" "ef hit kin be, yes--but how kin hit be?" "thet's what i aims ter show ye. ye talks erbout yore grievance. now listen ter mine. ther bullit wound hyar in my shoulder hain't healed yit--an' thar hain't no hotter fire in hell then my own hate fer whoever caused hit. so when ye talks ter me about grievances, ye talks a language i kin onderstand without no lingster ter construe hit." he paused a moment, unconscious that his term for an interpreter was one that englishmen had used in chaucer's day, and, save here, not since a long-gone time. then he swept on, and sim squires listening to this man whom for hire he had waylaid felt an unmanning creep of terror along his spine; a fear such as he had not felt for any human being before. the sweat on his face grew clammy, but with a mighty effort he held his features mask-like. "but atter you an' me hed evened our scores--what then? air ye willin' ter burn down a dwellin' house over ther heads of them inside hit, jest ter scorch out a feisty dog that's done molested ye? is thet leadin' men forwards--or jest backwards like a crawfish?" "ye talks," said aaron capper, sharply, "like es if i'd stirred up an' provoked tribulation. them fellers air a-plottin' tergither right now over at old hump doane's house--an' hell's broth air a-brewin' thar." the younger man's head came back with a snap. "ye says they're holdin' a council over thar at hump doane's?" he demanded. "yes--an' hit's a war conf'rence. i've hed men find thet out--they're right sim'lar ter a swarm of hornets." parish thornton took a step forward. "will ther harpers stand to what ther two of us agrees on tergither in full accord--an' leave cavillin' an' wranglin' amongst ourselves fer a more seemly time?" aaron nodded his head. "so long as us two stands agreed we kin handle 'em, i reckon." the young man nodded his head in a gesture of swift decision. "all right then! i'm goin' over thar ter hump doane's house--an' reason with them hotheads. i'm goin' ter advocate peace as strong es any man kin--but i'm goin' ter tell 'em, too, thet ther harpers kin give 'em unshirted hell ef they disdains peace. i'm goin' ter pledge ourselves ter holp diskiver an' penitenshery ther man thet shot at old jim rowlett. does thet suit ye?" aaron stood looking at parish thornton with eyes blankly dumfounded, and the other two faces mirrored his bewilderment, then the spokesman broke into bitterly derisive laughter, and his followers parroted his mirthless ridicule. "hit _mout_ suit me," he finally replied, "save only hit denotes thet ye're either p'intedly wishful ter throw yore life away--or else plum bereft of reason." "thet's a _secret_ meetin' over thar," interposed lincoln thornton, grimly, "with rifles in ther la'rel ter take keer of trespassers. they'd stretch ye dead afore ye got nigh enough ter shout out--much less reason with 'em. some things is practical an' others is jest damn foolery." "i took thought of them chances," replied parish, quietly, "afore i made my proffer." this time there was no laughter but aaron shook his head decisively. "no," he declared, "hit won't do. hit's a right bold idee but hit would be sartain death. ye're ther man they're cussin' an' damnin' over an' above all others, over thar--right now." "all right then," asserted thornton, crisply, "ef i kin stop 'em from cussin' an' damnin' me, mebby they mout quiet down again an listen ter reason. anyhow, ef ye agrees ter let me bind ye by my words, i'm a-goin' over thar." after that the talk was such a discussion of ways and means as takes place between allies in complete harmony of agreement. "afore god in heaven," exclaimed the old clansman at its end, "ye _air_ a man thet's cut out ter lead! hev ye got yore pistol handy?" "hit's handy enough," answered parish, "but i don't aim ter go over thar armed--ef they kills me like ye foretells they will, they've got ter murder me coldblooded--so all men kin see wh'ar ther fault lays at." chapter xvii parish thornton and aaron capper stood for a few moments watching the departure of the two other horsemen, one of whom was a spy and a traitor--for aaron himself meant to wait here until he could ride home with some knowledge of the outcome of his new ally's mad project. but parish could not wait long, for the summer afternoon was already half spent and his depleted strength would make travelling slow. the thought that now oppressed him with the poignancy of an immediate ordeal was the need of saying good-bye to dorothy, and neither of them would fail to understand that it might be a last good-bye. there was no room for equivocation in this crisis, and as he gazed up into the full and peaceful shade over his head, a flood of little memories, bound tendril-like by sounds, sights, and fragrances to his heart, swept him with disconcerting violence. he steadied himself against that assaulting and went resolutely into the room where dorothy was standing with her back half turned so that she did not at once see him. she stood deep in thought--artlessly posed in lance-like straightness, and on the smooth whiteness of her neck a breath of breeze stirred wisps of bronzed and crisply curling hair. the swing of her shoulders was gallant and the man thanked god for that. she would want her courage now. "dorothy," he said, softly, standing close at her side, "i've got ter do somethin' thet ye're goin' ter hate ter hev me ter ondertake--an' yet i knows ye'll want me ter do hit, too." she wheeled at the tenseness of his voice and he wondered whether some premonition had already foreshadowed his announcement, for her cheeks were pale as she raised her hands and locked her fingers behind his head, standing off at arms' length so that she might look into his face. he felt the hands tighten and tremble as he explained his mission, and saw the lids close over the eyes as if to shut out pictures of terror-stricken foreboding, while the lips parted stiffly in the pain of repressed and tidal emotions. dorothy swayed uncertainly on her feet, then recovered self-command. with a passionate impulse of holding him for herself, her arms closed more rigidly about him and her soft body clung against his own, but no sound of sobbing came from her lips and after a little she threw back her head and spoke rapidly, tensely, with the molten fierceness of one mountain-bred: "i hain't seekin' ter dissuade ye ... i reckon i kinderly egged ye on out thar under ther tree ... but ef any harm comes ter ye, cal ... over yon ... then afore god, even ef i'm only a woman ... i'll kill ther man thet causes hit!" it was dorothy who saddled and bridled the easy-paced mule for the man with the bandaged arm to mount, and who gave him directions for reaching his destination. as he turned in his saddle he summoned the spirit to flash upon her his old smile in farewell and she waved as though she were speeding him on some errand of festival. then while old aaron paced the dooryard with a grim face of pessimism bowed low over his chest, she turned into the house and, beside the bed where her lover had so long lain, dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in prayer. parish thornton had told aaron that he meant to go unarmed to that meeting, but so many thoughts had crowded upon him that only when he settled back against the high cantle of his saddle was he reminded, by its angular hardness, of the pistol which bulged in his pocket. he drew rein to take it back, then shook his head and rode on again. "goin' over an' comin' back," he told himself, "i'd jest as lieve be armed, anyhow. afore i gits thar i'll climb down an' hide ther thing in some holler log." * * * * * hump doane's house was larger than many of those lying scattered about it, but between its long walls hung that smoky air of the rudely mediæval that made a fit setting for so grim a conclave as that of to-day. about the empty hearth of its main room men, uncouthly dressed and unbarbered, sat, and the smoke from their pipes hung stale and heavy. a door at the back and one at the front stood wide, but there were no windows and along the blackened rafters went strings of peppers and "hands" of home-grown tobacco. a dull glint here and there against the walls proclaimed leaning rifles. on the threshold of the back door sat bas rowlett gazing outward, and his physical position, beyond the margin of the group proper, seemed to typify a mental attitude of detachment from those mounting tides of passion that held sway within. "i'm ther feller thet got shot at, men," declared old jim, rising unsteadily from his chair and sweeping them all with his keen and sagacious old eyes, "an' until terday ye've all stud willin' ter hearken ter my counsel. now ef ye disregards me an' casts loose afresh all them old hates an' passions, i'd a heap ruther be dead then alive." "afore god, what fer do we waste good time hyar cavillin' an' backbitin' like a passel of old granny-women?" demanded sam opdyke whose face was already liquor-flushed, as he came tumultuously to his feet, overturning his chair and lifting clenched fists above his head. "when this hyar unknowed man come from virginny ter start things up whar old burrell thornton left 'em off at, he brung ther war with him. thet troublemaker's got ter die--an' when he's dead hit's time ter parley erbout a new truce." a low growl of approval ran in the throats of the hearers, but hump doane rose and spoke with his great head and misshapen shoulders reaching only a little way above the table top, and his thin voice cutting sharp and stridently. "i've always stood staunch by jim rowlett's counsel," he announced, soberly, "but we kain't handily refuse ter see what our own eyes shows us. ef ther harpers hed any survigrous leader thet hed come out strong fer peace, i'd still sanction givin' him a chanst, but who hev they got? i talked solemn with this new man, parish thornton, an' i didn't git no satisfaction outen hem." from the door bas rowlett raised an even voice of hypocrisy: "i knows ther new man better then any of ye, i reckon ... an' i believes him when he says he wants a quiet life ... but i don't skeercely deem ther harpers hev any notion of heedin' him." "men," old jim, who felt his power slipping from him, and who was too old to seize it back with the vigour of twenty years ago, rose again and in his attitude was the pathos of decayed influence and bitter failure at life's end. "men," he implored, "i beseeches ye ter hearken ter me one time more. a man thet's got ter be kilt kin always be kilt, but one thet's dead kain't be fotched back ter life. hold off this bloodshed fer a spell yit.... suffer me ter counsel with two or three harpers an' thorntons afore ye goes too fur!" so long had this man's voice held a wizardry of influence that even now, though the spirit of reconciliation had faint life in that meeting, a silence of respect and veneration followed on his words, and while it endured he gazed beseechingly around the group to meet eyes that were all obdurately grim and adverse. it was hump doane who broke the pause. "save fer a miracle of luck, jim, ye'd be a dead man now--an' whilst we tarries fer ye ter parley, you an' me an' others besides us air like ter die. over-hastiness is a sorry fault--but dilitariness is oftentimes sorrier." * * * * * back in the house that had grown around the nucleus of a revolutionary cabin sat the woman who had been for such a short time a wife--and who might so soon be a widow. she had risen from her knees at last after agonized praying, but even through her prayers came horrible and persistent pictures of what might be happening to the man who had smiled as he rode away. the insupportable dread chilled and tortured her that the brief happiness of her marriage had been only a scrap and sample, which would leave all the rest of life and widowhood bleaker for its memory and loss. dorothy sat by the window with a face ghost-pallid and fingers that wound in and out of spasmodic clutchings. she closed her eyes in an effort to forget her nightmare imaginings and saw only more fantastic visions of a body sliding from its saddle and lying still in the creek bed trail. she rose at last and paced the room, but outside in the road her gaze fell on old aaron who was uneasily pacing, too, and in his drooping shoulders and grimly set face she read no encouragement to hope. that morose and pessimistic figure held her gaze with a fascination of terror and she watched it until its pacing finally carried it around a twist of the road. then she went out and stood under the tree which in its wordlessness was still a more sympathetic confidant than human beings. she dropped on her knees there in the long grass at the roots of the straight-stemmed walnut and for the first time some spark of hope crept into her bruised soul. she began catching at straws of solace and had she known it, placing faith and reliance in the source of all the danger, yet she found a vestige of comfort in the process--and that was something. "i'd done fergot," she exclaimed as she rose from her knees. "most like bas rowlett's thar--so he'll hev one friend thet men won't skeercely das't ter defy. bas'll stand by him--like he done afore." chapter xviii riding with the weariness of a long convalescence, parish thornton passed the house where for two days only he had made his abode, and turned into an upward-climbing trail, gloomily forested, where the tangle brushed his stirrups as he rode. on a "bald-knob" the capriciousness of nature had left the lookout of an untimbered summit, and there he drew rein and gazed down into the basin of a narrow creek-valley a mile distant, where, in a cleared square of farm land, a lazy thread of smoke rose from a low roof. that house was his objective, and from here on he must drop downward through woods which the eye could penetrate for only a few paces in any direction; where the poison ivy and sumac grew rank and the laurel and rhododendron made entanglements that would have disconcerted a bear. he realized that it was a zone picketed with unseen riflemen, and advisers, who were by no means alarmists, had told him that he could not pass through it alive. yet he believed there was the possibility, and upon it he was staking everything, that so long as he rode openly and with the audacity of seemingly nickel-plated self-confidence, these watchers by the way would, in sheer curiosity, pass him on to those superiors within the house from whom they took their orders. his life hung on the correctness of that assumption, but the hazard was a part of the game. he thrust his pistol into a broken oak where a woodpecker had nested, then flapped his reins and clucked to his mule. for the sake of a bold appearance he raised his voice in a spirited and cheerful ballad, but from time to time he broke off since he had stern need for acute listening. the mule carried him into--and through--a gorge where day-long a shadowy gloom hung among the fern-fringed rocks, and where the austere wildness of dripping cliffs and forbidding woods seemed a stage set for dark and tragic happenings. he passed not one but several rifles as he went--he even caught the glint of one muzzle among the waxen rhododendron leaves but pretended not to see it, and though on him every barrel was trained, not a trigger was pressed. the coming of a harper clansman whom some men called a leader to the conclave of the doane chieftains was so astounding a phenomenon that it would be a pity to cut it short until its intent was made manifest. so the sentinels along the way held their breath--and their fire. but thornton came at last to the place where the forest ran out into more open woods and the "trace" widened to a sledge-trail. he drew his horse to a standstill and hallooed loudly, for he knew that at this point all policy of experiment must end. the showdown could no longer be delayed. from near by in the laurel came a prompt voice of response though the speaker remained unseen. "halt whar ye're at," it commanded, gruffly. "what does ye want over hyar?" "i aimed ter hev speech with hump doane," answered thornton, unruffled, counterfeiting a tranquil ease, and from the thicket drifted the unintelligible mingling of two low voices in consultation. then a second voice spoke: "wait right whar ye stands at an' don't aim ter move till i tells ye ye kin." punctiliously, parish thornton obeyed that injunction, sitting quietly in his saddle with a meditative gaze fixed on the twitching of his mule's ears, until after so long a time a stir in the thicket announced the return of the messenger and a command came succinctly from an invisible speaker. "hitch yore critter an' light down. hump 'lows he'll see ye." the door at the front of the house was closed now but when thornton had dismounted and knocked, it opened, and straining his eyes at the darkness of the interior he found himself in a room cloudy with tobacco smoke and crowded with unoccupied chairs--yet empty of any humanity save for himself and the hunchback who stood inhospitably bulking just beyond the threshold. the trap to the cock-loft was open, though, and the ladder was drawn up so thornton knew that this seeming of vacancy was specious and that in all likelihood gun barrels were trained from above. "i've done come," he said, steadily, and he raised his voice so that it would also carry to those unseen individuals whom he believed to be concealed near by, "ter see kin us two carcumvent bloodshed. i bears due authority from ther thorntons and ther harpers. we seeks ter aid ye in diskiverin' an' punishin' ther man thet sought ter kill jim rowlett--if so be ye'll meet us halfway." for a moment there was silence in the room, then with a skeptical note of ridicule and challenge the hunchback demanded: "why didn't ye go ter jim rowlett hisself?" though he had not been invited to enter parish thornton took a forward step into the room, and a bold effrontery proclaimed itself in both the words and the manner of his response. "i've done come ter both of ye. i knows full well i'm speakin' right now in ther hearin' of numerous men hyar--albeit they're hidin' out from me." again there was silence, then parish thornton turned his eyes, following the cripple's gaze, toward the open door and found himself gazing into the muzzles of two rifles presented toward his breast. he laughed shortly and commented, "i thought so," then glancing at the cock-loft he saw other muzzles and in the back door which swung silently open at the same moment yet others gave back a dull glint of iron from the sunlight, so that he stood ringed about with levelled guns. hump doane's piercing eyes bored into the face of the intruder during a long and uneasy silence. then when his scrutiny had satisfied itself he asserted with a blunt directness: "ye hain't skeercely got no means of knowin' who's inside my house without ye come by thet knowledge through spyin' on me." from the darkness of the cock-loft came a passionate voice of such rabid truculence as sounds in the throat of a dog straining at its leash. "jest say one word, hump ... jest say one word an' he won't know nothin' a minute hence!... my trigger finger's itchin' right now!" "hold yore cacklin' tongue, sam opdyke, an' lay aside thet gun," the cripple barked back with the crack of a mule whip in his voice, and silence again prevailed up there and fell upon the room below. again the householder paused and after that he decided to throw aside futile pretence. "come on back in hyar, men," he gave curt order. "thar hain't no need of our askin' no man's lieve ter meet an' talk nohow." slowly and somewhat shamefacedly, if the truth must be told, the room refilled itself and the men who trooped heavily back through the two doors, or slid down the lowered ladder, came rifle and pistol armed. parish thornton had no trouble in identifying, by the malevolence on one face, the man who had pleaded for permission to kill him, but the last to saunter in--and he still stood apart at the far threshold with an air of casual detachment--was bas rowlett. "now," began hump doane in the overbearing tone of an inquisitor, "we don't owe ye no explanations as ter which ner whether. we've gathered tergether, as we hev full right ter do, because you harpers seems hell bent on forcin' warfare down our throats--an' we aims ter carcumvent ye." he paused, and a murmur of general approbation gave force to his announcement, then he added, "but hit's right p'intedly seemly fer _you_ ter give us a reason why ye comes oninvited ter my house--at sich a time as this." it was to old jim rowlett that parish thornton turned now, ignoring the spokesman who had addressed him, and his voice was clear and even: "when i come hyar from virginny," he declared, "i didn't never seek no leadership--an' ther thorntons in gin'ral didn't never press me ter take over none--but thar was men hyar thet wouldn't look on me in no other guise, an them men war _you doanes_." "us doanes," broke out the red-eyed opdyke, explosively, "what hev we got ter do with yore feisty lot?"' "yes, you doanes," thornton shot back at him with a stiffening jaw. "when ther harpers didn't want me, and i didn't want them, _you_ men plum fo'ced me on 'em by seekin' ter hold me accountable fer all thar doin's. ef i'm goin' ter be accountable, i'm likewise goin' ter be accounted _to_! now we've done got tergither over thar an' they've despatched me hyar ter give ye our message an' take back yore answer." "thet is ter say," amended the firebrand with significant irony, "providin' _we_ concludes ter let ye take back _any_ message _atall_." thornton did not turn his head but held with his eyes the faces of old jim and hump doane and it was still to them that he addressed himself. "i'm licensed ter bind ther harpers an' thorntons by my words--an' my words air plain ones. we proffers ye peace or war, whichever ye chooses: full peace or war ter ther hinges of hell! but peace air what we wants with all our hearts an' cravin's, an' peace hit'll be onlessen ye denies us." he paused for a moment only, then in altered voice he reminded them: "ef i _don't_ go back, my death'll be all the answer they'll need over thar--but ther guilt fer bloodshed an' what follers hit will rest on ther doanes henceforth. we've done our damnedest." "we're wastin' time an' breath. kill ther damn moon-calf an' eend hit," clamoured the noisy agitator with the bloodshot eyes. "they only seeks ter beguile us with a passel of fair-seemin' lies." "no, we hain't wastin' breath, men!" old jim rowlett was on his feet again with the faded misery of defeat gone out of his eyes and a new light of contest kindled in them. "every man hyar, save a couple of clamorous fools, hes declared hisself thet ef ther thorntons hed a trustworthy leader, he favoured dealin' with him. this man says they've got tergither. let's hear him out." a muttering chorus of dissent sounded inarticulate protest that needed only a spokesman and hump doane raised his hand. "i've done already hed speech with mr. thornton--who come over hyar by another name--an' he refused ter give me any enjoyment. i misdoubts ef he kin do much better now. nonetheless"--he stepped forward and turned as he spoke, swinging his glance with compelling vigour about the rough circle of humanity--"nonetheless he's done come, an' claims he's been sent. stand over thar, mr. thornton, in front of the chimbley--an' i aims ter see thet ye gits yore say!" so parish thornton took his place before the hearth and began an argument that he knew to be adversely prejudged. "thar's grievances festerin' amongst ther men of yore crowd an' mine alike, but warfare won't ease 'em none," he said at the end; "i've got a grievance myself thet calls fer avengin'--but hit hain't no harper-doane matter. i hadn't dwelt hyar amongst ye three days afore i was laywayed--an' i hadn't give just offence ter no man so fur es i knows of." "but sence ye've done tuck up preachin' a gospel of peace," came the sneering suggestion from the fringe of the crowd, "i reckon ye're willin' ter lay thet grudge by like a good christian an' turn t'other cheek, hain't ye?" thornton wheeled, and his eyes flamed. "no," he exclaimed in a voice that filled the room. "i'd be a damn hypocrite ef i claimed thet. i swore thet night, whilst i lay thar, thet thet man belonged ter me ter kill, an' i hain't altered thet resolve no fashion, degree ner whipstitch. but thet's a thing thet's separate an' apart from ther war...." he paused, realizing the difficulty of making clear so complicated and paradoxical a position, while an outburst of derisive laughter fell on the pause as he reached his period. then someone made ironic comment: "hit's all beginnin' ter come out now. ye aims ter hev everybody else fergive thar enemies an' lay down like lambs tergither--atter ye gits teetotally done with yore own shootin' an avengin'." but hump doane seized the hickory staff that leaned against old jim's chair and pounded with it on the table. "silence!" he roared; "suffer ther feller ter git through!" "i don't aim ter bushwack ner layway nobody," went on thornton, obdurately. "hit wouldn't content me ef i wasn't facin' my enemy when i sottled with him--an' hit's a private business--but this other matter te'ches everybody. hit denotes y'ars of blood-spillin' an' murder--of women an' children sufferin' fer causes thet hain't no wise th'ar fault ner doin'." the cripple still stood regarding the man by the hearth with a brow knit in absorption, and so tense was his expression that it seemed to bind the others to a brief, waiting silence until hump himself slowly broke the tension. "i said i aimed ter give ye a chanst ter hev yore say out.... hev ye got fur enough ter let me ask ye a question?" the nodded head of assent gave permission and doane inquired briefly: "does i onderstand ye ter plead fer ther harpers an' ther doanes ter 'bide by ther old truce--an' yit ter seek ter stand free yore own self an' kill yore own enemy?" old jim rowlett leaned forward gripping his staff head with eyes of incredulity, and from the chest of the others sounded long-drawn breaths, inarticulate yet eloquent of scorn and sneering repudiation. but parish thornton retained the earnest and resolute poise with which he had spoken before as he made his answer. "i means thet i don't aim ter suffer no craven betrayal an' not hit back. i means thet ther feller thet sought my murder is _my man ter kill_, but i aims ter kill him in f'ar combat. hit jest lays between him an' me an' hit hain't no harper-doane affair, nohow." hump doane shook his head and there was in the gesture both decisiveness and disappointment. "what commenced ter look like a mighty hopeful chanst falls flat right hyar an' now," he announced. "i'd begun ter hope thet atter all a leader hed done riz up amongst us, but i sees when ye talks erbout peace ye means a peace fer other folks thet don't bind ner hamper yoreself. thar hain't nuthin' but folly in seekin' ter build on a quicksand like thet." "i told ye fust-off thet we war a-wastin' time an' breath," broke out opdyke, furiously. "a man only courts trouble when he seeks ter gentle a rattlesnake--ther seemly thing ter do air ter kill hit." parish thornton turned his eyes and studiously appraised the hare-brained advocate of violence, then he said, again addressing hump doane: "an' yit hit's a pity, mr. doane, ef you an' me kain't some fashion git tergither in accord. we've got ther same cravin's in our hearts, us two." "i come ter ye onc't afore, mr. thornton," the cripple reminded him, "an' i asked ye a question thet ye didn't see fit ter answer. now i asks ye ter lay by one grudge, when ye calls on us ter lay by many--an' hit happens ergin thet ye don't see fit ter yield no p'int. mebby me an' you _have_ got cravin's fer betterment in common betwixt us--but hit 'pears like thar's always one diff'rence risin' up thet balks everything else." chapter xix even the peppery opdyke did not venture to break heatedly in on the pause that followed those regretful words. into the minds of the majority stole a sense, vague and indefinable it is true, that a tragic impasse was closing on a situation over which had flashed a rainbow gleam of possible solution. ahead lay the future with its sinister shadows--darker because of the alternative they had glimpsed in its passing. old jim rowlett came to his feet, and drew his thin shoulders back--shoulders that had been broad and strong enough to support heavy burdens through trying years. "mr. thornton," he said, and the aged voice held a quaver of emotion which men were not accustomed to hearing it carry, "i wants ter talk with ye with ther severe freedom of an' old man counsellin' a young 'un--an' hit hain't ergoin' ter be in ther manner of a doane argyfyin' with a harper so much es of a father advisin' with a son." the young thornton met those eyes so full of eagle boldness yet so tempered with kindness, and to his own expression came a responsive flash of that winning boyishness which these men had not seen on his face before. "mr. rowlett," he made answer in a low and reverent voice, "i hain't got no remembrance of my pappy, but i'd love ter think he favoured ye right smart." slowly the low-pitched voice of the nestor began to dominate the place, cloudy with its pipe-smoke and redolent with the stale fumes of fires long dead. like some hogarth picture against a sombre background the ungainly figures of men stood out of shadow and melted into it: men unkempt and tribal in their fierceness of aspect. old jim made to blaze again before their eyes, with a rude and vigorous eloquence, all the ruthless bane of the toll-taking years before the truce. he stripped naked every specious claim of honour and courage with which its votaries sought to hallow the vicious system of the vendetta. he told in words of simple force how he and caleb harper had striven to set up and maintain a sounder substitute, and how for the permanence of that life-work they had prayed. "caleb an' me," he said at last, "we didn't never succeed without we put by what we asked others ter forego. yore wife's father was kilt most foully--an' caleb looked over hit. my own boy fell in like fashion, an' my blood wasn't no tamer then thet in other veins--but yit i held my hand. ye comes ter us now, frettin' under ther sting of a wrong done ter ye--an' i don't say yore wrath hain't righteous, but ye've done been vouchsafed sich a chanst as god don't proffer ter many, an' god calls fer sacrifices from them elected ter sarve him." he paused there for a moment and passed his knotted hand over the parchment-like skin of his gaunt temples, then he went on: "isaac offered up jacob--or leastways he stud ready ter do hit. ye calls on us ter trust ye an' stand with ye, an' we calls on _you_ in turn fer a pledge of faith. fer god's sake, boy, be big enough ter bide yore time twell ther harpers an' doanes hev done come outen this distemper of passion. i tells ye ye kain't do no less an' hold yore self-esteem." he paused, then came forward with his old hand extended and trembling in a palsy of eagerness, and despite the turmoil of a few minutes before, such a taut silence prevailed that the asthmatic rustiness of the old man's breath was an audible wheezing through the room. the young messenger had only to lift his hand then and grasp that outheld one--and peace would have been established--yet his one free arm seemed to him more difficult to lift in a gesture of compliance than that which was bandaged down. his own voice broke and he answered with difficulty: "give me a leetle spell ter ponder--i kain't answer ye off-hand." thornton's eyes went over, and in the lighted doorway fell upon bas rowlett sitting with his features schooled to a masked and unctuous hypocrisy, but back of that disguise the wounded man fancied he could read the satisfaction of one whose plans march toward success. his own teeth clicked together and the sweat started on his temples. he had to look away--or forget every consideration other than his own sense of outrage and the oath he had sworn to avenge it. but the features of old jim were like the solace of a reef-light in a tempest; old jim whose son had fallen and who had forgiven without weakness. if what parish knew to be duty prevailed over the passionate tide that ran high in temptation, what then? would he live to serve as shepherd when his undertaking under the private compact had been waived and the other man stood free to indulge his perfidy? finally he laid his hand on the shoulder of the veteran. "mr. rowlett," he declared, steadily, "i've got ter ask ye ter give me full twenty-four hours afore i kin answer ye fer sartain. will yore men agree ter hold matters es they stands twell this time termorrer?" jim rowlett glanced at hump doane and the cripple nodded an energetic affirmation. he was hard to convince but when convinced he was done with doubt. "i'd ruther heer mr. thornton talk thetaway," he declared, crisply, "then ter hev him answer up heedless an' over-hasty." with his knee brushing against that of old jim rowlett, parish thornton rode away from that meeting, and from the sentinels in the laurel he heard no hint of sound. when he had come to the place where his pistol lay hidden he withdrew it and replaced it in his pocket, and a little farther on where the creek wound its way through a shimmering glade and two trails branched, the veteran drew rein. "i reckon we parts company hyar," he said, "but i feels like we've done accomplished a right good day's work. termorrow hump an' me'll fare over ter yore house and git yore answer." "i'm obleeged," responded the new chief of the thorntons, but when he was left alone he did not ride on to the house in the river bend. instead he went to the other house upon whose door his first letter of threat had been posted, and hitching his horse in its dilapidated shed he set out on foot for the near-by place where bas rowlett dwelt alone. twenty-four hours had been all he could ask in reaching a decision on such an issue, yet before he could make answer much remained to be determined, and in that determination he must rely largely on chances which he could not hope to regulate or force into a pattern of success. he had, for example, no way of guessing how long it would be before bas returned to his farm or whether, when he came, he would be alone--and to-morrow's answer depended upon an unwitnessed interview between them. but he had arrived on foot and taken up his place of concealment at the back of the log structure with only a half-hour of waiting when the other man appeared, riding in leisurely unconcern and unaccompanied. thornton loosed his pistol and drew back into the lee of the square stone chimney where he remained safe from discovery until the other had passed into the stable and begun to ungirth his saddle. the house stood remote from any neighbouring habitation, and the road at its front was an infrequently used sledge trail. the stable was at its side, while back of the buildings themselves, angling off behind the screening shoulder of a steep spur of hillside, stretched a small orchard where only gnarled apple trees and a few "bee-gums" broke a small and level amphitheatre into which the possible passerby could not see. the lord of this manor stood bent, his fingers wrestling with the stubbornness of a rusted buckle, when he heard at his back, low of tone but startlingly staccato in its quality of imperativeness, the single syllable, "bas!" rowlett wheeled, leaping back with a hand sweeping instinctively to his holster--but he arrested that belligerent gesture with a sudden paralysis of caution because of the look in the eyes of the surprise visitor who stood poised with forward-bending readiness of body, and a revolver levelled in a hand of bronze steadiness. "i'm on my feet now, bas," came a quiet voice that chilled the hearer with an inexplicable rigour, "i reckon ye hain't fergot my promise." rowlett gave way backward until the wall obstructed his retreat, and in obedience to the unspoken command in the eyes of his visitor, he extended both arms high above his head, but while he stood unmoving, his adroit mind was racing. he knew what he would do if the situation were reversed, and he believed that the other was waiting only to punish him with a castigation of vengeful words before he shot him down and left him lying in the trampled straw and manure of that unclean stable. now he had to brace himself against the tortures of a physical fear from which he had believed himself immune. so he stood breathing unevenly and waiting, and while he waited the temper of his nerves was being drawn as it is drawn from over-heated steel. "come on with me," commanded thornton. the surprised man obeyed sullenly, casting an anxious eye about in the slender hope of interruption, and when they reached the orchard where even that chance ended parish thornton spoke again: "when us two tuck oath ter sottle matters betwixt ourselves--i didn't skeercely foresee what was comin' ter pass. now i kain't seek ter make ther compact hold over till a fairer time, ner seek ter change hit's terms, nuther, without ye're willin'." "suppose i hain't willin'?" for answer parish thornton sheathed his weapon. "now," he said with a deadly quiet, "we're on even terms. either you an' me draws our pistols an' fights twell one of us draps dead or else----" he paused, and saw the face of his enemy go green and pasty as rowlett licked his lips yet left his hands hanging at his sides. at length the intriguer demanded, "or else--what?" thornton knew then beyond doubt what he already believed. this man was quailing and had no stomach for the fair combat of duel yet he would never relinquish his determination to glut his hatred by subterfuge. "or else ye've got ter enter inter a _new_ compact." "what's thet?" a ring of hope sounded in the question, since in any fresh deal lies the possibility of better fortune. "ter go on holdin' yore hand twell this feud business blows over--an' i sarves notice on ye thet our own private war's opened up ergin." "i reckon," said rowlett, seeking to masquerade his relief under the semblance of responsible self-effacement, "common decency ter other folks lays thet need on both of us alike." "i'm offerin' ye a free choice," warned thornton, "but onless ye're ready ter fight hyar an' now ye've p'int-blank got ter walk in thar an' set down in handwrite, with yore name signed at ther bottom, a full confession thet ye hired me shot thet night." "like hell i will!" bas roared out his rejection of that alternative with his swarthy cheekbones flaming redly, and into his rapidly and shiftily working mind came the comfort of a realization which in that first surprise and terror had escaped him. it was not to his enemy's first interest to goad him into a mortal clash, since that would make it impossible to give a favourable answer to the leaders to-morrow--and incidentally it would be almost certain to mean thornton's own death. now he straightened up with a ghost of renewed bravado and shook his head while an enigmatical grin twisted his lips. "s'posin'," he made insolent suggestion, "i don't see fit ter do nuther one ner t'other? s'posin' i jest tells ye ter go ter hell?" parish had anticipated that question and was prepared, if he were forced so far, to back threat with execution. "i aims ter _make_ ye fight--or agree--either one," he answered, evenly, and when bas laughed at him he stepped forward and, with lightning quickness, struck the other squarely across the face. though the blow fell open-handed it brought blood from the nose and spurts of insane fury from the eyes. rowlett still kept his arms down, but he lunged and sought to drive his knee to his adversary's groin, meaning to draw and fire during the moment of paralyzing pain that must ensue. as it happened, though, parish had also anticipated some such manoeuvre of foul fighting, and he sprung aside in time to let the unbalanced rowlett pitch stumblingly forward. when he straightened he was again looking into the muzzle of a drawn pistol. rowlett had been drawing his own weapon as he lunged, but now he dropped it as if it had scalded his fingers, and once more hastily raised his hands above his head. the whole byplay was swift to such timing as belongs to sleight-of-hand, but the split-second quickness of the left-hander was as conclusively victorious as if the matter had been deliberate, and now he had margin to realize that he need not fire--for the present. "ef ye'd been jest a mite quicker in drawin', bas," he declared, ironically, "or jest a mite tardier in throwin' down thet gun--i'd hev hed ter kill ye. now we kin talk some more." the conflict of wills was over and rowlett's voice changed to a whine as he asked beseechingly: "what proof hev i got ye won't show ther paper ter some outsider afore we fights hit out?" "ye've got my pledge," answered thornton, disdainfully, "an' albeit ye knows ye don't keep 'em yoreself, ye knows thet i don't nuver break 'em. ye've got ther knowledge, moreover, thet i hain't a-goin' ter be content save ter sottle this business with ye fust handed--man ter man." he paused there, and his tone altered when he continued: "thet paper'll lay whar no man won't nuver see hit save myself--unless ye breaks yore word. ef i gits murdered, one man'll know whar thet paper's at--but not what's in hit. he'll give hit over ter ther harpers an' they'll straightway hunt ye down an' kill ye like a mad dog. what does ye say?" the other stood with face demoniacally impassioned, yet fading into the pasty gray of fear--the fear that was the more unmanageable because it was a new emotion which had never risen to confront him before. "i knows when i've got ter knock under," he made sullen admission, at last, "an' thet time's done come now. but i hain't ther only enemy ye've got. s'pose atter all ther war breaks out afresh an' ye gits slain in battle--or in some fray with other men. then i'd hev ter die jest ther same, albeit i didn't hev no hand in ther matter." thornton laughed. "i hain't seekin' ter make ye gorryntee my long life, bas. ef i falls in any pitch-battle or gits kilt in a fashion thet's p'intedly an outside matter, ye hain't a-goin' ter suffer fer hit." as the long-drawn breath went out between the parted lips of bas rowlett he wilted into a spectacle of abject surrender, then turning he led the way to the house, found pencil and paper, and wrote laboriously as the other dictated. at the end he signed his name. then parish thornton said, "now i aims ter hev ye walk along with me till i gits my horse an' starts home. i don't 'low ter trust ye till this paper's put in a safe place, an' should we meet up with anybody don't forgit--i won't fail ter shoot ef ye boggles!" chapter xx the sun, dropping into a western sea of amber and opal, seemed to grow in diameter. then it dipped until only a naming segment showed and the barriers darkened against the afterglow. still parish thornton had not come home and dorothy standing back of the open window pressed both hands over eyes that burned ember hot in their sockets. old aaron capper had mounted his horse a half-hour ago and ridden away somewhere--and she knew that he, too, had begun to fret against this insupportable waiting, and had set out on the unpromising mission of searching for the ambassador--who might already be dead. a nervous chill shook the girl and she started up from the seat into which she had collapsed; frightened at the incoherent lack of sanity that sounded from her own throat. she went again to the door and looked out into a world that the shadows had taken, save where the horizon glowed with a pallid green at the edge of darkness. leaning limply against the uprights of the frame and clasping her hands to her bosom, she distrusted her senses when she fancied she heard voices and saw two horsemen draw up at the stile and swing down from their saddles. then she crumpled slowly down, and when aaron and parish thornton reached the house they found her lying there insensible. they carried her to the four-poster bed and chafed her wrists and poured white whiskey between her pale lips until she opened her eyes in the glow of the lighted lamp. "did they hearken ter ye?" she whispered, and the man nodded his head. "i compassed what i aimed at," he told her, brokenly, "but when i seed ye layin' thar, i feared me hit hed done cost too dear." "i'm all right now," she declared five minutes later; "i war jest terrified about ye. i had nervous treemors." the stars were hanging low and softly magnified when aaron capper mounted to ride away, and at the stile he leaned in his saddle and spoke in a melancholy vein. "i seeks ter be a true christian," he said, "an' i ought ter be down on my marrow-bones right now givin' praise an' thanksgivin' ter ther blessed lord, who's done held back ther tormints of tribulation, but--" he broke off there and his voice trailed off into something like an internal sob--"but yit hit seems ter me like es ef my three boys air sleepin' res'less an' oneasy-like in th'ar graves ternight." parish thornton laid a hand on the horseman's knee. "aaron," he admitted, "i was called on ter give a pledge of faith over yon--an' i promised ter bide my time, too. i reckon i kin feel fer ye." informal and seemingly loose of organization was that meeting of the next afternoon when three harpers and three doanes met where the shade of the walnut tree fell across dooryard and roadway. the sun burned scorchingly down, and waves of heat trembled vaporously along the valley, while over the dusty highway small flocks of white and lemon butterflies hung drifting on lazy wings. from the deep stillness of the forest came the plaintive mourning of a dove. jim rowlett, hump doane, and another came as representatives of the doanes, and parish thornton, aaron capper, and lincoln thornton met them as plenipotentiaries of the harpers. when commonplaces of greeting had ended, jim rowlett turned to aaron capper as the senior of his group: "aaron," he said, "this land's hurtin' fer peace an' human charity. we craves hit, an' mr. thornton hyar says _you_ wants hit no less. we've come ter git yore answer now." "jim," responded aaron, gravely, "from now on, i reckon when ye comes ter ther harpers on any sich matter as thet parish thornton's ther man ter see. he stands in caleb harper's shoes." that was the simple coronation ceremony which raised the young man from virginia to the position of responsibility for which he had had no wish and from which he now had no escape. it was his acknowledgment by both clans, and to him again turned jim rowlett, with an inexpressible anxiety of questioning in his aged eyes. then parish thornton held out his hand. "i'm ready," he said, "ter give ye my pledge an' ter take your'n." the two palms met and the fingers clasped, and into six unemotional faces flashed an unaccustomed fire. "thar's jest one thing more yit," suggested the practical minded hunchback. "some few wild fellers on both sides of ther line air apt ter try out how strong we be ter enfo'ce our compact. hit's kinderly like young colts plungin' ergainst a new hand on ther bridle-rein--we've got ter keep cool-headed an' patient an' ack tergether when a feller like thet shows up." parish thornton nodded, and hump doane took off his hat and ran his hand through his bristling hair. "an' now," he announced, "we'll ride on home an' pass ther word along thet matters stands es they stud in old caleb's day an' time." he paused then, noting the weariness on the face of jim rowlett, added tentatively: "all of us, thet is ter say, save old jim. he's sorely tuckered out, an' i reckon ef ye invited him ter stay ther night with ye, mr. thornton, hit would be a kinderly charitable act." "he's mighty welcome," declared the host, heartily. "dorothy'll look atter him like his own daughter an' see that he gits enjoyed." * * * * * at jake crabbott's store the loungers were in full attendance on the morning after parish thornton's ride to hump doane's house, and the rumours that found currency there were varied and for the most part inaccurate. but the fact that parish thornton had ridden through picketed woods, promulgated some sort of ultimatum and come away unharmed, had leaked through and endowed him with a fabulous sort of interest. young pete doane was there, and since he was the son of the man under whose roof the stirring drama had been staged, he assumed a magnified importance and affected a sphinx-like silence of discretion to mask his actual ignorance. hump doane did not confide everything he knew to this son whom he at once loved and disdained. young doane stood indulging in rustic repartee with bright-eyed elviry prooner, a deep-bosomed diana, who, next to dorothy thornton, was accounted the "comeliest gal along siv'ral creeks." when bas rowlett joined the group, however, interest fell promptly away from pete and centred around this more legitimate pole. but bas turned on them all a sullenly uncommunicative face, and the idlers were quick to recognize and respect his unapproachable mood and to stand wide of his temper. after he had bought twist tobacco and lard and salt and chocolate drops, bas summoned pete away from his temporary inamorata with an imperative jerk of his head and the youthful hillsman responded with the promptness of a lieutenant receiving instructions from his colonel. when the two were mounted, the son of the hunchback gained a more intimate knowledge of actual conditions than he had been able to glean at home. "ther upshot of ther matter's this, pete," declared bas, earnestly. "sam opdyke lef' thet meetin' yestidday with his mind made up ter slay this man thornton--an' ther way things hev shaped up now, hit won't no fashion do. he's got ter be halted--an' i kain't afford ter be knowd in ther matter one way ner t'other. go see him an' tell him he'll incense everybody an' bring on hell's own mischief ef he don't hold his hand. tell him his chanst'll come afore long but right now, i say he's got ter _quit hit_." an hour later the fiery-tempered fellow, still smarting because his advice had been spurned yesterday, straightened up from the place outside his stable door where he was mending a saddle girth and listened while the envoy from bas rowlett preached patience. but it was bas himself who had coached sam opdyke with the incitement and inflammatory counsel which he had voiced the day before. now the man had taken fire from the flames of his own kindling--and that fire was not easy to quench. he had been, at first, a disciple but he had converted himself and had been contemptuously treated into the bargain. the grievance he paraded had become his own, and the nature bas had picked for such a purpose was not an april spirit to smile in sunlight twenty-four hours after it had fulminated in storm. opdyke gazed glumly at his visitor, as he listened, then he lied fluently in response. "all right. i had my say yestidday an' now i'm done. next time ther circuit-rider holds big meetin' i'm comin' through ter ther mourners' bench an' howl out sanctimony so loud i'll bust everybody's eardrums," and the big man laughed sneeringly. yet an hour later opdyke was greasing and loading his squirrel gun. * * * * * when the supper dishes had been cleared away that night, old jim and parish thornton sat for a long while in the front room, and because it was a sultry night and peace had been pledged, both door and window stood open. dorothy sat listening while they talked, and the theme which occupied them was the joint effort that must be made on either side the old feud line for the firm enforcement of the new treaty. they discussed plans for catching in time and throttling by joint action any sporadic insurgencies by which the experimentally minded might endeavour to test their strength of leadership. "now thet we stands in accord," mused old jim, "jestice kin come back ter ther cote-house ergin--an' ther jedge won't be terrified ter dispense hit, with me sittin' on one side of him an' you on t'other. men hev mistrusted ther law so long es one crowd held all hits power." outside along the roadside margin of deep shadow crept the figure of a man with a rifle in his hand. it was a starlit night with a sickle of new moon, neither bright nor yet densely dark, so that shapes were opaquely visible but not clear-cut or shadow-casting. the man with the long-barrelled rifle none the less avoided the open road and edged along the protecting growth of heavy weed stalk and wild rose thicket until he came to a point where the heavier shadow of the big walnut tree blotted all shapes into blackness. there he cautiously climbed the fence, taking due account of the possible creaking-of unsteady rails. "i'd love ter see men enabled ter confidence ther co'te ergin," said parish thornton, answering his old guest after a long and meditative silence. "hit would ease a heap of torment. up ter now they've hed ter trust tha'r rifle-guns." as he spoke his eyes went to the wall by the door where during these weeks of disuse his own rifle had stood leaning, and his wife smiled as her glance followed his. she was thinking that soon both his arms would be strong enough to use it again, and she was happy that he would need it only for hunting. the man outside had by this time gained the dooryard and stood beside the tree trunk where the shadow was deepest. he raised his long barrel and steadied it against the bark, not knowing that as coincidence would have it the metal rested against those initials which had been carved there generations before, making of the tree itself a monument to the dead. through the raised window he could see two heads in the lamplight; those of parish thornton and his wife, and it was easy to draw his sights upon the point just below the left shoulder blade of the man's back. old man rowlett sat too far to one side to be visible. high in the top of the walnut a shattered branch had hung in a hair balance since the great storm had stricken it. high winds had more than once threatened to bring this dead wood down, yet it had remained there, out of reach and almost out of sight but still precariously lodged. the wind to-night was light and capricious, yet it was just as the man, who was using that tree as an ambush, established touch between finger and trigger, that the splintered piece of timber broke away from its support and ripped its way noisily downward until a crotch caught and held it. startled by that unexpected alarm from above, given as though the tree had been a living sentinel, the rifleman jerked his gun upward as he fired. the bullet passed through the window to bury itself with a spiteful thud in the wall above the hearth. both men and the woman came to their feet with astonished faces turned toward the window. parish thornton reached for the pistol which he had laid on the mantel, but before he had gained the door he saw dorothy flash past him, seizing his rifle as she went, and a few seconds later he heard the clean-lipped snap of its voice in a double report. "i got him," panted the young woman, as her husband reached her side. "git down low on ther ground!" she did likewise as she added in a guarded whisper, "i shot at his legs, so he's still got his rifle an' both hands. he drapped right thar by ther fence." they went back into the house and old jim rowlett said grimly: "now let me give an order or two. thornton, you fotch yore pistol. gal, you bring thet rifle-gun an' give me a lantern. then come out ther back door an' do what i tells ye." a few minutes later the voice of the old doane was raised from the darkness: "whoever ye be over yon," it challenged, "lift up both yore hands. i'm a-goin' ter light a lantern now an' come straight to'rds ye--but thar's a rifle-gun ter ther right of ye an' a pistol ter ther left of ye--an' ef ye makes a false move both of 'em'll begin shootin'." out there by the fence a voice answered sullenly in recognition of the speaker--and realization of failure: "i hain't ergoin' ter shoot no more. i gives up." chapter xxi they helped opdyke into the house and bandaged a wound in his leg, but old jim sat looking on with a stony face, and when the first aid had been administered he said shortly: "parish thornton an' me hev jest been a-studyin' erbout how ter handle ther likes of _you_. ye come in good season--an' so fur as kin be jedged from ther place whar thet ball hit, no man kin say which one of us ye shot at. we aims ter make a sample of ye, fer others ter regulate theirselves by, an' i reckon ye're goin' ter sulter in ther penitenshery fer a spell of y'ars." and when county court day came there rode into town men of both factions, led by hump doane and parish thornton, and the courtroom benches were crowded with sightseers eager to hear that examining trial. it had been excitedly rumoured that opdyke would have something of defiant insurgency to say and that perhaps a force would be found at his back sufficiently strong to give grim effect to his words. the defendant himself had not been "hampered in the jail-house" but had walked free on his own recognizance, and, if report were true, he had been utilizing his freedom to organize his sympathizers for resistance. all in all, it promised to be a court day worth attending, with a measuring of neighbourhood influences, open and hidden. now the judge ascended the bench and rapped with his gavel, and when the name of sam opdyke was called, heads craned, feet shuffled, and an oppressive silence fell. then down the centre aisle, from rear door to crescent-shaped counsel table, stalked opdyke himself with a truculent glitter in his eyes and a defiant swing to his shoulders, though he still limped from his recent wounding. a pace behind him walked two black-visaged intimates. he looked neither to right nor left, but held the eyes of the man on the bench, and the judge, who was slight of stature, with straw-coloured hair and a face by no means imposing or majestic, returned his glance unwaveringly. then at the bar opdyke halted, with nothing of the suppliant in his bearing. he thrust a hand into each coat pocket, and with an eloquent ringing of ironmongery, slammed a brace of heavy revolvers on the table before him. the two henchmen stood silent, each with right hand in right pocket. "i heered my name called," announced the defendant in a deep-rumbling voice of challenge, "an' hyar i be--but, afore god on high, i aims ter git me jestice in this co'te!" had the man on the bench permitted the slightest ripple of anxiety to disconcert his steadfastness of gaze just then pandemonium was ripe for breaking in his courtroom. but the judge looked down with imperturbable calm as though this were the accustomed procedure of his court, and when a margin of pause had intervened to give his words greater effect he spoke in a level voice that went over the room and filled it, and he spoke, not to the defendant, but to joe bratton the "high-sheriff" of that county. [illustration: "_dorothy flashed past him ... and a few seconds later he heard the clean-lipped snap of the rifle in a double report_"] "mr. sheriff," he said, slowly and impressively, "the co'te instructs you to disarm sam opdyke an' put him under arrest fer contempt. an', mr. sheriff, when i says ter arrest him ... i mean to put him in ther jail ... an' i don't _only_ mean to put him in ther jail but in a cell and leave him there till this co'te gets ready for him. when this co'te _is_ ready, it will let you know." he paused there in the dead hush of an amazed audience, then continued on an even key: "an', mr. sheriff, if there's any disquiet in your mind about your ability to take this prisoner into custody, an' hold him securely in such custody, the co'te instructs you that you are empowered by law to call into service as your posse every able-bodied man in the jurisdiction of this county.... moreover, mr. sheriff, the co'te suggests that when you get ready to summons this posse--an' it had ought to be right here an' now--you call me fer the fust man to serve on it, an' that you call hump doane and parish thornton fer ther second an' third men on it...." a low wave of astonished voices went whispering over the courtroom, from back to front, but the judge, ignoring the two revolvers which still lay on the table fifteen feet away, and the livid face of the man from whose pockets they had been drawn, rapped sharply with his gavel. "order in the co'teroom," he thundered, and there was order. moreover, before the eyes of all those straining sight-seers, opdyke glanced at the two men who composed his bodyguard and read a wilting spirit in their faces. he sank down into his chair, beaten, and knowing it, and when the sheriff laid a hand on his shoulder, he rose without protest and left his pistols lying where he had so belligerently slammed them down. his henchmen offered no word or gesture of protest. they had seen the strength of the tidal wave which they had hoped to outface, and they realized the futility of any effort at armed resistance. * * * * * it was when he had ridden home from the county seat after attending that session of the county court, that parish thornton found bas rowlett smoking a pipe on his doorstep. that was not a surprising thing, for bas came often and maintained flawlessly the pose of amity he had chosen to assume. in his complex make-up paradoxes of character met and mingled, and it was possible for him, despite his bitter memories of failure and humiliation, to smile with just the proper nicety of unrestraint and cordiality. behind the visitor in the door stood dorothy with a plate and dish towel in her hand, and she was laughing. "howdy, parish," drawled bas, without rising, as the householder came up and smiled at his wife. "how did matters come out over thar at co'te?" "they come out with right gay success," responded the other, and in his manner, too, there was just the proper admixture of casualness and established friendship. "sam opdyke is sulterin' in ther jail-house now." "thet's a god's blessin'," commended bas, and then as dorothy went back to the kitchen parish lifted his brows and inquired quietly, "ye war over hyar yistiddy an' the day afore, warn't ye, bas?" the other nodded and laughed with a shade of taunt in his voice. "yes. hit pleasures me ter drap in whar i always gits me sich an old-time welcome." "did ye aim ter stay an' eat ye some dinner?" "i 'lowed i mout--ef so be i got asked." "well ye gits asked ter go on home, bas. i'm askin' ye now--an' hereatter ye needn't bother yoreself ter be quite so neighbourly. hit mout mek talk ef ye stayed away altogether--but stay away a heap more than what ye've been doin'." the other rose with a darkening face. "does ye aim ter dictate ter me not only when an' whar's we fights our battles at, but every move i makes meanwhile?" "i aims ter dictate ter ye how often ye comes on this place--an' i orders ye ter leave hit now. thar's ther stile--an' ther highway's open ter ye. begone!" "what's become of bas?" inquired the young wife a few minutes later, and her husband smiled with an artless and infectious good humour. "he hed ter be farin' on," came his placid response, "an' he asked me ter bid ye farewell fer him." but to bas rowlett came the thought that if his own opportunities of keeping a surveillance over that house were to be circumscribed, he needed a watchman there in his stead. in the first place, there was a paper somewhere under that roof bearing his signature which prudence required to be purloined. so long as it existed it hampered every move he made in his favourite game of intrigue. also he had begun to wonder whether any one save caleb harper who was dead knew of that receipt he had given for the old debt. bas had informed himself that, up to a week ago, it had not been recorded at the court house--and quite possibly the taciturn old man had never spoken of its nature to the girl. caleb had mentioned to him once that the paper had been put for temporary safekeeping in an old "chist" in the attic, but had failed to add that it was dorothy who placed it there. then one day bas met aaron capper on the highway. "hes parish thornton asked ye ter aid him in gittin' some man ter holp him out on his farm this fall?" demanded the elder who, though he religiously disliked bas rowlett, was striving in these exacting times to treat every man as a friend. bas rubbed the stubble on his chin reflectively. "no, he hain't happened ter name hit ter me yit," he admitted. "but men's right hard ter git. they've all got thar own crops ter tend." "yes, i knows thet. i war jest a-ridin' over thar, an' hit come ter me thet ye mout hev somebody in mind." "i'd love ter convenience ye both," declared bas, heartily, "but hit's a right bafflin' question." after a pause, however, he hazarded the suggestion: "i don't reckon ye've asked sim squires, hev ye? him an' me, we hain't got no manner of use for one another, but he's kinderly kin ter _you_--an' he bears the repute of bein' ther workin'est man in this county." "sim squires!" exclaimed old aaron. "i didn't nuver think of him, but i reckon sim couldn't handily spare ther time from his own farm. ef he could, though, hit would be mighty pleasin'." "i reckon mebby he couldn't," agreed bas. "but ther thought jest happened ter come ter me, an' he don't dwell but a whoop an' a holler distant from parish thornton's house." that same day, in pursuance of the thought "that just happened to come to him," bas took occasion to have a private meeting with the man for whom "he didn't hev no manner of use," and to enter into an agreement whereby sim, if he took the place, was to draw double pay: one wage for honest work and another as spy salary. three days later found sim squires sitting at the table in parish thornton's kitchen, an employee in good and regular standing, though at night he went back to his own cabin which was, in the words of his other employer, "only jest a whoop an' a holler away." household affairs were to him an open book and of the movements of his employer he had an excellent knowledge. chapter xxii the earliest frost of late september had brought its tang to the air with a snappy assertion of the changing season, when parish thornton first broached to dorothy an idea that, of late, had been constantly in his mind. somehow that morning with its breath of shrewd chill seemed to mark a dividing line. yesterday had been warm and languorous and the day before had been hot. the ironweed had not long since been topped with the dusty royalty of its vagabond purple, and the thistledown had drifted along air currents that stirred light and warm. "honey," said the man, gravely, as he slipped his arm about dorothy's waist on that first cold morning, when they were standing together by the grave of her grandfather, "i hain't talked much erbout hit--but i reckon my sister's baby hes done hed hits bornin' afore now." "i wonder," she mused, as yet without suspicion of the trend of his suggestions, "how she come through hit--all by herself thetaway?" the man's face twitched with one of those emotional paroxysms that once in a long while overcame his self-command. then it became a face of shadowed anxiety and his voice was heavy with feeling. "i've done been ponderin' thet day an' night hyar of late, honey. i've got ter fare over thar an' find out." dorothy started and caught quickly at his elbow, but at once she removed her hand and looked thoughtfully away. "kain't ye write her a letter?" she demanded. "hit's walkin' right inter sore peril fer ye ter cross ther state line, cal." "an' yit," he answered with convincing logic, "i'd ruther trust ter my own powers of hidin' out in a country whar i knows every trail an' every creek bed, then ter take chances with a letter. ef i wrote one hit would carry a post-office mark on ther envellop ter tell every man whence hit come." she was too wise, too sympathetic, and too understanding of that clan loyalty which would deny him peace until he fulfilled his obligation, to offer arguments in dissuasion, but she stood with trouble riffles in her deep eyes until at last she asked: "when did ye aim ter start--over yon?" "hit ought ter be right soon now, while travellin's good. come snowfall hit'll git ter be right slavish journeyin'--but i don't 'low ter tarry there long. i kain't noways be content away from ye." the thoughts that were occupying dorothy were for the most part silent ones but at length she inquired: "why don't ye bring her back with ye, ter dwell hyar with us--her an' ther baby?" thornton shook his head, but his heart warmed because she had asked. "hit wouldn't do--jest yit. folks mout seek ter trace me by follerin' her. i kin slip in thar an' see her, though, an' mebby comfort her some small degree--an' then slip back home ergin without no man's knowin' i've ever been thar." instinctively the wife shuddered. "ef they _did_ find out!" she exclaimed in a low voice, and the man nodded in frank comprehension. "ef they did," he answered, candidly, "i reckon hit would be hangin' or ther penitenshery fer me--but they hain't agoin' ter." "i don't seek ter hinder ye none," she told him in a faltering voice, "despite hit's goin' ter nigh kill me ter see ye go. somehow hit seems like i wouldn't be so skeered ef ye war guilty yoreself ... but ter hev ye risk ther gallers fer somethin' ye didn't nuver do----" the words choked her and she stopped short. "i'm goin' ter hev a mouty strong reason fer seekin' ter come home safe," he said, softly. "but even ef hit did cost me my life, i don't see as i could fail a woman thet's my sister, an' thet's been facin' her time amongst enemies, with a secret like thet hauntin' her day an' night. i've got ter take ther chanst, honey." a sound came to them through their preoccupation, and they looked up to see bas rowlett crossing the stile. his case-hardened hypocrisy stood valiantly by him, and his face revealed nothing of the humiliation he must feel in playing out his farcical role of friendship before the eyes of the man to whom it was so transparent. "i war jest passin' by," he announced, "an i 'lowed i'd light down an' make my manners. i'd love ter hev a drink of water, too." without a word parish turned and went toward the well and the visitor's eyes lit again to their avid hunger as he gazed at the girl. abruptly he declared: "don't never fergit what i told ye, dorothy. i'd do most anything, fer _you_." the girl made no answer, but she flushed under the intensity of his gaze, and to herself she said, as she had said once before: "i wonder would he do sich a thing fer me as cal's doin' fer his sister?" the scope and peril of that sacrifice seemed to stand between her and all other thoughts. then parish came back with a gourd dipper, and forced himself for a few moments into casual conversation. though to have intimated his purpose and destination would have been a fatal thing, it would have been almost as foolish to wrap in mystery the fact that he meant to make a short journey from home, so as bas mounted parish said: "i've got a leetle business acrost in virginny, bas, an' afore long i'm goin' over thar fer a few days." when elviry prooner had consented to come as temporary companion for dorothy, it seemed merely an adventitious happening that sim, too, felt the call of the road. "i don't know es i've named hit to ye afore, parish," he volunteered the next day as the three sat around the dinner table, "but i've got a cousin thet used ter be more like a brother ter me--an' he got inter some leetle trouble." "is thet so, sim?" inquired parish with a ready interest. "war hit a sore trouble?" "hit couldn't skeercely be holped--but he's been sulterin' in ther penitenshery down thar at frankfort fer nigh on ter two y'ars now. erbout once in a coon's age i fares me down thar ter fotch him tidin's of his folks. hit pleasures him." thornton began to understand--or thought he did, and again he inclined his head. "i reckon, sim," he said, "ye wants ter make one of them trips now, don't ye?" "thet's a right shrewd guess, parish. hit's a handy time ter go. i kin git back afore corn-shuckin', an' thar hain't no other wuck a-hurtin' ter be done right now." "all right, sim"--the permission came readily--"light out whenever ye gits ready--but come back fer corn-shuckin'." when sim related to bas rowlett how free of complication had been the arrangement, bas smiled in contentment. "start out--an' slip back--an' don't let him git outen yore sight till ye finds out whar he goes an' what he's doin'," came the crisp order. "he's up ter suthin' thet he hain't givin' out ter each an' every, an' i'd love ter know what hit is." * * * * * along the ridges trailed that misty, smoky glamour with which autumn dreams of the gorgeous pictures she means to paint, with the woods for a canvas and the frost for a brush. bas rowlett had shaved the bristle from his jowl and chin and thrown his overalls behind his cabin door. he had dressed him in high-laced boots and donned a suit of store clothes, for in his mind were thoughts livened and made keen with the heady intoxication of an atmosphere like wine. he knocked on the door of the house which he knew to be manless, and waited until it was opened by elviry prooner. his swarthy face with its high cheekbones bequeathed from the shameful mixing of his blood in indian veins wore a challenging smile of daredeviltry, and the buxom young woman stood regarding him out of her provocative eyes. perhaps she owned to a revival of hope in her own breast, which had known the rancour of unacknowledged jealousy because this man had passed her by to worship at dorothy harper's shrine. perhaps bas rowlett who "had things hung up" had at last come to his senses and meant, belatedly, to lay his heart at her feet. if he did, she would lead him a merry dance of doing penance--but she would nowise permit him to escape. but bas saw in elviry only an unwelcome presence interfering with another tête-à-tête, and the hostile hardening of his eyes angered her so that the girl tossed her head, and wheeling haughtily she swept into the house. a minute later he saw her still flushed and wrathful stalking indignantly along the road toward jake crabbott's store at lake erie. so bas set his basket down and removed his hat and let his powerful shoulders relax themselves restfully against the door frame. he was waiting for dorothy, and he was glad that the obnoxious elviry had gone. after a little dorothy appeared. her lips were innocent of the flippant sneer that the other girl's had held and her beauty was not so full-blown or material. bas rowlett did not rise from his seat and the young woman did not expect it. casually he inquired: "is parish hyar?" the last question came so innocently that it accomplished its purpose. bas seemed to hope for an affirmative reply, and his manner robbed his presence of any apparent intent of visiting a husbandless wife. since no one but himself knew that his jackal sam squires was at that moment trailing after parish thornton as the beagle courses after the hare, he could logically enough make such an inquiry. "no. didn't ye know? he started out soon this mornin'. i reckon he's fur over to'rds virginny by now." "oh!" bas rowlett seemed surprised, but he made prompt explanation. "i knowed he hed hit in head ter go--but i didn't know he'd started yit." for more than an hour their talk went on in friendly channels of reminiscence and commonplace, then the man lifted the basket he had brought. "i fotched some 'simmons offen thet tree by my house. ye used ter love 'em right good, dorothy." "i does still, bas," she smiled with that sweet serenity that men found irresistible as she reached for the basket, but the man sat with eyes brimming melancholy and fixed on the violet haze of the skyline until she noticed his abstraction and inquired: "what ails ye, bas? ye're in a brown study erbout somethin'." he drew back his shoulders then, and enlightened, "sometimes i gits thetaway. i fell ter thinkin' of them days when you an' me used ter gather them 'simmons tergether, little gal." "when we was kids," she answered, nodding her head. "we hed fun, didn't we?" "god almighty," he exclaimed, impetuously and suddenly. "how i loved ye!" the girl drew away, and her answer was at once sympathetic and defensive. "thet war all a right long time back, bas." the defeated lover came to his feet and stood looking at her with a face over which the passion of his feeling came with a sweep and surge that he made no effort to control. in that instant something had slipped in bas rowlett and the madman that was part of him became temporarily all of him. "hit hain't so long a time ago," he vehemently declared, "thet i've changed any in hits passin'. so long es i lives, dorothy, i'll love ye more an' more--till i dies." she drew back another step and shook her head reprovingly, and in the gravity of her eyes was the dawning of indignation, disappointment, and astonishment. "bas," she said, earnestly, "even ef cal hadn't of come, i couldn't nuver hev wedded with ye. he did come, though, an'--in thet way of carin'--thar hain't no other man in the world fer me. i kain't never pay ye back fer all thet i'm beholden ter ye ... fer savin' him an' fotchin' him in when thet craven shot him ... fer stayin' a friend when most men would hev got ter be enemies. i knows all them things--but don't seek ter spile none of 'em by talkin' love ter me.... hit's too late.... i'm married." for an instant he stood as though long-arrested passions were pounding against the dams that had held them; then his words came like the torrent that makes driftwood of its impediments. "ter hell with this man thornton! ye didn't never hev no chanst ter know yore own mind.... ye jest thinks ye loves him because ye pitied him. hit won't last noways." "bas," she spoke his name with a sharp and stinging note of command, "i'm willin' ter look over what ye've said so fur--because of what i owes ye--but don't say no more!" in a frenzy of wild and sensuous abandon he laughed. then leaping forward he seized her and crushed her to him with her arms pinioned in his and her body close against his own. her struggles were as futile as those of a bird held in a human hand--a hand that takes no thought of how severely it may bruise but only of making firm its imprisoning hold. "i said 'ter hell with him'," repeated the man in a low voice but one of white-hot passion. "i says hit ergin! from ther time thet ye fust begun ter grow up i'd made up my mind thet ye belonged ter me--an' afore i quits ye're _goin'_ ter belong ter me. ye talks erbout bein' wedded an' i says ter hell with thet, too! mebby ye're his wife but ye're goin' ter be my woman!" the senses of the girl swirled madly and chaotically during those moments when she strained against the rawhide strength of the arms that held her powerless, and they seemed to her hours. the hot breath of the face which had suddenly grown unspeakably horrible to her burned her like a blast, and through her reeling faculties rose that same impression of nightmare that had come to parish when he lay wounded on his bed: the need of altering at a flash her whole conception of this man's loyal steadfastness to a realization of unbelievable and bestial treachery. the fact was patent enough now, and only the hideous possibilities of the next few minutes remained doubtful. his arms clamped her so tightly that she gasped stranglingly for breath, and the convulsive futility of her struggles grew fainter. consciousness itself wavered. then rowlett loosened one arm and bent her head upward until he could crush his lips against hers and hold them there while he surfeited his own with an endlessly long kiss. when again her eyes met his, the girl was panting with the exhaustion of breath that sounded like a sob, and desperately she sought to fence for time. "let me go," she panted. "let me go--thar's somebody comin'!" that was a lie born of the moment's desperation and strategy but, somewhat to her surprise, it served its ephemeral purpose. rowlett released his hold and wheeled to look at the road, and with a flashing swiftness his victim leaped for the door and slammmed it behind her. chapter xxiii an instant later, with a roar of fury, as he realized the trick that had been played upon him, bas was beating his fists against the panels and hurling against them the weight of his powerful shoulders. but those hot moments of agitation and mental riot had left him breathless, too, and presently he drew away for a quieter survey of the situation. he strolled insolently over to the window which was still open and leaned with his elbows on the sill looking in. the room was empty, and he guessed that dorothy had hurried out to bar the back door, forgetting, in her excitement, the nearer danger of the raised sash. bas had started to draw himself up over the sill when caution prompted him to turn first for a look at the road. he ground his teeth and abandoned his intention of immediate entry for there swinging around the turn, with her buxom vigour of stride, came elviry prooner. rowlett scowled as he folded his arms and leaned by the window, and then he saw dorothy appear in the back door of the room and he cautioned her in a low voice: "elviry's comin' back. i warns ye not ter make no commotion." but to his astonishment dorothy, whose face was as pale as paper no longer, wore in her eyes the desperation of terror or the fluttering agitation that seemed likely to make outcry. in her hand she held a kitchen knife which had been sharpened and re-sharpened on the grindstone until its point was as taperingly keen as that of a dirk. she laid this weapon down on the table and hastily rearranged her dishevelled hair, and then she said in a still and ominous voice, more indicative of aggressive temerity than shrinking timidity: "don't go yit, bas, i'm comin' out thar ter hev speech with ye--an' ef ye fails ter hearken ter me--god knows i pities ye!" waiting a little while to recover from the pallid advertising of her recent agitation she opened the front door and went firmly out as elviry, with a toss of her head that ignored the visitor, passed around the house to the rear. dorothy's right hand, armed with the blade, rested inconspicuously under her apron, but the glitter in her eyes was unconcealed and to bas, who smiled indulgently at her arming, she gave the brief command, "come out hyar under ther tree whar elviry won't hear us." curious and somewhat mystified at the transformation from helplessness to aggression of bearing the man followed her and as she wheeled to face him with her left hand groping against the bark, he dropped down into the grass with insolent mockery in his face and sat cross-legged, looking up at her. "ef i'd hed this knife a minute ago," she began in a low voice, throbbing like a muffled engine, "i'd hev cut yore heart out. now i've decided not ter do hit--jest yit." "would ye ruther wait an' let ther man with siv'ral diff'rent names ondertake hit fer ye?" he queried, mockingly, and dorothy thornton shook her head. "no, i wouldn't hev him dirty his hands with no sich job," she answered with icy disdain. "albeit he'd t'ar hit out with his bare fingers, i reckon--ef he knowed." bas rowlett's swarthy face stiffened and his teeth bared themselves in a snarl of hurt vanity, but as he started to speak he changed his mind and sat for a while silent, watching the splendid figure she made as she leaned against the tree with a breast rising and falling to the storm tide of her indignation. rowlett's thoughts had been active in these minutes since the craters of his sensuous nature had burst into eruption, and already he was cursing himself for a fool who had prematurely revealed his hand. "dorothy," he began, slowly, and a self-abasing pretence of penitence sounded through his words, "my reason plum left me a while ago an' i was p'int blank crazed fer a spell. i've got ter crave yore pardon right humbly--but i reckon ye don't begin ter know how much i loves ye." "how much ye loves me!" she echoed the words with a scorn so incandescent that he winced. "love's an honest thing, an' ye hain't nuver knowed ther meanin' of honesty!" "ye've got a right good license ter git mad with me, dorothy," he made generous concession, "an' i wouldn't esteem ye ef ye hedn't done hit--but afore ye lets thet wrath settle inter a fixed hate ye ought ter think of somethin' ye've done fergot." he paused but received no invitation to present his plea in extenuation, so he proceeded without it: "i kissed ye erginst yore will, an' i cussed an' damned yore husband, but i did both them things in sudden heat an' passion. ye ought ter take thought afore ye disgusts me too everlastin'ly much thet i've done loved ye ever since we was both kids tergither. i've done been compelled ter put behind me all ther hopes i ever hed endurin' my whole lifetime an' hit's been makin' a hell of tormint outen my days an' nights hyar of late." he had risen now, and into his argument as he bowed a bared and allegedly stricken head he was managing to put an excellent semblance of sincerity. but it was before a court of feminine intuition that bas rowlett stood arraigned, and his specious contriteness fell flat as it came from his lips. dorothy was looking at him now in the glare of revelation--and seeing a loathsome portrait. "an hour ago," she declared with no relenting in the deep blaze of her eyes, "i believed all good of ye. now i sees ye fer what ye air an' i suspicions iniquities thet i hedn't nuver dreamp' of afore. i wouldn't put hit past ye ter hev deevised cal's lay-wayin' yoreself. i wouldn't be none astonished ef ye hired ther man thet shot him ... an' yit i'd nigh cut my tongue afore i'd drap a hint of thet ter him." that last statement both amazed and gratified the intriguer. he had now two avowed enemies in this house and each stood pledged to a solitary reckoning. his warfare against one of them was prompted by murder-lust and against the other by love-lust, but the cardinal essence of good strategy is to dispose of hostile forces in detail and to prevent their uniting for defence or offence. it seemed to bas that, in this, the woman was preparing to play into his hands, but he inquired, without visible eagerness: "fer why does ye say thet?" out of dorothy's wide eyes was blazing upon him torrential fury and contempt. yet she did not give him her truest reasons in her answer. she had no longer any fear of him for herself, but she trembled inwardly at the menace of his treachery against her man. "i says hit," she answered, still in that level, ominously pitched voice that spoke from a heart too profoundly outraged for gusty vehemence, "because, now thet i knows ye, i don't need nobody ter fight ye fer me. he trusts ye an' thinks ye're his friend, an' so long es ye don't lift no finger ter harm him i'm willin' ter let him go on trustin' ye." she paused, and to her ears with a soothing whisper came the rustle of the crisp leaves overhead. then she resumed, "ef he ever got any hint of what's come ter pass terday, i mout es well try ter hold back a flood-tide with a splash-dam es ter hinder him from follerin' atter ye an' trompin' ye in ther dirt like he'd tromple a rattlesnake.... but he stands pledged ter peace an' i don't aim ter bring on no feud war ergin by hevin' him break hit." "ef him an' me fell out," admitted bas with wily encouragement of her confessed belief, "right like others would mix inter hit." "but ef _i_ kills ye hit won't start no war," she retorted. "a woman's got a right ter defend herself, even hyar." "dorothy, i've done told ye i jest lost my head in a swivet of wrath. ye're jedgin' me by one minute of frenzy and lookin' over a lifetime of trustiness." "ef i kills ye hit won't start no war," she reiterated, implacably, ignoring his interruption, "an' betwixt ther two of us, i'm ther best man--because i'm honest, an' ye're as craven as judas was when he earned his silver money. ye needn't hev no fear of my tellin' cal, but ye've got a right good cause ter fear _me_!" "all right, then," once more the hypocritical mask of dissimulation fell away and the swarthy face showed black with the savagery of frustration. "ef ye won't hev hit no other way, go on disgustin' me--but i warns ye thet ye kain't hold out erginst me. ther time'll come when ye won't kick an' fly inter tantrums erginst my kisses ... ye'll plum welcome 'em." "hit won't be in this world," she declared, fiercely, as her eyes narrowed and the hand that held the knife crept out from under the apron. the man laughed again. "hit'll be right hyar on y'arth," he declared with undiminished self-assurance; "you an' me air meant ter mate tergither like a pair of eagles, an' some day ye're goin' ter come inter my arms of yore own free will. i reckon i kin bide my time twell ye does." "eagles don't mate with snakes," she shot out at him, with a bosom heaving to the tempest of her disgust. then she added: "i don't even caution ye ter stay away from this house. i hain't afeared of ye, an' i don't want cal ter suspicion nothin'--but don't come hyar too often ... ye fouls ther air i breathes whenever ye enters hit." she paused and brushed her free arm across her lips in shuddering remembrance of his kiss, then she continued with the tone of finality: "now i've told ye what i wanted ter tell ye ... ef need arises ergin, i'm goin' ter kill ye ... this matter lays betwixt me an' you ... an' nobody else hain't agoin' ter be brung inter hit.... does ye onderstand thet full clear?" "thet's agreed," he gave answer, but his voice trembled with passion, "an' i've done told _you_ what i wants ye ter know. i loves ye an' i'm goin' ter hev ye. i don't keer no master amount how hit comes ter pass, but sooner or later i gits me what i goes atter--an' from now on i'm goin' atter _you_." he turned and walked insolently away and the girl, with the strain of necessity removed, sank back weakly against the cool solidity of the walnut trunk. except for its support she would have fallen, and after awhile, hearing elviry's voice singing off at the back of the house and realizing that she was not watched, she turned weakly and spread her outstretched hands upward in embrace against the rough wood, as a frightened child might throw its arms about a protecting mother. when sam opdyke had been taken from the courtroom to the "jail-house" that his wrath might cool into submissiveness, and when later he had been held to the grand jury, he knew in his heart that ahead of him lay the prospect of leaving the mountains. the hated lowlands meant to him the penitentiary at frankfort, and with jim rowlett and parish thornton united against him, this was his sure prospect. the two men who had shared with him the sensational notability of that entrance and the deflated drama of that exit had gone home rankling under a chagrin not wholly concerned with the interests of the defendant. enmities were planted that day that carried the infection of bitterness toward harpers and doanes alike, and the resentful minority began taking thought of new organization; a thought secretly fanned and inflamed by emissaries of the resourceful bas rowlett. back in the days following on the war of secession the word ku klux had carried a meaning of both terror and authority. it had functioned in the mountains as well as elsewhere through the south, but it had been, in its beginnings, a secret body of regulators filling a void left by the law's failure, and one boasting some colour of legitimacy. since then occasional organizations of imitative origin had risen for a time and fallen rapidly into decay, but these were all gangs of predatory activity and outrage. now once more in the talk of wayside store and highroad meeting one began to hear that name "ku klux" though it came vaguely from the tongue as a thing of which no man had seen any tangible evidence. if it had anywhere an actual nucleus, that centre remained as impalpable and unmaterial as fox-fire. but the rumour of night meetings and oath-bound secrecy persisted, and some of these shreds of gossip came to dorothy thornton over the dooryard fence as passersby drew rein in the shadow of the black walnut. nearer anxieties just now made her mind unreceptive to loose and improbable stories of that nature, and she gave them scant attention. she found herself coming out to stand under the tree often, because it seemed to her that here she could feel the presence of the man who had gone away on a parlous mission--and it was during that time of his absence that she found more to fear in a seemingly trivial matter than in the disquieting talk of a mysterious body of avengers stirring into life. when she looked up into the branches that were colouring toward autumnal hues she discovered here and there a small, fungus-like growth and leaves that were dying unnaturally, as though through the agency of some blight that diseased the vigour of the tree. her heart was ready to be frightened by small things, and through her thoughts ran that old prophecy: "i have ye strong faithe that whilst that tree stands and grows stronge and weathers ye thunder and wind and is revered, ye stem and branches of our family alsoe will waxe stronge and robust, but that when it fails, likewise will disaster fall upon our house." chapter xxiv from the shallow porch of a house over which brooded the dismal spirit of neglect and shiftlessness a woman stood looking out with eyes that should have been young, but were old with the age of a heart and spirit gone slack. evidences of thrift cast overboard bespoke the dejection that held sway there, and yet the woman had pathetic remnants of a beauty not long wrecked. her hollow cheeks and lustreless hair, the hopeless mouth with a front tooth missing, served in their unsightliness to make one forget that the features themselves were well modelled, and that the thin figure needed only the filling out of sunken curves to bring back comeliness of proportion. the woman was twenty-two and looked forty-five, but the small, shawl-wrapped bundle of humanity that she held in her arms was her first child, and two years ago she had been accounted a neighbourhood beauty. under her feet the flooring of the porch creaked its complaint of disrepair and the baby in her arms raised a shrill and peevish howl of malnutrition. as the mother clasped it closer and rocked it against her shrunken breast a second and older woman appeared in the doorway, a witch-faced slattern who inquired in a nasal whine: "kain't ye, no fashion, gentle him ter sleep, sally?" the mother shook her head despondently. "my milk don't seem ter nourish him none," she answered, and the voice which had once been sweet carried a haunting whine of tragedy. into the lawless tangle of the "laurel-hell" that came down the mountainside to encroach upon the meagre patch reclaimed for human habitation, a man who had crept yard by yard to the thicket's edge drew back at the sight of the older woman. this man carried a rifle which he hitched along with him as he made his slow progress, and his clothes were ragged from laboured travel through rocky tangles. small stains of blood, dried brown on his face and hands, testified to the stinging obstruction of thorned trailer and creeping briar, and his cheeks were slightly hollowed because for two days he had avoided human habitations where adequate food could be obtained. now he crouched there, gazing steadfastly at the house, and schooled his patience to keep vigil until the mother should come out or the other woman go away. at least, parish thornton told himself, his sister and her baby were alive. out of the house door slouched a year-old hound puppy with shambling feet and lean ribs. it stood for a moment, whining and wagging a disconsolate tail at the woman's feet, then came suddenly to life and charged a razor-back hog that was rooting at will in what should have been a potato patch. the hog wheeled with a startled grunt and stampeded into the thicket--almost upsetting in its headlong flight the man who was hiding there. but the dog had stopped and stood rigidly sniffing as human scent proclaimed itself to his nostrils. the bristles rose erect as quills along his neck and shoulders as a deep growl rumbled in his throat. that engrossment of interest and disquiet held until the woman with the baby in her arms came down the two steps, in curiosity, and crossed the yard. then thornton let his whisper go out to her with an utterness of caution: "don't say nothin', sally.... walk back inter ther woods ... outen sight of the house ... it's me ... it's yore brother, ken." for an instant she stood as tremulous as though she had seen or heard a ghost, while in her thin and shrunken bosom her heart pounded. then she said: "i'll be thar d'reckly. i'll take ther baby back ter mirandy." "no," commanded the man, "bring hit with ye. i hain't nuver saw hit yit." * * * * * parish thornton had come safely home, and in forest stretches where fallen leaves lay crisp and thick under foot the razor-backs were fattening on persimmons and mast. along the horizon slept an ashen mist of violet. "sugar trees" blazed in rustling torches of crimson and in the sweet-gums awoke colour flashes like those which glint in a goblet of burgundy. before the house in the bend of the river the great walnut stood like a high-priest lording it over lesser clerics: a druid giant of blond maturity, with outstretched arms that seemed to brush the drifting cloud-fleece by day and the stars by night. it whispered with the wandering voices of the little winds in tones of hushed mystery. mellow now and tranquil in its day of fruitage it had the seeming of meditation upon the cycles of bud and leaf, sun and storm; the starkness of death and the miracle of resurrection. yet the young wife searched its depths of foliage with an eye of anxiety for, though she had not spoken of it, her discernment recognized that the fungus-like blight was spreading through its breadth and height with a contagion of unhealth. beneath it parish and dorothy were gathering and piling the walnuts that should in due season be beaten out of their thick husks and stored away for winter nights by the blazing hearth, and in their veins, too, was the wine and the fragrance of that brief carnival that comes before the desolation of winter. dorothy straightened and, looking off down the road, made sudden announcement. "look thar, cal. ef hit hain't a stranger ridin' up on hoss-back. i wonder now who _is_ he?" with unhurried deliberation, because there was languor in the air that day, the man rose from his knee, but as soon as he saw the mounted figure his features stiffened and into them came the expression of one who had been suddenly stricken. dorothy, still looking outward, with the inquisitiveness of a land to which few strangers come, did not see that recognition of a nemesis, and quickly, in order that the stranger himself might not see it, the man drew a long breath into his chest and schooled himself to the stoic bearing of one who calmly accepts the inevitable. by that time the horseman had halted and nodded. he dismounted and threw his rein over a picket, then from the stile he accosted thornton: "ken, i reckon ye knows me," he said, "an' i reckon ye knows what brought me." parish went forward, but before he reached the stile he turned and in a level voice said, "dorothy, this hyar man's jake beaver. he's ther high-sheriff--from over in virginny ... i reckon he seeks ter take me back." dorothy stood with all her pliant sinews inordinately tensed; with her deep eyes wide and terrified, yet voiceless of any outburst or exclamation, and near her, ill at ease, but seeking to treat the affair as an inescapable matter of business, and consequently a commonplace, the sheriff shifted his weight from foot to foot, and fanned himself with his hat. the exact wording of the warrant was after all of no particular consequence. the announcement of its purport had carried all its necessary significance. yet, before he spoke again, kenneth thornton, also known as parish thornton and as cal maggard--these names being included in the document as aliases--read it from preamble to signature and seal at the end. then he inquired: "how come ye ter diskiver wh'ar i was at, jake?" the officer shook his head. "thet's a question i hain't got ther power ter answer ye, ken. somebody over thar got tidin's somehow and drapped a hint ter ther commonwealth's attorney." with a nod of comprehension the man who was wanted accepted that explanation. he had not expected a fuller one. then, turning, he complied with the demands of courtesy. "dorothy," he asked, "hain't ye goin' ter invite jake ter come in an' eat him some dinner?" the woman had not spoken. for her, stoic-bred though she was, it was impossible to separate calmly the personal side of this stranger from the abstract and menacing thing for which he stood. now she gulped down a hot and inhospitable impulse of refusal and said briefly to her husband, "_you_ kin invite him ef ye've a mind ter, cal. _i_ won't." the officer flushed in embarrassment. sheriffs, like bloodhounds, are frequently endowed with gentle natures, and this mission was not of beaver's own choosing. it was a pursuit he followed with nothing of the sportsman's zest. "i reckon i mout es well git over an' done with all ther onpleasant jobs i've got on hand," he announced, awkwardly, "air ye willin' ter waive extradition, ken, or does ye aim ter fight goin' back? hit's jest a matter of time either way--but ye've got the privilege of choosin'." the man he had come after was carefully folding the warrant of arrest along its folded lines as though it were important to preserve the exact creasing of the paper. "does i keep this hyar thing, jake," he asked, "or give hit back to ye?" "keep hit," replied the sheriff, with an equal gravity. "hit b'longs ter _you_." there was a brief silence after that then thornton said: "this is a right grave matter ter me, jake. afore i decides what ter do i've got ter hev speech with some of my neighbours." the foreign official inclined his head. "i hain't drapped no hint ter no man es ter what business brought me hyar," he volunteered. "i 'lowed ter talk with ye in private fust. i knows full well i'm amongst yore friends over hyar--an' i've got ter trust myself in yore hands. this hain't no welcome task, ken, any way ye looks at hit." "i gives ye my hand, jake," the accused reassured his accuser, "no harm hain't goin' ter come ter ye. come on indoors and sot ye a cheer." parish thornton stood under the black walnut again that afternoon and with his jackknife he was carving a small basket out of one of the walnuts that had fallen at his feet. about him stood a group including the custodian of "the peace and dignity of the commonwealth of virginia" and the man who held like responsibility for the state of kentucky. between the two, unexpressed but felt, lay the veiled hostility that had grown up through generations of "crossing the border" to hide out; the hostility of conflicting jurisdictions. hump doane and jim rowlett were there, and aaron capper and lincoln thornton--a handful who could speak with the voice of public opinion thereabouts, and while he carved industriously at his watch-charm basket, parish thornton glanced at the cripple. "mr. doane," he said, "once, standin' on this identical spot, ye asked me a question thet i refused ter answer. this man hes come over hyar, now, ter answer hit fer me. jake, tell these folks what brought ye hither." the sheriff cleared his throat and by way of preface remarked: "i didn't come of my own choosin', gentlemen. ther state of virginny accuses parish thornton of ther wilful murder of john turk. i'm high-sheriff over in lee county whar hit tuck place." a grave restraint prevented any expression of surprise, but all the eyes were turned upon thornton himself, and the accused gave back even glance for even glance. "now i'm goin' ter give ye my side of hit," he began, though to give his side in full justice he would have had to reveal a secret which he had no intent of disclosing. "my sister, sally, married john turk an' he abused her till she couldn't endure hit no longer. her pride was mighty high an' she'd hev cut her tongue out afore she'd hev told her neighbours ther way she war misused--but i knowed hit." as he paused his eyes darkened into sombre memory. "i reasoned with john an' he blackguarded me, too, an' ferbid me ter darken his door.... deespite thet command i feared fer her life an' i fared over thar ... i went in at ther door an' he war a-maltreatin' her an' chokin' her. i railed out ... an' he hurt her wusser ... hit war his life or her'n. ef hit war all ter do over ergin i wouldn't act no different." he paused again and no one offered a comment; so he resumed his statement: "i hain't told ye all of hit, but i reckon thet's enough. thar warn't no witnesses ter holp me come cl'ar an' ther co'te over thar wouldn't vouchsafe me no justice.... hit's jedge b'longed ter john turk's kinfolks body an' soul ... so i come away." "i reckon ye'd be plum daft ef ye didn't stay away," remarked the kentucky sheriff with a sharp and bellicose glance at his colleague from another state. "virginny officers hain't got no power of arrest in kaintuck." the virginian bit a trifle nervously from a twist of "natural leaf." "hit's my bounden duty, though," he declared, staunchly, "ter call on _you_ ter arrest him an' hold him till i gits me them extradition papers from frankfort--an' then hit's _yore_ bounden duty ter fotch him ter ther state line an' deliver him over ter me." "i'm ther man thet decides what my duty is," came the swift retort, and thornton raised a hand to quell incipient argument. "thet hain't ther p'int, men," he reminded them. "ther law kin reach in an' take me out finally. we all knows thet--onless i forsook my home hyar an' lived a refugee, hidin' out. atter they once diskivered whar i was, i mout jest es well be thar es hyar." "ther boy's right," ruled hump doane, judicially. "a man kain't beat ther law in ther long run." then the cripple wheeled on the sheriff. "mr. beaver," he said, "we hain't got no quarrel with ye fer doin' yore plain duty, but whether ye calls this man a criminal over thar in virginny or not we knows over hyar thet he's a godly upholder of ther law--an' we don't aim ter see him made no scape-goat fer unlawful wrath ef we kin hinder hit. in so fur es we kin legally compass hit we stands ready ter fight ther state of virginny from hell ter breakfast. all he's got ter do is jest give us ther word." "i hain't seekin' ter contrary ye none es ter thet, mr. doane," the officer gave ready assurance. "ef mr. thornton takes my counsel," went on the deformed leader, "he'll bid ye go back thar an' tell them folks ye comes from thet ef they'll admit him ter bail, an' pledge him a fa'r day in co'te, he'll come back thar without no conflict when ye sends fer him. but ye've got ter hev 'em agree ter let him stay over hyar till ther co'te sets ter try him. es fer his bond ye kin put hit at any figger ye likes so long es thar's land enough an' money enough amongst us ter kiver hit." the virginia sheriff turned to the kentucky officer. "will ye arrest this man an' hold him safe till i gits my order?" he demanded, and the kentuckian in turn inquired of parish, "will ye agree to hold yoreself subject ter prompt response?" thornton nodded and casually the local officer replied: "all right, mr. beaver. ye kin ride on home now whenever ye gits ready. i've got this prisoner in a custody thet satisfies me right now." chapter xxv had those enterprising spirits who had undertaken to organize a vigilance committee, modelled upon the old ku klux, been avowedly outlaws, banded together only for the abuse of power, their efforts would have died of inanition. the sort of lawlessness that has given the appalachian mountaineer his wild name is one that the outer world understands as little as the hillsman understands the outer world, and the appeal which the organization made was a warped and distorted sense of justice, none the less sincere. so now though the organizers of the new body were scheming rascals, actuated by the basest and meanest motives, the tissue and brawn of their recruiting was built up from the adventure-love of youth or the grim and honest insurgency of maturer age. as yet the membership was small and it met in shifting places of rendezvous, with weird rites of oath-bound secrecy. to-night it was gathered around a campfire in a gorge between towering cliffs to which access was gained by a single and narrow gut of alley-way which was sentinel-guarded. the men were notably bi-partisan in make-up, for sim squires of the harper faction sat on the same short log with young pete doane of the rowletts, and so it ran with the rest. "couldn't ye contrive ter persuade bas rowlett ter jine us, pete?" inquired one of the two men who had swaggered with sam opdyke up the court-house aisle, and gone out in crestfallen limpness. "hit looks like he'd ought ter hold with us. he war entitled ter leadership an' they cast him over." pete shook his head and answered with the importance of an envoy: "bas, he's fer us, body an' soul, an' he aims ter succour us every way he kin but he figgers he kin compass hit best fashion by _seemin'_ ter stand solid with ther old leaders." sim squires said nothing but he spat contemptuously when the name of bas rowlett was mentioned. "ther fust task that lays ahead of us," declared the voice of rick joyce who seemed to be the presiding officer of the meeting, "is ter see that sam opdyke comes cl'ar in cote. when ther doanes met in council, sam war thar amongst 'em an' no man denied he hed as good a right ter be harkened to as anybody else. but they rid over him rough-shod. a few men tuck ther bit in their teeth and flaunted ther balance of us. now we aims ter flaunt _them_ some." "how air we goin' ter compass hit?" came a query, and the answer was prompt. "when ther panel's drawed ter try sam we've got ter see that every man on the jury gits secretly admonished thet atter he finishes up thar, he's still got ter answer ter _us_--an' meantime we've got ter handle some two-three offenders in sich a fashion thet men will fear ter disobey us." so working on that premise of injustices to be righted, malcontents from the minorities of both factions were induced with fantastic ceremonials of initiation into the membership of the secret brotherhood. and though they were building an engine of menacing power and outlawry, it is probable that more than half of them were men who might have turned on their leaders, as a wolf pack turns on a fallen member, had they known the deceit and the private grudge-serving with which the unseen hand of bas rowlett was guiding them. the dreamy languor of autumn gave way to the gusty melancholy of winds that brought down the leaves from the walnut tree until it stretched out branches disconsolate and reeking with only the more tenacious foliage left clinging. then dorothy thornton felt that the sand was running low in the hour glass of respited happiness and that the day when her husband must face his issue was terribly near. indian summer is a false glory and a brief one, with alluring beauty like the music of a swan-song, and it had been in an indian summer of present possession that she had lived from day to day, refusing to contemplate the future--but that could not go on. the old journal which had fired her imagination as a door to a new life had lain through these days neglected--but they had been days of nearer and more urgent realities and, after all, the diary had seemed to belong to a world of dreams. one of these fall afternoons when the skies were lowering and parish was out in the woods with sim squires she remembered it with a pang of guilty neglect such as one might feel for an ill-used friend, and went to the attic to take it out of its hiding and renew her acquaintance. but when she opened the old horsehide trunk it was not there and panic straightway seized her. if the yellowed document were lost, she felt that a guardian spirit had removed its talisman from the house, and since she was a practical soul, she remembered, too, that the note-release bearing bas rowlett's signature had been folded between its pages! with her present understanding of bas that thought made her heart miss its beat. dorothy was almost sure she had replaced it in the trunk after reading it the last time, yet she was not quite certain, and when parish came back she was waiting for him with anxiety-brimming eyes. she told him with alarm in her face of the missing diary and of the receipt which had been enclosed and he looked grave, but rather with the air of sentimental than material interest. "thet old diary-book was in ther chist not very long ago," he declared. "i went up thar an' got ther receipt out when i fared over ter sam opdyke's arraignin'. i tuck hit ter ther co'te-house an' put hit ter record thet day--ther receipt, i means." "how did ye git inter ther chist without my unlockin' hit?" she inquired with a relief much more material than sentimental, and he laughed. "thet old brass key," he responded, "war in yore key basket--an ye warn't in ther house right then, so i jest holped myself." that brass key and that ancient record became the theme of conversation for two other people about the same time. in the abandoned cabin which had come to be the headquarters of bas rowlett in receiving reports from, and giving instructions to, his secret agents, he had a talk with his spy sim squires, who had come by appointment to meet him there. in the sick yellow of the lantern light the lieutenant had drawn from his pocket and handed to his chief the sheaf of paper roughly bound in home-made covers of cloth which he had been commissioned to abstract from its hiding place. "hit's done tuck ye everlastin'ly ter git yore hands on this thing," commented rowlett, sourly, as he held it, still unopened, before him. "but seems like ye've done got holt of hit at last." "hit warn't no facile matter ter do," the agent defended himself as his face clouded resentfully. "ef i let folks suspicion me i wouldn't be no manner of use ter ye in thet house." "how did ye compass hit finally?" "thornton's woman always kep' hit in the old hoss-hair chist in ther attic an' she always kep' ther chist locked up tight as beeswax." sim paused and grinned as he added, "but woman-fashion--she sometimes fergot ter lock up ther key." rowlett was running through the pages whose ancient script was as meaningless to him as might have been a papyrus roll taken from the crypts of a pyramid. "old caleb," he mused, "named hit ter me thet he'd done put thet paper i wanted betwext ther leaves old this old book inside ther chist." he ran through the yellow pages time after time and finally shook them violently--without result. his face went blank, then anxious, and after that with a profane outcry of anger he flung the thing to the floor and wheeled with a livid face on sim squires. "hit hain't thar!" he bellowed, and as his passion of fury and disappointment mounted, his eyes spurted jets of fury and suspicion. "afore god," he burst out with eruptive volleys of abuse, "i halfway suspicions ye're holdin' thet paper yore own self ter barter an' trade on when ye gits ther chanst ... an' ef ye be, mebbe ye've got thet other document, too, thet ye pretends ye hain't nuver seed thar--ther one in ther sealed envellup!" he broke off suddenly, choked with his wrath and panting crazily. suppose this hireling who had once or twice shown a rebellious disposition held his own signed confession! suppose he had even read it! bas had never suspected the real course which parish thornton had taken to safeguard that other paper and he had not understood why sim had been unable to locate it and abstract it from the house. thornton had, in fact, turned it over to the safekeeping of jase burrell, who was to hold it, in ignorance of its contents, and only to produce it under certain given conditions. now bas stood glaring at sim squires with eyes that burned like madness out of a face white and passion distorted, and sim gave back a step, cringing before the man whose ungoverned fury he feared. but after an unbridled moment bas realized that he was acting the muddle-headed fool in revealing his fear to a subordinate, his hold over whom depended on an unbroken pose of mastery and self-confidence. he drew back his shoulders and laughed shamefacedly. "i jest got red-headed mad fer a minute, sim," he made placating avowal. "of course i knows full well ye done ther best ye could; i reckon i affronted ye with them words, an' i craves yore pardon." but sim, who had never served for love, found the collar of his slavery, just then, galling almost beyond endurance, and his eyes were sombrely resentful. "i reckon, bas, ye'd better hire ye another man," he made churlish response. "i don't relish this hyar job overly much nohow.... ye fo'ced me ter layway ther man ... but when ye comes ter makin' a common thief outen me, i'm ready ter quit." at this hint of insubordination rowlett's anger came back upon him, but now instead of frothy self-betrayal it was cold and domineering. he leaned forward, gazing into the face upon which the lantern showed spots of high-light and traceries of deep shadow, and his voice was one of deliberate warning: "i counsels ye ter take sober thought, sim, afore ye contraries me too fur. ye says i compelled ye ter layway parish thornton--but ye kain't nuver prove thet--an' ef i hed ther power ter fo'ce ye then hit war because i knowed things erbout ye thet ye wouldn't love ter hev told. i knows them things still!" he paused to let that sink in, and sim squires stood breathing heavily. every sense and fibre of his nature was in that revolt out of which servile rebellions are born. every element of hate centred about his wish to see this arrogant master dead at his feet--but he acknowledged that the collar he wore was locked on his neck. so he schooled his face into something like composure and even nodded his head. "you got mad unduly, bas," he said, "an' i reckon i done ther same. i says ergin ef ye hain't satisfied with ther way i've acted, i'm ready ter quit. if ye _air_ satisfied, all well an' good." bas rowlett picked up the diary of the revolutionary dorothy thornton and twisted it carelessly into a roll which he thrust out of sight between a plate-girder of the low cabin and its eaves. * * * * * jerry black came one saturday night about that time to the wretched cabin where he and his wife, a brood of half-clothed children, two hound-dogs, three cats, and a pig dwelt together--and beat his wife. for years jerry had been accustomed to doing precisely the same thing, not with such monotonous regularity as would have seemed to him excessive, but with periodical moderation. between times he was a shiftless, indulgent, and somewhat henpecked little man of watery eyes, a mouth with several missing teeth, and a limp in one "sprung leg." but on semi-annual or quarterly occasions his lordliness of nature asserted itself in a drunken orgy. then he went on a "high-lonesome" and whooped home with all the corked-up effervescence of weeks and months bubbling in his soul for expression. then he proved his latent powers by knocking about the woman and the brattish crew, and if the whole truth must be told, none of those who felt the weight of his hand were totally undeserving of what they got. but on this occasion jerry was all unwittingly permitting himself to become a pawn in a larger game of whose rules and etiquette he had no knowledge, and his domestic methods were no longer to pass uncensored in the privacy and sanctity of the home. his woman, seizing up the smallest and dirtiest of her offspring, fled shrieking bloody murder to the house of the nearest neighbour, followed by a procession of other urchins who added their shrill chorus to her predominant solo. when they found asylum and exhibited their bruises, they presented a summary of accusation which kindled resentment and while jerry slept off his spree in uninterrupted calm this indignation spread and impaired his reputation. for just such a tangible call to arms the "riders," as they had come to be termed in the bated breath of terror, had been waiting. it was necessary that this organization should assert itself in the community in such vigorous fashion as would demonstrate its existence and seriousness of purpose. no offence save arson could make a more legitimate call upon a body of citizen regulators than that of wife-beating and the abuse of small children. so it came about that after the wife had forgiven her indignities and returned to her ascendency of henpecking, which was a more chronic if a less acute cruelty than that which she had suffered, a congregation of masked men knocked at the door and ordered the quaking jerry to come forth and face civic indignation. he came because he had no choice, limping piteously on his sprung leg with his jaw hanging so that the missing teeth were abnormally conspicuous. outside his door a single torch flared and back of its waver stood a semicircle of unrecognized avengers, coated in black slickers with hats turned low and masks upon their faces. they led him away into the darkness while more lustily than before, though for an opposite reason, the woman and the children shrieked and howled. jerry trembled, but he bit into his lower lip and let himself be martyred without much whimpering. they stripped him in a lonely gorge two miles from his abode and tied him, face inward, to a sapling. they cow-hided him, then treated him to a light coat of tar and feathers and sent him home with most moral and solemn admonitions against future brutalities. there the victims of that harshness for which he had been "regulated" wept over him and swore that a better husband and father had never lived. but jerry had suffered for an abstract idea rather than a concrete offence, and both parish thornton and hump doane recognized this fact when with sternly set faces they rode over and demanded that he give them such evidence as would lead to apprehension and conviction of the mob leaders. black shivered afresh. he swore that he had recognized no face and no voice. they knew he lied yet blamed him little. to have given any information of real value would have been to serve the public and the law at too great a cost of danger to himself. but parish thornton rode back, later and alone, and by diplomatic suasion sought to sift the matter to its solution. "i didn't dast say nuthin' whilst hump war hyar," faltered the first victim of the newly organized "riders," "an' hit's plum heedless ter tell ye anything now, but yit i did recognize one feller--because his mask drapped off." "i hain't seekin' ter fo'ce no co'te evidence outen ye now, jerry," the young leader of the thorntons assured him. "i'm only strivin' ter fethom this matter so's i'll know whar ter start work myself. ye needn't be afeared ter trust me." "wa'al, then, i'll tell ye." they were talking in the woods, where autumnal colour splashed its gorgeousness in a riot that intoxicated the eye, and no one was near them, but the man who had been tarred and feathered lowered his voice and spoke with a terrorized whine. "thet feller i reecognized ... hit war old hump doane's own boy ... pete doane." parish thornton straightened up as though an electric current had been switched through his body. his face stiffened in amazement and the pain of sore perplexity. "air ye plum onmistakably shore, jerry?" he demanded and the little man nodded his head with energetic positiveness. "i reckon ye're wise not ter tell nobody else," commented parish. "hit would nigh kill old hump ter larn hit. jest leave ther matter ter me." chapter xxvi the window panes were frost-rimed one night when parish thornton and dorothy sat before the hearth of the main room. there was a lusty roar in the great chimney from a walnut backlog, for during these frosty days the husband and his hired man, sim squires, had climbed high into the mighty tree and sawed out the dead wood left there by years of stress and storm. as it comforted them in summer heat with the grateful cool of its broad shadowing and the moisture gathered in its reservoirs of green, so it broke the lash and whip of stinging winds in winter, and even its stricken limbs sang a chimney song of cheer and warmth upon the hearth that pioneer hands had built in the long ago. through the warp and woof of life in this house went the influence of that living tree; not as a blind thing of inanimate existence but as a sentient spirit and a warder whose voices and moods they loved and reverenced--as a link that bound them to the past of the overland argonauts. it stood as a monument to their dead and as the kindly patron over their lovemaking and their marriage. it had been stricken by the same storm that killed old caleb and had served as the council hall where enmities had been resolved and peace proclaimed. under its canopy the man had been hailed as a leader, and there the effort of an assassin had failed, because of the warning it had given. and now these two were thinking of something else as well--of the new life which would come to that house in the spring, with its binding touch of home and unity. they were glad that their child would have its awakening there when the great branches were in bud or tenderly young of leaf--and that its eyes would open upon that broad spreading of filagreed canopy above the bedroom window, as upon the first of earthly sights. "ef hit's a man-child, he's goin' ter be named ken," said the young woman in a low voice. "but be hit boy or gal, one thing's shore. hits middle name's a-goin' ter be t-r-e-e, tree. dorothy tree thornton," mused parish as his laugh rang low and clear and she echoed after him with amendment, "kenneth tree thornton." they sat silent together for a while seeing pictures in flame and coals. then dorothy broke the revery: "ye've done wore a face of brown study hyar of late, cal," she said as her hand stole out and closed over his, "an' i knows full well what sober things ye've got ter ponder over--but air hit anything partic'lar or new?" parish thornton shook his head with gravity and answered with candour: "hump and old jim an' me've been spendin' a heap of thought on this matter of ther riders," he told her. "hit's got ter be broke up afore hit gits too strong a holt--an' hit hain't no facile matter ter trace down a secret thing like thet." after a little he went on: "an' we hain't made no master progress yit to'rds diskiverin' who shot at old jim, nuther. thet's been frettin' me consid'rable, too." "war thet why ye rid over ter jim's house yestidday?" she inquired, and parish nodded his head. "me an' sim squires an' old jim hisself war a-seekin' ter figger hit out--but we didn't git no light on ther matter." he paused so long after that and sat with so sober a face that dorothy pressed him for the inwardness of his thoughts and the man spoke with embarrassment and haltingly. "i lowed when we was married, honey, that all ther world i keered fer war made up of you an' me an' what hopes we've got. i was right sensibly affronted when men sought ter fo'ce me inter other matters then my own private business, but now----" "yes," she prompted softly. "an' now what?" "hit hain't thet ye're any less dear ter me, dorothy. hit's ruther thet ye're dearer ... but i kain't stand aside no more.... i kain't think of myself no more es a man thet jist b'longs ter hisself." again he fell silent then laughed self-deprecatingly. "i sometimes 'lows thet what ye read me outen ther old book kinderly kindled some fret inside me.... hit's es ef ther blood of ther old-timers was callin' out an' warnin' me thet i kain't suffer myself ter shirk ... or mebby hit's ther way old hump and old aaron talked." "what is hit ye feels?" she urged, still softly, and the man came to his feet on the hearth. "hit's like es ef i b'longs ter these people. not jist ter ther harpers an' thorntons but ter them an' ther doanes alike.... 'pears like them of both lots thet wants right-livin' hes a call on me ... that when old caleb giv me his consent ter wed with ye, he give me a duty, too--a duty ter try an' weld things tergither thet's kep' breakin' apart heretofore." yet one member of the party that had gone to old jim's had gained enlightenment even if he had held his counsel concerning his discovery. the investigators had encountered little difficulty in computing just about where the rifleman had lain to shoot, but that had told them nothing at all of his identity. yet as the three had stood on the spot where bas rowlett had crouched that day sim's keen eye had detected a small object half buried in the earth and quietly he had covered it with his foot. later, when the other two turned away, he stooped and picked up a rusty jack-knife--and he knew that knife had belonged to bas rowlett. given that clue and attaching to it such other things as he already knew of bas, it was not hard for sim to construct a theory that, to his own mind at least, stood on all fours with probability. so, when the mercenary reported to rowlett what had occurred on that afternoon he omitted any mention of the knife, but much later he carelessly turned it over to its owner--and confirmed his suspicions. "i diskivered hit layin' in ther highway," he said, innocently and bas had looked at the corroded thing and had answered without suspicion, "hit used ter be mine but hit hain't much use ter me now; i reckon i must hev drapped hit some time or other." * * * * * bas rowlett disappeared from his own neighbourhood for the period of ten days about that time. he said that he was going to clay city to discuss a contract for a shipment of timber that should be rafted out on the next "spring-tide"; and in that statement he told the truth, as was evidenced by postcards he wrote back bearing the clay city postmark. but the feature of the visit which went unmentioned was that at the same time, and by prearrangement, will turk came from over in virginia and met at the town where the log booms lie in the river the man whom he had never known before, but whose letter had interested him enough to warrant the journey and the interview. will turk was a tall and loose-jointed man with a melancholy and almost ministerial face, enhanced in gravity by the jet-black hair that grew low on his forehead and the droop of long moustaches. in his own country the influence which he wielded was in effect a balance of power, and the candidate who aspired to public office did well to obtain will turk's view before he announced his candidacy. the judge who sat upon the bench made his rulings boldly only after consulting this overlord, but the matter which gave cause to the present meeting was the circumstance that will turk was a brother to john turk, whom parish thornton was accused of killing. "i 'lowed hit mout profit us both ter talk tergether," explained rowlett when they had opportunity for discussion in confidence. "i'm ther man thet sent word ter ther state lawyer whar ken thornton war a-hidin' at." "i'm right obleeged ter ye," answered turk, noncommittally. "i reckon they've got a right strong case ergin him." bas rowlett lighted his pipe. "ye knows more erbout thet then what i does," he said, shortly. "i heers he aims ter claim thet he shot in deefence of ther woman's life." "he hain't got no proof," mused turk, "an' feelin' runs right high ergin him. i'd mighty nigh confidence ther jury thet'll set in ther case ter convict." bas rowlett drew in and puffed out a cloud of smoke. his eyes were meditative. here was a situation which called for delicate handling. the man whom he had called to conference was, by every reasonable presumption, one who shared an interest with him. his was the dogged spirit and energy that had refused to allow the virginia authorities to give up the cold trail when kenneth thornton had supposedly slain his brother and escaped. his was the unalterable determination to hang that defendant for that act. bas was no less eager to see his enemy permanently disposed of, yet the two met as strangers and each was cautious, wily, and given to the holding of his own counsel. rowlett understood that the processes of nominal law over in that strip of the virginia mountains were tools which william turk used at his pleasure, and he felt assured that in this instance no half-measures would satisfy him--but bas himself had another proposition of alliance to offer, and he dared not broach it until he and this stranger could lay aside mutual suspicions and meet on the common ground of conspiracy. if there were any chance at all, however slight, that parish thornton could emerge, alive and free, from his predicament in court rowlett wished to waylay and kill him on the journey home. over there where thornton was known to have enemies, and where his own presence would not be logically suspected bas believed he could carry out such a design and escape the penalty of having his confession published. this man will turk might also prefer such an outcome to the need of straining his command over the forms of law. if parish could be hanged, bas would be satisfied--but if he escaped he must not escape far. "i'm right glad ter talk with ye," said the virginian, slowly, "because comin' from over thar whar he's been dwelling at, ye kin kinderly give me facts thet ther commonwealth would love ter know," and that utterance sounded the keynote of the attitude turk meant to assume and hold. bas was disconcerted. this man took his stand solidly on his lawful interests as the presser of the prosecution, but declined to intimate any such savagery of spirit as cried out for vengeance, legal or illegal. "suppose he comes cl'ar over thar, atter all?" hazarded the kentuckian, sparring to throw upon his companion the burden of making advances. "i've done told ye i'm confi_dent_ he won't." "confi_dent_ hain't plum sartain. ef thar's any slip-up, what then?" will turk shrugged his shoulders and shook a grave head. he was sitting with the deeply meditative expression of one who views life and its problems with a sober sense of human responsibility, and the long fingertips of one hand rested against the tips of the other. "i'd hate ter see any _dee_fault of jestice," he made response, "an' i don't believe any co'te could hardly err in a case like this one.... ken thornton war my brother-in-law an' him an' me loved one another--but ther man he kilt in cold blood war my own brother by blood--an' i loved him more. a crime like thet calls out louder fer punishment then one by a feller ye didn't hev no call ter trust--an' hit stirs a man's hate deeper down. i aims ter use all ther power i've got, an' spend every cent i've got, ef need be, ter see ken thornton hang." he paused and fixed the stranger with a searching interest. "i'm beholden ter ye fer givin' us ther facts thet led ter ketchin' him," he said. "war he an enemy of your'n, too?" rowlett frowned. the man was not only refusing to meet him halfway but was seeking to wring from him his own motives, yet the question was not one he could becomingly decline to answer, and if he answered at all, he must seem candid. "him an' me got ter be friends when he come thar," he said, deliberately. "some enemy laywayed him an' i saved his life ... but he wedded ther gal i aimed ter marry ... an' then he tuck up false suspicions ergin me outen jealousy ... so long es he lives over thar, i kain't feel no true safety." "why hain't ye nuver dealt with him yoreself, then?" inquired turk, and the other shook his head with an indulgent smile. "things hain't always as simple es they looks," he responded. "matters air so shaped up, over thar in my neighbourhood, thet ef i had any fray with him, hit would bring on a feud war. i'm bounden in good conscience ter hold my hand, but i hain't got no sartainty he'll do ther like. howsomever----" bas rose and took up his hat, "i writ ter ye because i 'lowed a man ought ter aid ther law ef so be he could. es fer my own perils, i hain't none terrified over 'em. i 'lowed i mout be able ter holp ye, thet's all." "i'm obleeged ter ye," said turk again, "ye've already holped me in givin' us ther word of his wh'arabouts. i reckon i don't need ter tax ye no further. i don't believe he'll ever come back ter pester nobody in kaintuck ergin." but both the virginian and the kentuckian had gathered more of meaning than had been put into words, and the impression was strong on turk that the other wished to kill parish in virginia, if need be, because he dared not kill him in kentucky. in that he had only an academic interest since he trusted his own agencies and plans, and some of them he had not divulged to rowlett. as he rose to take leave of his new acquaintance he said abstractedly: "i'll keep ye posted erbout ther trial when co'te sots so thet afore hit eends up ye'll hev knowledge of what's happenin'--an' ef he _should_ chance ter come cla'r, ye'll know ahead of time when he's startin' back home. a man likes ter kinderly keep tabs on a feller he mistrusts." and that was all bas needed to be told. one day during rowlett's absence parish met young pete doane tramping along the highway and drew him into conversation. "pete," he suggested, "i reckon ye appreciates ther fact thet yore pappy's a mouty oncommon sort of man, don't ye?" the young mountaineer nodded his head, wondering a little at what the other was driving. "folks leans on him an' trusts him," went on thornton, reflectively. "hit ought ter be a matter of pride with ye, pete, ter kinderly foller in his footsteps." the son met the steady and searching gaze of his chance companion for only a moment before he shiftily looked away and, for no visible reason, flushed. "he's a mighty good man--albeit a hard one," he made answer, "but some folk 'lows he's old-fashioned in his notions." "who 'lows thet, pete--ther riders?" young doane started violently, then recovered himself and laughed away his confusion. "how'd i know what ther riders says?" he demanded. "we don't traffick with 'em none at our house." but parish thornton continued to bore with his questioning eyes into the other face until pete fidgeted. he drew a pipe from one pocket and tobacco crumbs from another, but the silent and inquisitorial scrutiny disconcerted him and he could feel a hot and tell-tale flush spreading on his face and neck. abruptly parish thornton admonished him in the quiet tone of decisiveness. "quit hit, pete! leave them riders alone an' don't mix up with 'em no more." "i don't know what ye're talkin' erbout," disclaimed young doane with peppery heat. "i hain't got no more ter do with them fellers then what ye hev yoreself. what license hev ye got ter make slurs like them erginst me, anyhow?" "i didn't hev nothin' much ter go on, pete," responded thornton, mindful of his promise of secrecy to the unfortunate jerry black, "but ther way ye flushed up jest now an' twisted 'round when i named hit put ye in a kinderly bad light. them men air right apt ter mislead young fellers thet hain't none too thoughted--an' hit's my business ter look inter affairs like thet. i'd hate ter hev yore pappy suspicion what _i_ suspicions erbout ye." "honest ter god," protested the boy, now thoroughly frightened, "i hain't nuver consorted with 'em none. i don't know nothin' erbout 'em--no more'n what idle tattle i heers goin' round in common talk." "i hain't askin' ye whether ye've rid with 'em heretofore or not, pete," the other man significantly reminded him. "i'm only askin' ye ter give me yore hand ye won't nuver do hit ergin. we're goin' ter bust up thet crowd an' penitenshery them thet leads 'em. i hate ter hev ye mixed up, when thet comes ter pass. will ye give me yore hand?" readily the young member of the secret brotherhood pledged himself, and parish, ignorant of how deeply he had become involved in the service of bas rowlett, thought of him only as young and easily led, and hoped that an ugly complication had been averted. when joe bratton, the kentucky sheriff, came to the house in the bend of the river to take his prisoner to the virginia line, he announced himself and then, with a rude consideration, drew off. "i'll ride ter ther elbow of ther road an' wait fer ye, parish," he said, awkwardly. "i reckon ye wants ter bid yore wife farewell afore ye starts out." already those two had said such things as it is possible to say. they had maintained a brave pretence of taking brief leave of each other; as for a separation looking to a speedy and certain reuniting. they had stressed the argument that, when this time of ordeal had been relegated to the past, no cloud of fear would remain to darken their skies as they looked eastward and remembered that behind those misty ranges lay virginia. they had sought to beguile themselves--each for the sake of the other--with all the tricks and chimeras of optimism, but that was only the masquerade of the clown who laughs while his heart is sick and under whose toy-bright paint is the gray pallor of despair. that court and that jury over there would follow no doubtful course. its verdict of guilty might as well have been signed in advance, and, while the girl smiled at her husband, it seemed to her that she could hear the voice of the condemning judge, inquiring whether the accused had "aught to say why sentence should not now be pronounced" upon him. for, barring some miracle of fate, the end of that journey lay, and in their hearts they knew it with a sickness of certainty, at the steps of the gallows. the formalities that intervened were little more than the mummeries of an empty formula with which certain men cloaked the spirit of a mob violence they were strong enough to wreak. parish thornton halted at the stile, and his eyes went back lingeringly to the weathered front of the house and to the great tree that made a wide and venerable roof above the other roof. the woman knew that her husband was printing a beloved image on his heart which he might recall and hold before him when he could never again look upon it. she knew that in that farewell gaze and in the later, more loving one which he turned upon her own face, he was storing up the vision he wanted to keep with him even when the hangman's cap had shut out every other earthly picture--when he stood during the seconds that must for him be ages, waiting. then the hills reeled and spun before dorothy thornton's eyes as giddily as did the fallen leaves which the morning air caught up in little whirlwinds. their counterfeit of cheer and factitious courage stood nakedly exposed to both of them, and the man's smile faded as though it were too flippant for such a moment. dorothy caught his hand suddenly in hers and led him back into the yard where the roots of the tree spread like star points which had their ends under the soil and deep in the rock of which those mountains were built. "kneel down, cal," she whispered, chokingly, and when they had dropped side by side to postures of prayer, her voice came back to her. "lord god of heaven an' y'arth," trembled the words on her bloodless lips, "he hain't goin' so fur away but what yore power still goes with him ... keep him safe. good lord ... an' send him back ter me ergin ... watch over him thar amongst his enemies ... amen." they rose after their prayer, and stood for a little while with their hearts beating close in a final embrace, then dorothy took out of her apron pocket a small object and handed it to him. "i nigh fergot ter give hit ter ye," she said, "mebby hit'll prove a lucky piece over thar, cal." it was the small basket which he had carved with such neat and cunning workmanship from the hard shell of a black walnut ... a trinket for a countryman's watch chain--and intrinsically worthless. "hit's almost like takin' ther old tree along with ye," she faltered with a forced note of cheer, "an' ther old tree hain't nuver failed us yit." joe bratton and his prisoner rode with little speech between them until they came to those creek bottom roads that crossed at jake crabbott's store, and there they found awaiting them, like a squad of cavalry, some eight or ten men who sat with rifles across the bows of their saddles. aaron capper and hump doane were there in the van, and they rode as an escort of friends. when their long journey over ridge and forest, through gorge and defile, came to its end at the border, the waiting deputation from virginia recognized what it was intended to recognize. east of the state line this man might travel under strict surveillance, but thus far he had come with a guard of honour--and that guard could, and would, come further if the need arose. chapter xxvii parish thornton had used all his persuasion to prevent dorothy's going with him to virginia. he had argued that the solace of feeling her presence in the courtroom would hardly compensate for the unnerving effect of knowing that the batteries of the prosecution were raining direct fire on her as well as on himself. twice, while he had waited the summons that must call him to face his ordeal, the attorney who was to defend him had come over into kentucky for conference, and it was to the professional advice of this lawyer, almost clairvoyant in his understanding of jury-box psychology, that dorothy had at last yielded. "we'll want to have you there later on," he had told the wife. "juries are presumed to be all logic; in fact, they are two-thirds emotion--and if you appear for the first time in that courtroom at precisely the right moment with your youth and wholesomeness and loyalty, your arrival will do more for your husband than anything short of an alibi. i'll send for you in due season--but until i do, i don't want you seen there." so dorothy had stayed anxiously at home. one crisp and frosty morning she went over to jake crabbott's store where she found the usual congregation of loungers, and among them was bas rowlett leaning idly on the counter. dorothy made her few purchases and started home, but as she left the store the man upon whom she had declared irreconcilable war strolled out and fell into step at her side. she had not dared to rebuff him before those witnesses who still accounted them friends, but she had no relish for his companionship and when they had turned the bend of the road she halted and faced the fellow with determined eyes. about them the hills were taking on the slate grays and chocolate tones of late autumn and the woods were almost denuded of the flaunting gorgeousness which had so recently held carnival there, yet the sodden drabness of winter had in nowise settled to its monotony, for through the grays and browns ran violet and ultramarine reflexes like soft and creeping fires that burned blue, and those few tenacious leaves that clung valiantly to their stems were as rich of tone as the cherry-dark hues that come out on well-coloured meerschaum. "i didn't give ye leave ter walk along with me, bas," announced the girl with a spirited flash in her eyes, and her chin tilted high. "i've got a rather es ter ther company i keeps." the man looked at her for a hesitant interval without answering, and in his dark face was a mingling of resentment, defiance, and that driving desire that he thought was love. "don't ye dast ter trust yoreself with me, dorothy?" he demanded with a smile that was half pleading and half taunt, and he saw the delicate colour creep into her cheeks and make them vivid. "i hain't afeared of ye," she quickly disavowed. "ever sence thet other time when ye sought ter insult me, i've done wore my waist bloused--a-purpose ter tote a dirk-knife. i've got hit right now," and her hand went toward her bosom as she took a backward step into the brittle weed-stalks that grew by the roadside. but bas shook his head, and hastened to expound his subtler meaning. "i didn't mean ye war skeered of no bodily vi'lence, dorothy. i means ye don't das't trust yoreself with me because ye're affrighted lest ye comes ter love me more'n ye does ther man ye married in sich unthoughted haste. i don't blame ye fer bein' heedful." "love ye!" she exclaimed, as the colour deepened in her cheeks and neck, then went sweeping out again in the white and still passion of outraged indignation. "i hain't got no feelin' fer ye save only ter despise ye beyond all measure. a woman kain't love no craven an' liar thet does his fightin' by deceit." bas rowlett looked off to the east and when he spoke it was with no reference to the insults that cut most deeply and sorely into mountain sensibilities. "a woman don't always know what she loves ner hates--all at onc't. betwixt them two things thar hain't no sich great differ noways. i'd ruther hev ye hate me then not ter give me no thought one way ner t'other.... ye're liable ter wake up some day an' diskiver thet ye've jest been gittin' ther names of yore feelin's mixed up." he paused in his exposition upon human nature long enough to smile indulgently, then continued: "so long es ye won't abide ter let me even talk te yer, i knows ye're afear'd of me in yore heart--an' thet's because ye're afeared of what yore heart hitself mout come ter feel." "thet's a right elevatin' s'armon ye preaches," she made scornful answer, "but a body doesn't gentle a mad dog jest ter show they hain't skeered of hit." "es fer parish thornton," he went on as though his musings were by way of soliloquy, "ye kain't handily foller him whar he's goin' ter, nohow. he's done run his course already." a hurricane gust of dizzy wrath swept the woman and her voice came explosively: "thet's a lie, bas rowlett! hit'll be _you_ thet dies with a rope on yore neck afore ye gits through--not him!" "ef i does," declared the man with equanimity, "hit won't be jest yit. i grants him full an' free right of way ter go ahead of me." but abruptly that cool and disconcerting vein of ironic calm left him and he bent his head with the sullen and smouldering eyes of a vicious bull. "but be thet es hit may. i claims thet ye kain't stand out erginst my sweetheartin' ef ye trusts yoreself ter see me. _you_ claims contrariwise, but ye don't dast test yore theory. i loves ye an' wants ye enough ter go on eatin' insults fer a spell.... mebby ther widder thornton'll listen ter reason--when ther jury an' ther hangman gits done." the girl made no answer. she could not speak because of the fury that choked her, but she turned on her heel and he made no effort to follow her. the steeply humped mountains on either side seemed to dorothy thornton to close in and stifle her, and the bracing, effervescent air of the high places had become dead and lifeless in her nostrils, as to one who smothers. that evening, when sim squires came in to supper, he made casual announcement that he understood bas had gone away somewhere. his vapid grin turned to a sneer as he mentioned rowlett's name after the never-failing habit of his dissembling, but dorothy set down his plate as though it had become suddenly too hot to hold. "whar did he go?" she demanded with a gasp in her voice, and the hired man, drawing his platter over, drawled out his answer in a tone of commonplace: "nobody didn't seem ter know much erbout hit. some 'lowed he'd fared over ter virginny ter seek ter aid parish in his trial." he paused, then with well-feigned maliciousness he added, "but ef i war inter any trouble myself, i'd thank bas rowlett ter keep his long fingers outen my affairs." gone to help parish! dorothy drew back and leaned against the wall with knees grown suddenly weak. she thought she knew what that gratuitous aid meant! parish fighting for his life over there in the adjoining state faced enemies enough at his front without having assassins lurking in the shadows at his back! perhaps bas had not actually gone yet. perhaps he could be stopped. perhaps her rebuff that morning had goaded him to his decision. if he had not gone he must not go! the one thought that seemed the crux of her vital problem was that so long as he remained here he could not be there. and if he had not actually set out she could hold him here! his amazing egotism was his one vulnerable point, the single blind spot on his crafty powers of reasoning--and that egotism would sway and bend to any seeming of relenting in her. she was ready to fight for parish's life in whatever form the need came--and she had read in the old bible how once judith went to the tent of holifernes. dorothy shuddered as she recalled the apocryphal picture of the woman who gave herself to the enemy, and she lay wide-eyed most of that night as she pondered it. she would not give herself, of course. the beast's vanity was strong enough to be content with marking, as he believed, the signs of her gradual conversion. she would fence with him and provoke him with a seeming disintegration of purpose. she would dissemble her abhorrence and aversion, refashioning them first into indulgent toleration, then into the grudging admission that she had misjudged him. she would measure her wit against his wit--but she would make kentucky seem to him too alluring a place to abandon for virginia! when she rose at dawn her hands clenched themselves at her sides. her bosom heaved and her face was set to a stern dedication of purpose. "i'll lead him on an' keep him hyar," she whispered in a voice that she would hardly have recognized as her own had she been thinking at all of the sound of voices. "but afore god in heaven, i'll kill him fer hit atter-ward!" so when rowlett, who had really gone only on a neighbourhood journey, sauntered idly by the house the next afternoon near sunset, dorothy was standing by the stile and he paused tentatively in the road. as though the conversation of yesterday had not occurred, the man said: "howdy, dorothy," and the girl nodded. she was not fool enough to overplay her hand, so her greeting was still disdainful, but when he tarried she did not send him away. it was, indeed, she who first referred to their previous encounter. "when i come home yistidday, bas," she said, "i sot down an' thought of what ye said ter me an' i couldn't holp laughing." "is thet so?" he responded. "wa'al what seems ridic'lous to one body sometimes seems right sensible ter another." "hit sounded mighty foolish-like ter me," she insisted, then, as if in after thought, she added, "but i'd hate mightily ter hev ye think i wasn't willin' ter give ye all ther rope ye wants ter hang yoreself with. come on over, bas, whenever ye've a mind ter. ef ye kin convert me, do hit--an' welcome." there was a shade of challenge in the voice such as might have come from the lips of a carmen, and the man's pulses quickened. almost every day after that found bas rowlett at the house and the evenings found him pondering his fancied progress with a razor-edged zest of self-complacency. "she'll hold out fer a spell," he told himself with large optimism. "but ther time'll come. when an apple gits ripe enough hit draps offen ther limb." * * * * * over at the small county seat to the east the squat brick "jail-house" sat in the shadow of the larger building. there was a public square at the front where noble shade trees stood naked now, and the hitching racks were empty. night was falling over the sordid place, and the mountains went abruptly up as though this village itself were walled into a prison shutting it off from outer contacts. the mired streets were already shadowy and silent save for the whoop of a solitary carouser, and the evening star had come out cold and distant over the west, where an amber stretch of sky still sought feebly to hold night apart from day. through the small, grated window of one of the two cells which that prison boasted, parish thornton stood looking out--and he saw the evening star. it must be hanging, he thought, just over the highest branches of the black walnut tree at home, and he closed his eyes that he might better conjure up the picture of that place. with day-to-day continuances the commonwealth had strung out the launching of his trial until the patience of the accused was worn threadbare. how much longer this suspense would stretch itself he could not guess. "i wonder what dorothy's doin' right now," he murmured, and just then dorothy was listening to bas rowlett's most excellent opinion of himself. it would not be long, the young woman was telling herself, before she would go over there to the town east of the ridges--if only she could suppress until that time came the furies that raged under her masquerade and the aversion that wanted to cry out denunciation of her tormentor! but the summons from the attorney had never come, and bas never failed to come as regularly as sunrise or sunset. his face was growing more and more hateful to her with an unearthly and obsessing antipathy. one afternoon, when the last leaves had drifted down leaving the forests stark and unfriendly, her heart ached with premonitions that she could not soften with any philosophy at her command. elviry prooner had gone away when bas arrived, and the strokes of sim squires' axe sounded from a distant patch of woods, so she was alone with her visitor. bas planted his feet wide apart and stood with an offensive manner of proprietorship on the hearth, toasting himself in the grateful warmth. "we've done got along right well tergether, little gal," he deigned to announce. "an hit all only goes ter show how good things mout hev been ef we hedn't nuver been hindered from weddin' at ther start." the insolent presumption of the creature sent the blood pounding through dorothy's temples and the room swum about her: a room sacred to clean memories that were being defiled by his presence. "ther time hain't ripe," she found herself making impetuous declaration, "fer ye ter take no sich masterful tone, bas. matters hain't ended yet." but here she caught herself up. her anger had flashed into her tone and it was not yet time to let it leap--so she laughed disarmingly as she read the kindling of sullen anger in his eyes and added, "i don't allow no man ter brag thet he overcome my will without no fight." bas rowlett roared out a laugh that dissipated his dangerously swelling temper and nodded his head. "thet's ther fashion ter talk, gal. i likes ter see a woman thet kin toss her head like a fractious filly. i hain't got no manner of use fer tame folks." he came close and stood devouring her with the passion of his lecherous eyes, and dorothy knew that her long effort to play a part had reached its climax. he reached out his hands and for the second time he laid them upon her, but now he did not seek to sweep her into an embrace. he merely let his fingers rest, unsteady with hot feeling, on her shoulders as he said, "why kain't we quit foolin' along with each other, gal? _he_ hain't nuver comin' back ter ye no more." but at that dorothy jerked herself away and her over-wrought control snapped. "what does ye mean?" she demanded, breathlessly. a sudden fear possessed her that fatal news had reached him before it had come to her. "hes anything happened ter him?" instantly she realized what she had done, but it was useless to go on acting after the self-betrayal of that moment's agitation, and even rowlett's self-complacent egotism read the whole truth of its meaning. he read it and knew with a fullness of conviction that through the whole episode she had been leading him on as a hunter decoys game and that her slow and grudging conversion was no conversion at all. "nothin' hain't happened ter him _yit_, so fur's i knows," he said, slowly. "but ye doomed him ter death when ye flared up like thet, an' proved ter me thet ye'd jest been lyin'." dorothy gave back to the wall and one hand groped with outstretched fingers against the smoothly squared logs, while the other ripped open the buttons of her waist and closed on the knife hilt that was always concealed there. her voice came low and in a dead and monotonous level and her face was ghost pale. "yes, i lied ter ye ter keep ye from goin' over thar an' murderin' him. i knowed ther way ye fights--i hain't nuver feared ye on my own account but i _did_ fear ye fer him ther same es a rattlesnake thet lays cyled in ther grass." she paused and drew a resolute breath and her words were hardly louder than a whisper. "thar hain't no way on y'arth i wouldn't fight ter save him--even ef i hed ter fight a judas in judas fashion. so i aimed ter keep ye hyar--an' i kep' ye." "ye've kep' me thus fur," he corrected her with his swarthy face as malevolent as had ever been that of his red-skinned ancestors. "but ye told ther truth awhile ago--an' ye told hit a mite too previous. ther matter hain't ended yit." "yes, hit's es good es ended," she assured him with the death-like quiet of a final resolve. "i made up my mind sometime back thet ye hed ter die, bas." slowly the right hand came out of her loosened blouse and the firelight flashed on the blade of the dirk so tightly held that the woman's knuckles stood out white. "i'm goin' ter kill ye now, bas," she said. for a few long moments they stood without other words, the woman holding the dirk close to her side, and neither of them noted that for the past ten minutes the sound of the axe had been silent off there in the woods. then abruptly the door from the kitchen opened and sim squires stood awkwardly on the threshold, with a face of wooden and vapid stupidity. apparently he had noted nothing unusual, yet he had looked through the window before entering the house, and back of his unobservant seeming lay the purpose of averting bloodshed. "i war jest lookin' fer ye, bas," he said with the artlessness of perfect art. "i hollered but ye didn't answer. i wisht ye'd come out an holp me manpower a chunk up on ther choppin' block. i kain't heft hit by myself." bas scowled at the man whom he was supposed to dislike, but he followed him readily enough out of the room, and when he had lifted the log, he left the place without returning to the house. a half-hour later old jase burrell drew rein by the stile and handed dorothy a letter. "i reckon thet's ther one ye've been waitin' fer," he said, "so i fetched hit over from ther post-office. what's ther matter, gal? ye looks like ye'd been seein' hants." "i hain't seed nothin' else fer days past," she declared, almost hysterically. "i've done sickened with waitin', uncle jase, an' i aimed ter start out soon termorrer mornin', letter or no letter." chapter xxviii across in virginia, sally turk, the wife of the dead man and the sister of the accused, had rocked her anæmic baby to sleep after a long period of twilight fretfulness and stood looking down into its crib awhile with a distrait and numbed face of distress. she was leaving it to the care of another and did not know when she would come back. "i'm right glad leetle ken's done tuck ter ther bottle," she said with forced cheerfulness to the hag-like mirandy sloane. "mebby when i gits back thar'll be a mite more flesh on them puny leetle bones of his'n." her words caught sob-like in her throat as she wheeled resolutely and caught up her shawl and bonnet. out at the tumble-down stable she saddled and mounted a mule that plodded with a limp through a blackness like a sea of freezing ink, and she shivered as she sat in the old carpet-cushioned side-saddle and flapped a long switch monotonously upon the flanks of her "ridin'-critter." the journey she was undertaking lay toward the town where her brother was "hampered" in jail, but she turned at a cross-road two miles short of that objective and kept to the right until she came to a two-storied house set in an orchard: a place of substantial and commodious size. its windows were shuttered now and it loomed only as a squarish block of denser shadow against the formless background of night. all shapes were neutralized under a clouded and gusty sky. dogs rushed out barking blatantly as the woman slid from her saddle, but at the sound of her voice they stilled their clamour--for dogs are not informed when old friendships turn to enmity. the front door opened upon her somewhat timid knock, but it opened only to a slit and the face that peered out was that of a woman who, when she recognized the outer voice, seemed half minded to slam it again in refusal of welcome. curiosity won a minor victory, though, over hostility, and the mistress of the house slipped out, holding the door inhospitably closed at her back. "fer ther land's sakes, what brings ye hyar, sally turk?" she challenged in the rasp of hard unreceptiveness, and the visitor replied in a note of pleading, "i come ter see will ... i've jest _got_ ter see will." the other woman still held the door as she retorted harshly: "all thet you an' will hev got ter do kin be done in co'te termorrer, i reckon." but sally turk clutched the arm of will turk's wife in fingers that were tight with the obduracy of despair. "i've got ter see will," she pleaded. "fer god's sake, don't deny me. hit's ther only thing i asks of ye now--an' hit's a matter of master int'rest ter will es well es me. i'll go down on my knees ef hit'll pleasure him--but i've _got_ ter see him." there was something in the colourless monotony of that reiteration which lindy turk, whose teeth were chattering in the icy wind, could not deny. with a graceless concession she opened the door. "come inside, then," she ordered, brusquely. "i'll find out will he see ye--but i misdoubts hit." inside the room the woman who had ridden across the hills sank into a low, hickory-withed chair by the simmering hearth and hunched there, faint and wordless. now that she had arrived, the ordeal before her loomed big with threat and fright, and lindy, instead of calling her husband, stood stolidly with arms akimbo and a merciless glitter of animosity in her eyes. "hit's a right qu'ar an' insolent thing fer ye ter do," she finally observed, "comin' over hyar thisaway, on ther very eve of ken thornton's trial." "i've got ter see will," echoed the strained voice by the hearth, as though those words were the only ones she knew. "i've got ter see will." "when john war murdered over thar--afore yore baby was borned," went on lindy as though she were reading from a memorized indictment, "will stud ready ter succour an' holp ye every fashion he could. then hit come ter light thet 'stid of defendin' ther fame of yore dead husband ye aimed ter stand by ther man thet slew him. ye even named yore brat atter his coldblooded murderer." the huddled supplicant in the chair straightened painfully out of her dejection of attitude and her words seemed to come from far away. "he war my brother," she said, simply. "yes, an' john turk wasn't nothin' but yore husband," flashed back the scathing retort. "ye give hit out ter each an' every thet all yore sympathy war with ther man thet kilt him--an' from thet day on will an' me war done with ye. now we aims ter see thet brother of yourn hanged--and hit's too tardy ter come a beggin' an' pleadin'." kenneth thornton's sister rose and stood swaying on her feet, holding herself upright by the back of the chair. her eyes were piteous in their suffering. "fer god's sake, lindy," she begged, "don't go on denyin' me no more. we used ter love one another ... when i was married ye stud up with me ... when yore fust baby war born i set by yore bedside ... now i'm nigh heart-broke!" her voice, hysterically uncontrolled, shrilled almost to a scream, and the door of the other room opened to show will turk, shirt-sleeved and sombre of visage, standing on its threshold. "what's all this ter-do in hyar?" he demanded gruffly, then seeing the wife of his dead brother he stiffened and his chin thrust itself outward into bulldog obduracy. "i kain't no fashion git shet of her," explained the wife as though she felt called upon to explain her ineffectiveness as a sentinel. will turk's voice came in the crispness of clipped syllables. "lindy, i don't need ye no more, right now. i reckon i kin contrive ter git rid of this woman by myself." then as the door closed upon the wife, the sister-in-law moved slowly forward and she and the man stood gazing at each other, while between them lay six feet of floor and mountains of amassed animosities. "ef ye've come hyar ter plead fer ken," he warned her at last, "ye comes too late. ef john's bein' yore husband didn't mean nuthin' ter ye, his bein' my brother does mean a master lot ter _me_--an' ther man thet kilt him's goin' ter die." "will," she began, brokenly, "ye was always like a real brother ter me in ther old days ... hain't ye got no pity left in yore heart fer me...? don't ye remember nothin' but ther day thet john died...?" the drooping moustaches seemed to droop lower and the black brows contracted more closely. "i hain't fergot nothin'.... i wanted ter befriend ye so long es i could ... outside my own fam'ly i didn't love no person better, but thet only made me hate ye wusser when ye turned traitor ter our blood." she stepped unsteadily forward and caught at his hand, but the man jerked it away as from an infection. "but don't ye know thet john misused me, will? don't ye know thet he war a-killin' me right then?" "i takes notice ye didn't nuver make no complaint till ye tuck thought of ken's _dee_fence, albeit men knowed thar was bad blood betwixt him an' john. now i aims ter let ken pay what he owes in lawful fashion.... i aims ter hang him." sally retreated to the hearth and stood leaning there weakly. with fumbling fingers she brought from inside her dress a soiled sheet of folded paper and drew a long breath of resolution, passing one hand over her face where the hair fell wispy and straggling. then she braced herself with all the strength and self-will that was left her. "ken didn't nuver kill john," she said, slowly, forcing a voice that seemed to have hardly breath enough to carry it to audibility. "i kilt him." for an instant the room was as still as a tomb with only lifeless tenants, then will turk took one quick step forward, to halt again, and his voice broke into an amazed and incredulous interjection: "_you_ kilt him?" "yes, i kilt him.... he hed done beat me an' he war chokin' me.... his misuse of me war what him an' ken fell out erbout.... i war too proud ter tell anybody else ... but ken knowed.... i was faintin' away with john's fingers on my throat.... we was right by ther table whar his own pistol lay.... i grabbed hit up an' shot. ken come ter ther door jest es hit went off." facing this new statement of alleged fact the brother of the dead man remained in his unmoving posture of amazed silence for a space, then he responded with a scornfully disbelieving laugh. in a woman one would have called it hysterical, but his words, when he spoke, were steady enough. "thet's a right slick story, sally, but hit don't pull no wool over my eyes. hit's too tardy fer right-minded folks ter believe hit." the woman sought to answer, but her moving lips gave no sound. she had thought the world stood always ready to accept self-confessed guilt, and now her throat worked spasmodically until at last her dumbness was conquered. "does ye think ... hit's ther sort of lie i'd tell willin'ly?" she asked. "don't hit put me right whar ken's at now ... with ther gallows ahead of me?" she broke off, then her words rose to a shrill pitch of excitement. "fer god's sake, heed me in time! ye seeks ter hang somebody fer killin' john. i'm ther right one. hang me!" will turk paced the room for several meditative turns with his head low on his breast and his hands gripped at his back. then he halted and stood facing her. "what does ye aim ter do with thet thar paper?" he demanded. "hit's my confession--all wrote out ... an' ready ter be swore ter," she told him. "ef ye won't heed me, i've got ter give hit ter ther jedge--in open co'te." but the man who gave orders to judges shook his head. "hit won't avail ye," he assured her with a voice into which the flinty quality had returned. "hit's jest evidence in ken's favour.... hit don't jedgmatically sottle nothin'. i reckon bein' a woman ye figgers ye kin come cl'ar whilst ken would be shore ter hang--but i'll see thet nothin' don't come of thet." "does ye mean"--sally was already so ghost pale that she could not turn paler--"does ye mean they'll go on an' hang him anyhow?" will turk's head came back and his shoulders straightened. "mayhap they will--ef i bids 'em to," he retorted. "listen at me, will," the woman cried out in such an anguish of beseeching that even her present auditor could not escape the need of obeying. "listen at me because ye knows in yore heart i hain't lyin'. i'm tellin' ther whole truth thet i was afeared ter tell afore. i let him take ther blame because i was skeered--an' because ther baby was goin' ter be borned. i hain't nuver been no liar, will, an' i hain't one now!" the man had half turned his back as if in final denial of her plea, yet now, after a momentary pause, he turned back again and she thought that there was something like a glimmer of relenting back of his gruffness as he gave curt permission: "go on, then, i'm hearkenin'." late into that night they talked, but it was the woman who said most while the man listened in non-committal taciturnity. his memory flashed disturbingly back to the boyhood days and testified for the supplicant with reminders of occasional outcroppings of cruelty in his brother as a child. that outward guise of suavity which men had known in john turk he knew for a coat under which had been worn another and harsher garment of self-will. but against these admissions the countryside dictator doggedly stiffened his resistance. his brother had been killed and the stage was set for reprisal. his moment was at hand and it was not to be lightly forfeited. yet to take vengeance on an innocent scapegoat would bring no true appeasement to the deep bruise of outraged loyalty. if ken thornton had assumed a guilt, not his own, to protect a woman, he had no quarrel with ken thornton, and he could not forget that until that day of the shooting this man had been his friend. he must make no mistake by erring on the side of passion nor must he, with just vengeance in his grasp, let it slip because a woman had beguiled him with lies and tears. finally the brother-in-law went over to where sally was still sitting with her eyes fixed on him in a dumb tensity of waiting. "ye compelled me ter harken ter ye," he said, "but i hain't got no answer ready fer ye yit. hit all depends on whether ye're tellin' me ther truth or jest lyin' ter save ken's neck, and thet needs ter lie studied. ye kin sleep hyar ternight anyhow, an' termorrer when i've talked with ther state lawyer i'll give ye my answer--but not afore then." will turk did not sleep that night. his thoughts were embattled with the conflict of many emotions, and morning found him hollow-eyed. in its sum total, this man's use of his power had been unquestionable abuse. terrorization and the prostitution of law had been its keystone and arch, but he had not yet surrendered his self-respect, because he thought of himself as a strong man charged with responsibility and accountable to his own conscience. now he remembered the ken thornton who had once been almost a brother. old affections had curdled into wormwood bitterness, but if the woman told the truth, her narration altered all that. somehow he could feel no resentment at all against her. if _she_ had killed john, she had acted only at the spur of desperation, and she had been feminine weakness revolting against brutal strength. as he pondered his determination wavered and swung to and fro, pendulum fashion. if she were lying--and he would hardly blame her for that, either--he would be her dupe to show mercy and likewise, if she were lying, mercy would be weakness. sally turk rested no more peacefully than he that night, and when in the gray of dawn she looked searchingly into his face across the kitchen table, she could read nothing from the stony emptiness that kept guard over his emotions. a little later she rode at his saddle skirt in a crucial suffering of suspense, and whenever she cast an agonized glance at him she saw her companion's face staring stiffly ahead, flintily devoid of any self-revelation. once she ventured to demand, "whatever ye decides, will, will them co'te-house fellers heed ye, does ye reckon?" for a moment turk glanced sidewise with narrowed eyes. "i don't seek ter persuade them fellers," he made brief and pointed reply, "i orders 'em." at the court house door will turk left her with a nod and went direct into the judge's chamber and the commonwealth's attorney followed him--but of what law was being laid down there, she remained in heart-wracking ignorance. beyond the court house doors, plastered with notices of sheriff's sales and tax posters, the county seat simmered with an air of excitement that morning. street loungers, waiting for the trial to begin, knew the faces of those who had been neighbours, friendly or hostile, for many years; but to-day there were strangers in town as well. soon after daylight these unknown men had arrived, and one could see that they came from a place where life was primitive; for even here, where the breadth of a street was at their disposal, they did not ride abreast but in single file, as men do who are accustomed to threading narrow trails. they were led by a patriarchal fellow with a snowy beard and a face of simple dignity, and behind him came a squat and twisted hunchback who met every inquisitive gaze with a sharp challenge that discouraged staring. back of these two were more than a dozen others, and though their faces were all quiet and their bearing courteous, rifles lay balanced across their saddle-bows. but most challenging in interest of all the newcomers was a young woman whose bronzed hair caught the glint of morning sunlight and whose dark eyes were deep and soft like forest pools. "ther kaintuckians," murmured onlookers along the broken sidewalks as that cavalcade dismounted in the court house square to file quietly through the entrance doors, and eyes narrowed in a sinister augury of hostile welcome. these visitors seated themselves together in a body on one side of the aisle and when the old bell had clanged its summons and sheriff beaver sang out his "oyez, oyez," the judge looked down upon them with more than passing interest. from the door at one side of the bench ken thornton was brought in and as a gratuitous mark of indignity he came with his wrists manacled. but from the kentucky group, even from dorothy herself, that circumstance wrung no murmur of resentment and the accused stood for a moment before he took his seat with eyes ranging over the place until they came to the section of the dingy room where he encountered the unscowling faces of friends. there were his supporters who had come so far to raise their voices in his behalf, and perhaps to share the brunt of hatred that had been fired into blazing against him, and there--he felt a surge of emotion under which his face burned--was dorothy herself! they had not brought her to the jail to see him, and on the advice of jim rowlett she had not signalized her coming by insistence--so their eyes met without prior warning to the man. it was to kenneth thornton as if there were sunlight in one corner of that cobwebbed room with its unwashed windows and its stale smells, and elsewhere hung the murk of little hope. a few staunch friends, at least, he had, but they were friends among enemies, and he steeled himself for facing the stronger forces. back of the rostrum where the judge sat squalidly enthroned a line of dusty and cobwebbed volumes tilted tipsily in ironical reminder of the fact that this law-giver took his cue less from their ancient principles than from whispers alien to their spirit. a shuffling of muddy feet ensued; then a lesser sound that came with the giving out of many breaths; a sound that has no name but which has been known since days when men and women settled back in the circus of the cæsars and waited for the lions to be turned into the arena where the victims waited. from the bench was drawled the routine query, "has the commonwealth any motions?" and the commonwealth's attorney rose to his feet and straightened the papers on his desk. "may it please your honour," he said, slowly, "in the case of the commonwealth against kenneth thornton, charged with murder, now pending on this docket, i wish to enter a motion of dismissal and to ask that your honour exonerate the bond of the defendant." the man in the prisoner's dock had come braced against nerve-trying, but now he bent forward in an amazement that he could not conceal, and from the back of the courtroom forward ran an inarticulate sound from human throats that needed no words to voice its incredulity--its disappointment. there was a light rapping of the gavel and the state's representative went evenly on: "the trial of this defendant would only entail a fruitless cost upon the state. i hold here, duly attested, the confession of sally turk, sister of the accused and widow of the deceased, that it was she and not kenneth thornton who shot john turk to death. i have sworn out a warrant for this woman's arrest, and will ask the sheriff to execute it forthwith and take her into custody." kenneth thornton was on his feet with a short protest shaping itself on his lips, but his eyes met those of his sister who rose from her place against the wall as her name was spoken and he read in them a contentment that gave him pause and an unspoken plea for silence. answering to the restraining hand of his own lawyer on his elbow he sank back into his seat with a swimming head and heard the calm, almost purring voice from the bench directing, "mr. clerk, let the order be entered." after that, astonishment mounted to complete dumfounding as he saw standing in the aisle will turk, the backbone and energy of the entire prosecution--and heard his voice addressing the judge: "may it please your honour, i'd love ter be tuck on sally turk's bond when ther time comes. i've done satisfied myself thet she kilt my brother in self _dee_fence." chapter xxix outside on the straggling streets clumps of perplexed men gathered to mull over the seven days' wonder which had been enacted before their eyes. slowly they watched the kentuckians troop out of the court house, the late prisoner in their midst, and marvelled to see will turk join them with the handshaking of complete amity. many of these onlookers remembered the dark and glowing face with which turk had said yesterday of the man upon whom he was now smiling, "penitenshery, hell! hit's got ter be ther gallows!" public amazement was augmented when kenneth thornton and his wife went home with will turk and slept as guests under his roof. "ye needn't hev no fear erbout goin' on home, ken, an' leavin' sally hyar," said turk when he and thornton sat over their pipes that night. "i gives ye my hand thet she's goin' ter go free on bond an' when her case is tried she'll come cl'ar." kenneth thornton knew that he was listening to the truth, and as his fingers, groping in his pocket for a match, touched the small walnut-shell basket, he drew it out and looked at it. then turning to dorothy, who sat across the hearth, he said seriously: "ther luck piece held hits charm, honey." but an hour later, when kenneth had gone out to see to his horse in the barn and when lindy was busied about some kitchen task, will turk rose from his seat and standing before dorothy began to speak in a low-pitched and sober voice: "ye seems ter me like a woman a man kin talk sense ter," he said, "an' i'm goin' ter tell ye somethin' either you or yore man ought ter know. ken hain't plum outen danger yit. he's got an enemy over thar in kaintuck: an' when he starts back thet enemy's right like ter be watchin' ther trail thet leads home." dorothy held his eyes steadily when she questioned him with a name, "bas rowlett?" will turk shook his head as he responded deliberately: "whatever i knows come ter me in secrecy--but hit was at a time when i miscomprehended things, an' i sees 'em different now. i didn't say hit was bas rowlett ner i didn't say hit wasn't nuther, but this much i kin say. whoever this feller is thet aims ter layway ken, he aims ter do hit in virginny. seems like he dastn't ondertake hit in kaintuck." dorothy drew a breath of relief for even that assurance, and for the duration of a short silence turk again paced the floor with his head bent and his hands at his back, then he halted. "you go on home termorrer an' leave ken hyar," he enjoined, "he wants ter see his sister free on bail afore he leaves, anyhow. when he gits ready ter start back i'll guide him by a way i knows, but one a woman couldn't handily travel, an' i'll pledge ye he'll crost over ter kaintuck es safe as he come." so on the morrow dorothy rode with the same cavalcade that had escorted her to virginia, and near sunset a few days later, when low-hanging clouds were sifting down a thick veil of snow and the bare woods stood ghostly and white, bas rowlett lay numb with cold but warm with anticipation by the trail that led from the county seat in virginia to the gap that gave a gateway into kentucky. he huddled under a tangle of briars, masking an ambuscade from which his rifle could rake the road and his eyes command it for a hundred yards to its eastern bend, and he had lain there all day. kenneth thornton would ride that trail, he felt assured, before dark, and ride it alone, and here, far from his own neighbourhood, he would himself be suspected of no murderous activity. but as bas lay there, for once prepared to act as executioner in person instead of through a hireling, kenneth thornton and will turk were nearing the state border, having travelled furtively and unseen by a "trace" that had put the bulk of a mountain between them and ambuscade. the winter settled after that with a beleaguering of steeps and broken levels under a blockade of stark hardship. peaks stood naked save for their evergreens, alternately wrapped in snow and viscid with mud. morning disclosed the highways "all spewed up with frost" and noon found them impassably mired. night brought from the forests the sharp frost-cracking of the beeches like the pop of small guns, and in wayside stores the backwoods merchants leaned over their counters and shook dismal heads, when housewives plodded in over long and slavish trails to buy salt and lard, and went home again with their sacks empty. those who did not "have things hung up" felt the pinch of actual suffering, and faces in ill-lighted and more illy ventilated cabins became morose and pessimistic. such human soil was fallow for the agitator, and the doctrine which the winter did not halt from travelling was that incitement preached by the "riders." every wolf pack that runs on its food-trail is made up of strong-fanged and tireless-thewed beasts, but at its head runs a leader who has neither been balloted upon nor born to his place. he has taken it and holds it against encroachment by title of a strength and boldness above that of any other. he loses it if a superior arises. the men who are of the vendetta acknowledge only the chieftainship which has risen and stands by that same gauge and proving. parish thornton, the recent stranger, had come to such a position. he had not sought it, but neither, when he realized the conditions, had he evaded it. now he had made a name of marvellous prowess, which local minstrels wove into their "ballets." he was accounted to be possessed of an almost supernatural courage and invulnerability; of a physical strength and quickness that partook of magic. men pointed to his record as to that of a sort of superman, and they embellished fact with fable. he had been the unchallenged leader of the harpers since that interview with old aaron capper, and the ally of jim rowlett since his bold ride to hump doane's cabin, but now it was plain that this leadership was merging rapidly into one embracing both clans. old jim had not long to live, and since the peace had been reestablished, the doanes no less than the harpers began to look to, and to claim as their own, this young man whose personal appeal had laid hold upon their imaginations. but that is stating one side of the situation that the winter saw solidifying into permanence. there was another. every jealousy stirred by this new regime, every element that found itself galled by the rearrangement, was driven to that other influence which had sprung up in the community--and it was an influence which was growing like a young goliath. so far that growth was hidden and furtive, but for that reason only the more dangerous. the riders had failed to free sam opdyke, and sam was in prison--but the riders were not through. it pleased them to remain deceptively quiet just now but their meetings, held in secret places, brought a multiplied response to the roll call. plans were building toward the bursting of a storm which should wreck the new dykes and dams--and the leaders preached unendingly, under the vicarious urging of bas rowlett, that the death of parish thornton was the aim and end beyond other aims and ends. the riders were not striking sporadic blows now, as they had done at first, in petty "regulatings." they were looking to a time when there was to be one ride such as the mountains had never seen; a ride at whose end a leader living by the river bend, a judge, a commonwealth's attorney living in town and the foreman of a certain jury, should have paid condignly for their offences. christmas came to the house in the bend of the river with a crystal sheeting of ice. the native-born in the land of "do without" have for the most part never heard of christmas trees or the giving of gifts, but they know the old legend which says that at the hour when the saviour was born in a manger the bare and frozen elder bushes come to momentary bloom again in the thickets and the "critters and beasties" kneel down in their stalls, answering to some dumb mandate of reverence. this, however, is myth, and the fact is more substantially recognized that at this period the roisterous ride the highways, shooting and yelling, and the whiskey jug is tilted and tragedy often bares her fangs. but dorothy and parish thornton had each other, and the cloud that their imaginations had always pictured as hanging over the state border had been dispelled. their hearts were high, too, with the reflection that when spring came again with its fragrances and whispers from the south there would be the blossoming of a new life in that house, as well as along the slopes of the inanimate hills. but now on christmas morning, as dorothy looked out of a window, whose panes were laced with most delicate traceries of frost rime, there was a thorn-prickle of fear in her heart. parish came in and stood looking outward over her shoulder, and his smile flashed as it had done that first day when it startled her, because, before she had seen it, she had read of just such a smile in a journal written almost a century and a half ago. "hit's plum beautiful--out thar," she murmured, and the man's arm slipped around her. it might almost have been the kenneth thornton who had seen court life in england who gallantly responded, "hit's still more beautiful--in _hyar_." there had been an ice storm the night before, following on a day of snowfall, and the mountain world stood dazzling in its whiteness with every twig and branch glacéd and resplendent under the sun. on the ice-bound slopes slept shadows of ultramarine, and near the window the walnut tree stood, no more a high-priest garbed in a green mantle or a wind-tossed cloak of orange-brown, but a warrior starkly stripped of his draperies and glitteringly mailed in ice. he stood with his bold head high lifted toward the sky, but bearing the weight of winter, and when it passed he would not be found unscarred. already one great branch dropped under its freighting, and as the man and woman looked out they could hear from time to time the crash of weaker brethren out there in the forests; victims and sacrifices to the crushing of a beauty that was also fatal. until spring answered her question, dorothy reflected, she could only guess how deep the blight, which she had discovered in the fall, had struck at the robustness of the old tree's life. for all its stalwartness its life had already been long, and if it should die--she closed her eyes as though to shut out a horror, and a shudder ran through her body. "what is it, honey," demanded the man, anxiously, as he felt her tremor against his arm, "air ye cold?" dorothy opened her eyes and laughed, but with a tremulousness in her mirth. "i reckon i hain't plum rekivered from ther fright hit give me when ye went over thar ter virginny," she answered, "sometimes i feels plum timorous." "but ther peril's done past now," he reassured her, "an' all ther enemies we had, thet's wuth winnin' over, hev done come ter be friends." "all thet's wuth winnin' over, yes," she admitted without conviction, "but hit's ther other kind thet a body hes most cause ter fear." into the man's thought flashed the picture of bas rowlett, and a grim stiffness came to his lips, but she could hardly know of that remaining danger, he reflected, and he asked seriously, "what enemies does ye mean, honey?" she, too, had been thinking of bas, and she, too, believed that fear to be her own exclusive secret, so she answered in a low voice: "i was studyin' erbout ther riders. i reckon they've done tuck thought thet you an' hump hev been seekin' evi_dence_ erginst 'em." the man laughed. "don't disquiet yoreself erbout them fellers, honey. we _hev_ been seekin' evi_dence_--an' gittin' hit, too, in some measure. ef ther riders air strong enough ter best us we hain't fit ter succeed." the smile gave slowly way to a sterner and more militant expression, the look which his wife had come to know of late. it had brought a gravity to his eyes and a new dimension to his character, for it had not been there before he had dedicated himself to a cause and taken up the leadership which he had at first sought to refuse. dorothy knew that he was thinking of the fight which lay ahead, before the scattered enmities of that community were resolved and the disrupted life welded and cemented into a solidarity of law. chapter xxx sim squires was finding himself in a most intricate and perplexing maze of circumstance; the situation of the man who wears another man's collar and whose vassalage galls almost beyond endurance. it was dawning on squires that he was involved in a web of such criss-cross meshes that before long he might find no way out. he had been induced to waylay parish thornton at the demand of one whom he dared not incense on pain of exposures that would send him to the penitentiary. his intended victim had not only failed to die but had grown to an influence in the neighbourhood that made him a most dangerous enemy; and to become, in fact, such an enemy to sim he needed only to learn the truth as to who had fired that shot. squires had come as rowlett's spy into that house, hating thornton with a sincerity bred of fear, but now he had grown to hate rowlett the more bitterly of the two. indeed, save for that sword of damocles which hung over him in the memory of his murderous employment and its possible consequences, he would have liked parish, and dorothy's kindness had awakened in the jackal's heart a bewildering sense of gratitude such as he had never known before. so while compulsion still bound him to bas rowlett, his own sympathies were beginning to lean toward the fortunes of that household from which he drew his legitimate wage. but complications stood irrevocably between sim and his inclinations. his feeling against bas rowlett was becoming an obsession of venom fed by the overweening arrogance of the man, but bas still held him in the hollow of his hand, and besides these reefs of menace were yet other shoals to be navigated. squires had been compelled by rowlett not only to join the "riders" who were growing in numbers and covert power, but to take such an active part in their proceedings as would draw down upon his head the bolts of wrath should the organization ever be brought to an accounting. there was terrible danger there and sim recognized it. sim knew that when rowlett had quietly stirred into life the forces from which the secret body was born he had been building for one purpose--and one purpose only. to its own membership, the riders might be a body of vigilantes with divers intentions, but to bas they were never anything but a mob which should some day lynch parish thornton--and then be themselves destroyed like the bee that dies when it stings. through squires as the unwilling instrument rowlett was possessing himself of such evidence as would undo the leaders when the organization had served that one purpose. yet sim dared reveal none of these secrets. the active personality who was the head and front of the riders was sam opdyke's friend rick joyce--and rick joyce was the man to whom bas could whisper the facts that had first given him power over sim. for sim had shot to death rick's nephew, and though he had done it while drunk and half responsible; though he had been incited to the deed by bas himself, no man save the two of them knew that, and so far the murderer had never been discovered. it seemed to sim that any way he turned his face he encountered a cul-de-sac of mortal danger--and it left him in a perplexity that fretted him and edged his nerves to rawness. part of christmas day was spent by the henchman in the cabin where he had been accustomed to holding his secret councils with his master, bas rowlett, and his venom for the man who had used him as a shameless pawn was eclipsing his hatred for parish thornton, the intended victim whom he was paid to shadow and spy upon. for dorothy he had come to acknowledge a dumb worship, and this sentiment was not the adoration of a lover but that dog-like affection which reacts to kindness where there has been no other kindness in life. it was not in keeping with such a character that he should attempt any candid repudiation of his long-worn yoke, or declare any spirit of conversion, but in him was a ferment of panic. "i'm growin' right restive, bas," whined sim as the two shivered and drank whiskey to keep themselves warm in that abandoned shack where they were never so incautious as to light a fire. "any time this feller parish finds out i shot him, he'll turn on me an' kill me. thar hain't but jest one safe way out. let me finish up ther job an' rest easy." bas rowlett shook his head decisively. "when i gits ready ter hev ye do thet," he ruled, imperiously, "i'll let ye know. right now hit's ther last thing i'd countenance." "i kain't no fashion make ye out," complained sim. "ye hired me ter do ther job an' blackguarded me fer failin'. now ye acks like ye war paid ter pertect ther feller from peril." rowlett scowled. it was not his policy to confide in his myrmidons, yet with an adherent who knew as much as squires it was well to have the confidential seeming. "things hev changed, sim," he explained. "any heedless killin's right now would bring on a heap of trouble afore i'm ready fer hit--but ye hain't no more fretful ter hev him die then what i be--an' thet's what we're buildin' up this hyar night-rider outfit ter do." "thet's another thing thet disquiets me, though," objected squires. "i'm es deep inter thet es anybody else, an' them fellers, thornton and old hump, hain't nuver goin' ter rest twell they penitensheries some of ther head men." bas rowlett laughed, then with such a confidential manner as he rarely bestowed upon a subordinate, he laid a hand on his hireling's arm. "thet's all right, sim. ther penitenshery's a right fit an' becomin' place fer them men, when ye comes ter study hit out. we hain't objectin' ter thet ourselves--in due time." sim squires drew back and his face became for the moment terror-stricken. "what does ye mean?" he demanded, tensely, "does ye aim ter let me sulter out my days in convict-stripes because i've done s'arved yore eends?" but bas rowlett shook his head. "not you, sim," he gave assurance. "i'm goin' ter tek keer of _you_ all right--but when ther rest of 'em hev done what we wants, we hain't got no further use fer them riders. atter thet they'll jest be a pest an' burden ter us ef they goes on terrifyin' everybody." "i don't no fashion comprehend ye, but i've got ter know whar i stands at." there was a momentary stiffening of the creature's moral backbone and the employer hastened to smooth away his anxiety. "i hain't nuver drapped no hint of this ter no man afore," he confided, "but me an' you air actin' tergither es pardners, an' ye've got a license ter know. these hyar riders air ergoin' ter handle ther men that stands in my light--then i'm goin' ter everlastin'ly bust up ther riders. i wouldn't love ter see 'em git too strong. ye fights a forest fire by buildin' back-fires, sim, but ef ye lets ther back-fires burn too long ye're es bad off es ye war when ye started out." "how does ye aim ter take keer of me?" inquired the listener and bas replied promptly: "when ther time comes ter bust 'em up, we'll hev strength enough ter handle ther matter. leave thet ter me. you'll be state's evi_dence_ then an' we'll prove thet ye ji'ned up ter keep watch fer me." over sim squires' face spread the vapid grin that he used to conceal his emotions. "but thet all comes later on," enjoined bas. "meanwhile, keep preachin' ter them fellers thet thornton's buildin' up a case erginst 'em. keep 'em skeered an' wrought up." "i reckon we'd better not start away tergither," suggested sim when they had brought their business to its conclusion, "you go on, bas, an' i'll foller d'reckly." when he stood alone in the house sim spent a half-hour seeking to study the ramifications of the whole web of intrigue from various angles of consideration, but before he left the place he acted on a sudden thought and, groping in the recess between plate-girder and overhang, he drew out the dust-coated diary that bas had thrust there and forgotten, long ago. this sim put into his pocket and took with him. * * * * * the winter dragged out its course and broke that year like a glacier suddenly loosened from its moorings of ice. a warm breath came out of the south and icicled gorges sounded to the sodden drip of melting waters. snowslides moved on hundreds of steeply pitched slopes, and fed sudden rivulets into freshet roarings. the river itself was no longer a clear ribbon but a turgid flood-tide that swept along uprooted trees and snags of foam-lathered drift. there was as yet neither bud nor leaf, and the air was raw and bone-chilling, but everywhere was the restless stirring of dormant life impulses and uneasy hints of labour-pains. while the river sucked at its mud bank and lapped its inundated lowlands, the walnut tree in the yard above the high-water mark sang sagas of rebirth through the night as the wind gave tongue in its naked branches. but in the breast of sim squires this spirit of restlessness was more than an uneasy stirring. it was an obsession. he knew that when spring, or at the latest early summer, brought firmness to the mired highways and deeper cover to the woods, the organization of which he was a prominent member would strike, and stake its success or failure upon decisive issue. then parish thornton, and a handful of lesser designates, would die--or else the "riders" would encounter defeat and see their leaders go to the penitentiary. bas rowlett, himself a traitor to the ku klux, had promised sim safety, but sim had never known bas to keep faith, and he did not trust him now. yet, should he break with the evil forces to which he stood allied, sim's peril became only the greater. so he lay awake through these gusty nights cudgelling his brain for a solution, and at the end, when spring had come with her first gracious touches of judas-tree and wild plum blossoming, he made up his mind. sim squires came to his decision one balmy afternoon and went, with a caution that could not have been greater had he contemplated murder, to the house of hump doane, when he knew the old man to be alone. his design, after all, was a simple one for a man versed in the art of double-crossing and triple-crossing. if the riders prevailed he was safe enough, by reason of his charter membership, and none of his brother vigilantes suspected that his participation had been unwilling. but they might not prevail, and, in that event, it was well to have a friend among the victors. he meant, therefore, to tell hump doane some things that hump doane wished very much to know, but he would go to the confessional under such oath of secrecy as could not recoil upon him. then whoever triumphed, be it bas, the white-caps, or the forces of law and order, he would have a protector on the winning side. the hunchback met his furtive visitor at the stile and walked with him back into the chill woods where they were safe from observation. the drawn face and the frightened eyes told him in advance that this would be no ordinary interview, yet he was unprepared for what he heard. when squires had hinted that he came heavy with tidings of gravest import, but must be given guarantees of protection before he spoke, hump doane sat reflecting dubiously upon the matter, then he shook his head. "i don't jest see whar hit profits me ter know things thet i kain't make no use of," he demurred, and sim squires bent forward with haunted eyes. "they're _facts_," he protested. "ye kin use them facts, only ye mustn't tell no man whar ye got 'em from." "go ahead, then," decided hump doane after weighing the proposition even further. "i'm hearkenin', an' i stands pledged ter hold my counsel es ter yore part in tellin' me." the sun was sinking toward the horizon and the woods were cold. the informer rose and walked back and forth on the soggy carpet of rotted leaves with hands that clasped and unclasped themselves at his back. he was under a stress of feeling that bordered on collapse. the dog that has been kicked and knocked about from puppyhood has in it the accumulated viciousness of his long injuries. such a beast is ready to run amuck, frothing at the mouth, and sim squires was not unlike that dog. he had debated this step through days and nights of hate and terror. he had faltered and vacillated. now he had come, and the long-repressed passions had broken all his dams of reserve, transforming him, as if with an epilepsy. his eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks were putty-yellow and, had he been a dog instead of a man, his fangs would have been slathered with foam. heretofore he had spoken hesitantly and cautiously. now like the epileptic or the mad dog, he burst into a volcanic outpouring in which wild words tumbled upon themselves in a cataract of boiling abandon. his fists were clenched and veins stood out on his face. "i'm ther man thet shot parish thornton when he fust come hyar," was his sensational beginning, "but albeit my hand sighted ther gun an' pulled ther trigger hit was another man's damn dirty heart that contrived ther act an' another man's dollars thet paid fer hit. i was plum fo'ced ter do hit by a low-lived feller thet hed done got me whar he wanted me--a feller thet bull-dozed an' dogged me an' didn't suffer me ter call my soul my own--a feller thet i hates an' dreads like i don't nuver expect ter hate satan in hell!" the informer broke off there and stood a pitiable picture of rage and cowardice, shaken with tearless sobs of unwonted emotion. "some men ruins women," he rushed on, "an' some ruins other men. _he_ done thet ter me--an' whenever i boggled or balked he cracked his whip anew--an' i wasn't nuthin' but his pore white nigger thet obeyed him. i ached ter kill him an' i didn't even dast ter contrary him. his name's bas rowlett!" the recital broke off and the speaker stood trembling from head to foot. then the hearer who had listened paled to the roots of his shaggy hair and his gargoyle face became a mask of tragic fury. at first hump doane did not trust himself to speak and when he did, there was a moment in which the other feared him almost more than he feared bas rowlett. for the words of the hunchback came like a roar of thunder and he seemed on the verge of leaping at his visitor's throat. "afore god, ye self-confessed, murderin' liar," he bellowed, "don't seek ter accuse bas rowlett ter me in no sich perjury! he's my kinsman an' my friend--an' i knows ye lies. ef ye ever lets words like them cross yore lips ergin in my hearin' i'll t'ar ther tongue outen yore mouth with these two hands of mine!" for a space they stood there in silence, the old man glaring, the younger slowly coming back from his mania of emotion as from a trance. perhaps had sim sought to insist on his story he would never have been allowed to finish it, but in that little interval of pause hump doane's passion also passed, as passions too violent to endure must pass. after the first unsuspected shock, it was borne in on him that there are confessions which may not be doubted, and that of them this was one. his mind began to reaccommodate itself, and after a little he said in a voice of deadly coldness: "howsoever, now thet ye've started, go on. i'll hear ye out." "i'm tellin' ye gospel truth, an' sometimes ther truth hurts," insisted sim. "bas war jealous of dorothy harper--an' i didn't dast ter deny him. he paid me a patch of river-bottom land fer ther job, albeit i failed." hump doane stood, his ugly face seamed with a scowl of incredulous sternness, his hand twitching at the ends of his long and gorilla-like arms. "go on," he reiterated, "don't keep me waitin'." under the evening sky, standing rigid with emotion, squires doggedly went on. he told, abating nothing, the whole wretched story from his own knowledge: how bas had sought to bring on the war afresh in order that his enemy parish thornton might perish in its flaming; how with the same end in view bas had shot at old jim; how he himself had been sent to trail thornton to virginia that his master might inform upon him, and how while the virginian was away, in jeopardy of his life, the arch-conspirator had pursued his wife, until she, being afraid to tell her husband, had come near killing the tormentor herself. "hit war bas thet stirred up ther riders into formin'," declared the spy in conclusion. "he didn't nuver take no part hisself, but he used two men thet didn't dast disobey him--two men thet he rules over like nigger slaves--an' ther riders hev got one object over an' above everything else, thet he aims ter hev 'em carry through. thet is ter kill parish thornton." hump doane walked over and stood looking up from his squat, toad-like deformity into the face of the man who towered above him, yet in his eyes was the blaze with which a giant might look down on a pigmy. "ye says he used two men, sim," the falsetto of the hunchback's voice was as sharp as a dagger's point. "ef ye came hyar fer any honest purpose, i calls on ye, now, ter give me them two names." squires' face turned even paler than it had been. the veins along his temple were pulsing, and his words caught and hung in hesitancy; but he gulped and said in a forced voice: "i was one of 'em, hump." "an' t'other one? who war he?" again the informer hesitated, this time longer than before, but in the end he said dully: "hump, t'other one war--yore own boy, pete." chapter xxxi strangely enough it was as though the old man's capacity for being shocked or infuriated had been exhausted. there was no roar of maddened wrath or denunciation of denial now. never had sim seen on a human face such a despair of stricken grief. hump doane only passed an open palm across his forehead. somehow this hideous recital, which had made him an old man in the space of a few minutes, blasting him like a thunder bolt, could not be seriously doubted. it was not allegation but revelation. pete was young and impressionable. he was clay upon the wheel of bas rowlett's domination, and of late he had been much away from home. the father tried to straighten his twisted shoulders and his warped back. he turned his eyes to the west where the fires of sunset were crimson and purple, then he spoke again in a manner of recovered and hard-held self-control. "ef these things ye tells me be true," he said, "i hev need ter know 'em an' i'm beholden ter ye. ef they're false ye've done struck me a blow i kain't nuver fergive, an' i don't see how you an' me kin both go on livin'. i aims ter find out fer myself, an' meanwhile--i'll keep my pledge ter ye." he paused, then the leader triumphed over the stricken individual. "keep right on goin' ter every meetin' ther riders holds," he directed, quietly. "don't suffer 'em ter suspicion no falsity." but when sim had left him hump doane stood there while the sunset faded, while the afterglow livened and died, while the cold twilight settled. he was thinking of the son he loved and despised, of the soft human metal that had been hammered into debauchery by this other man whom he had trusted. he was acknowledging, too, that if the riders numbered among their secret adherents such men as bas rowlett and his own boy, his fight was upon a poison that had struck deeper and more malignantly into the arteries of the community than he had heretofore dreamed. he must talk with parish thornton, whose strength and judgment could be trusted. he would see him to-night. but at that point he halted. as yet he could not reveal his unsubstantiated information to another. a pledge of sacredly observed confidence had been the price of his learning these things--and over there at the thornton house a baby was expected before long. it would be both wise and considerate to defer the interview that must of necessity bring the whole crisis to violent issue until the young father's thoughts were less personally involved. it was a time to make haste slowly. old hump doane laughed bitterly. he was a father himself, and to-night he had learned how the heart of a parent can be battered. but before he went to his bed he had talked with his son, while his son sat cowering. it had been a stormy interview during which pete had denied, expostulated, and at the end broken down in confession, and when hump doane rose he had abandoned that slender shred of hope to which, in the teeth of conviction, he had been clinging, that his boy might still be able to clear himself. "ye've done lied ter me, an' ye've done broke my heart," declared the hunchback, slowly, "but ye've done confessed--an' i'm too damn weak ter turn ye over ter ther law like my duty demands. don't nuver go ter no other meetin', an' ef they questions why ye don't come, tell 'em ter ask me! an' now"--the old man crumpled forward and buried his great head in his knotted hands--"an' now git outen my sight fer a spell, fer i kain't endure ther sight of ye!" but when he rode abroad the next day no man suspected the cataclysm which had shattered hump doane's world into a chaos of irretrievable wreck. a closer guard of caution than ever before he set upon his speech and bearing, while he sought to run down those devastating truths that had come to him with such unwelcome illumination. * * * * * in those days of first bud and leaf dorothy thornton looked out of her window with a psychological anxiety. if the first hint of life that came to the great tree were diseased or marked with blight, it would be an omen of ill under which she did not see how she could face her hour, and with fevered eyes she searched the gray branches where the sap was rising and studied the earliest tinge of green. "ef harm hed done come ter hit," she argued with herself, "hit would show, by this time, in them leetle buds an' tossels," but she was not satisfied, and reaching through the attic window she broke off from day to day bits of twig to see whether the vitality of rising sap or the brittleness of death proclaimed itself in the wood. slowly, under soft air and rain, the buds broke into tiny spears, too small and tender, it seemed to her, to live against the unkind touch of harsh winds, and the rudimentary filaments spread and grew into leaves. but the time that seemed to dorothy to lag so interminably was passing, and the veils of misty green that had scarcely showed through the forest grays were growing to an emerald vividness. waxen masses of laurel were filling out and flushing with the pink of blossom. the heavy-fragranced bloom of the locust drooped over those upturned chalices of pink, and the black walnut was gaunt no more, but as brightly and lustily youthful as a troubador whom age had never touched. warm with swelling life and full throated with bird music the beginnings of summer came to the hills, and the hills forgot their grimness. but old jim rowlett, over there in his house, was failing fast, men said. he prattled childishly, and his talon-like hands were pitifully palsied. he would scarcely see another spring, and in the fight that was coming his wise old tongue would no longer be available for counsel. so toward the younger and more robust influence of parish thornton his adherents turned in his stead. in those places where secret night sessions were held were the stir of preparation and the talk of punishing a traitor--for young pete had deserted the cause, and the plotters were divided in sentiment. a majority advocated striking with stunning suddenness toward the major purpose and ignoring the disaffection of the one young renegade, but a fiercer minority was for making him an example, and cool counsels were being taxed. to dorothy thornton's eyes contentment had returned because gay and hopeful young flags of green flew from every twig of the tree of augury, and in her deep pupils dwelt the serene sweetness that broods on thoughts of approaching motherhood. then one morning before dawn uncle jase burrell and a neighbour woman, versed in the homely practises of the midwife, came to the room where parish thornton sat with tightly clenched hands before the ruddy hearth. "he's done been borned," said uncle jase, cheerily; "he's hale an' survigrous an' sassy--an' he's a boy." sim squires had not gone home that night, and now he rose from his chair and picked up his hat. "i reckon i'll be farin' on," he announced, "hit's all over now but ther shoutin'." at the door, though, he turned back and from his coat pocket drew a roll of sheafed paper bound in a limp cloth. "i found this hyar thing layin' behind a barrel up thar in ther attic," he lied, as he restored the lost journal of the revolutionary ancestress. "i 'lowed hit mout be somethin' ye prized." * * * * * one night, when june had come to her full-bosomed richness, young pete doane did not return to his father's house and the old hunchback's face darkened anxiously. the warm night was a blue and moonlit glory of summer tranquillity and from the creek bottom came the full-throated chorus of the frogs. back in the dark timber sounded the plaintive sweetness of the whippoorwills, and from everywhere drifted an intangible blending of fragrances. but hump sat alone and morose in the house where no one dwelt but himself and his son--save the neighbour woman who came in the daytime to cook and clean house for the widower. he sat there until midnight had passed and the moon was riding low to the west; he was still sitting in the darkness that comes before dawn, and young pete had not yet come. then when even june could not make gracious that dismal hour that brings fog and reek before the first gray streaks the east, the old man heard a voice outside his door and rose heavily to answer it. he was a marked man, and should not have been so incautious, but in these days death held no threat for hump doane. it was life that brought him torture. so he ignored those precepts of wariness which had been taught him by years of experience, and when he stood unarmed in the doorway, against a background of pale lamplight, he felt the thrust of a rifle muzzle against his ribs, and heard a disguised voice ordering, "come with us." hump did not flinch or give back. neither did he obey. instead, he laughed with a hollow callousness and replied, "shoot ef ye've a mind ter. i hain't goin' ter stir a step ter foller ye." but masked men closed in and caught his misshapen elbows, and the voice that had first accosted him went on in the level tones of its disguise: "we don't aim ter harm ye, hump; leastways not yit--but we aims ter show ye somethin' we've brought ye fer a gift." they led him, too dull and apathetic of spirit to resist, too indifferent of any consequence to protest, out and across his own fog-wrapped yard and down to the sledge-trail road. there in the bleak obscurity of blackness his eyes could make out a squad of silent figures, but nothing more. "ye kain't rightly see hit yit, hump," announced the spokesman, "but thar's a fodder-sledge standin' thar at ther aidge of ther road--an' on hit thar's somethin' thet b'longs ter ye. hyar's a pine faggot thet's soaked with kerosene--an' hyar's matches ter light hit with--but--on pain of death--wait twell we've done gone away." into the heavy indifference of the old man's mood flashed a sickening shaft of dread. he took the torch and the matches, and then with a cowardice that was alien to his character he stood trembling like a frightened child, while the dark figures disappeared as though they had melted. hump doane was afraid to kindle his torch, not afraid because of any threat to himself, but terrified for what he might see. then he braced himself, and with his back turned, struck the match and saw the guttering flames leap greedily upon the oiled pine splinter. slowly he wheeled, and his eyes fell on the illuminated sledge--his own sledge stolen from his barn--and there stretched lifeless, and shamefully marked with the defacement of the hangman's rope, lay what was left of his son. old hump doane, who had never stepped aside from any danger, who had never known tears since babyhood, stood for a moment gulping, then the light dropped from his hand and the agony of his shriek went quavering across the silent hills and reëchoed in the woods. the pine splinter burned out in the wet grass and old hump lay beside it insensible, but after a while he awakened out of that merciful sleep and crawled on his hands and knees over to where the sledge stood, and he knelt there with his face buried on the lifeless breast. "god fergive me," he murmured with a strangled voice. "he didn't nuver hev no mammy ter raise him up aright. i reckon i failed him when he needed me most--but bas rowlett's accountable ter _me_!" when the neighbour woman came the next morning to prepare breakfast she fled screaming away from the gruesome sight that met her eyes: the sight of a dead man lying on a sledge, and a hunchback, who seemed dead, too, stretched unconscious across the body. it was so that men found them later, and carried them in, and it would have been more merciful had hump doane been as lifeless as he seemed instead of coming back to the ordeal he must face. * * * * * through a community stunned and appalled into breathlessness the news ran like quicksilver, and the easy-pacing mule from parish thornton's barn was lathered with sweat as the young man called upon it to annihilate time and space over the broken ways between his house and that of his stricken friend. at hump doane's stile thornton flung himself out of his saddle and paused for no word with those neighbours who stood gathered about the dooryard. he heard the whine of a saw and the pounding of a hammer off somewhere to the rear, and knew that volunteer and amateur undertakers were fashioning a coffin--but he hurled himself like a human hurricane across the threshold and demanded briefly: "war's hump at?" the room was dim and murky at its corners, but through the two doors poured a flood of morning light, and into its shaft projected an unhinged shutter supported on two saw-horses, with a sheeted burden upon it. as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom beyond the room's centre, parish could make out the hunched figure that sat at the head of the body, still mercifully wrapped in something like lethargy and too numbed for full acuteness of feeling. other figures to the number of two or three moved as silently as dark wraiths about the place, but when parish entered they drifted out, leaving him alone with his friend, and one of the doors closed upon their going. then the lightnings of outraged wrath that seemed to crackle in the young clansman's eyes stilled themselves and altered into something like tenderness as he moved with catlike softness of footfall to where the elder man sat, and let a hand fall on his malformed shoulder. "hump," he said, briefly, "my heart's plum sufferin' fer ye. i jest heared of hit." hump doane stirred and looked stupidly at him for a space, then with laboured slowness he came to his feet, and his only answer was the eloquent gesture with which one hand swept toward the dead body. a stupefaction of grief had held him since they had brought him in this morning from the road where they had found him, and thought had moved so haltingly that it had scarcely been thought at all. but now the vitalizing light of sympathy and outrage in those other eyes seemed to rouse him out of his long coma with an awakening like that which comes after ether. as gray dawn quickens gradually out of darkness, a numbed indignation in his pupils began to liven into unquenchable wrath. "i hain't been able ter talk ... ter these hyar kindly neighbours of mine...." he faltered, "but somehow, i believes i kin with _you_." "i'm hyar ter s'arve ye, howsoever i kin, hump," parish assured him. "ef ye was my own father i couldn't love ye better." hump doane held out a crumpled paper that had been crushed in his taut hand, and thornton stepping to the light smoothed it and read, pencilled in roughly printed characters, "a warning to all traitors." "hit war pinned on him...." explained the father. "ther riders done hit ... _he'd_ done jined 'em ... an' he quit." parish thornton stood with the light full on his face and the paper grasped in his hand. the angle of his clean-cut jaw seemed to harden from the plastic texture of flesh to the hardness of granite, and in his narrowed eyes spurted jets of those blue-and-white fires that hold intensest heat. "i always aimed ter raise him up in godly ways," went on the father with self-accusing misery, "but i war a hard man, an' i never gentled him none. i reckon i driv him ter others ... thet debauched an' ruint him." he had been, to that point, the man conscious only of his hurt, but now his face became contorted and livid with a sudden hurricane of rage. "but them thet hanged him," he cried out in abrupt violence, "vile es they war ... they warn't nothin' ter ther man thet made a dupe out of him ... ther man thet egged them on.... bas rowlett's accountable ter me--an' afore ther sun sets i aims ter stand over his dead body!" parish thornton flinched at the name. he had turned his face toward the sheeted figure, but now he wheeled back, crouching and straightening with the spasmodic quickness of a boxer who sidesteps a blow. "bas rowlett!" he echoed in a low but deadly tensity of voice. "steady yoreself, man, an' construe what ye means!" hump doane had shaken off his torpor now and stood trembling under all the furies of repressed years. his words came in a torrent of vehemence that could not be stemmed, and they mounted like gathering winds. "i've preached peace day in an' day out.... i've striven ter keep hit ... an' i knows i did aright ... but this day i'm goin' ter stultify myself an' kill a man ... an' when i finishes him, i'm going ter keep right on till i'm either kilt myself or gits all them thet's accountable fer _this_!" he paused, breathing in gasps, then rushed on again: "i trusted bas rowlett ... i believed in him ... some weeks back i l'arned some things erbout him thet shocked me sore, but still i held my hand ... waitin' ter counsel with _you_ atter yore baby hed been borned." "what war hit ye l'arned, hump?" the younger man's voice was almost inaudibly low, and the answer came like volley-firing with words. "hit war bas thet hired ye laywayed.... hit war bas thet egged sam opdyke on ter kill ye.... hit war bas thet sent word over inter virginny ter betray ye ter ther law.... hit war bas thet shot through old jim's hat ter make a false appearance an' foment strife.... hit war bas thet stirred men up ter organizin' ther riders ... an' used my boy fer a catspaw!" "listen, man!" parish thornton was breathing his words through lips that scarcely moved as he bent forward with the tautness of a coiled spring. "i knowed bas rowlett hired me shot ... but we'd done pledged ourselves ter settle thet betwixt us.... i held my hand because of ther oath i give ye when we made ther truce ... but these other things, i hain't nuver even dremp' of ther like afore. does ye know aught more of him?" "i knows thet whilst ye war away in virginny he went over an' sought ter make love ter yore wife ... an' she come nigh killin' him fer hit ... but she feared fer bloodshed ef she bore thet tale ter _you_." the old man paused, and parish thornton made no answer in words, but between his lips the breath ran out with the hiss of sobbing waters. "i kain't prove none of them things in law," went on hump, and his eyes travelled back to the hideous fascination of the sheeted body, "yit i knows, in my heart, every one of 'em's true--an' thet's enough fer me. now i'm goin' ter be my own law!" the cripple turned and walked unsteadily to the corner of the room, and from its place behind a calico curtain he took out a repeating rifle. "thar's my co'te of jestice," he declared, and his voice trembled as with hunger and thirst. but parish thornton had thrown back his head and unaccountably he laughed as he laid on the other's arm fingers that closed slowly into a grip of steel and rawhide. "hump," he said, "hit would be a turrible pity fer us ter quarrel--but i don't aim ter be robbed, even by _you_! thet man belongs ter _me_ ... an' i aims ter claim him now. when my blood war bi'lin' like a mortal fever ... right hyar in this room ... didn't ye fo'ce me ter lay aside my grudge till sich day es ye give me license ter take hit up ergin?... an' hain't thet day come now?... from thet time till this i've kep' my word ... but hell hitself couldn't hold me back no longer.... ye kain't hev him, hump. he's _mine_!" he paused, then with something like a sob he repeated in a dazed voice, "an' ye says he aimed ter fo'ce dorothy with his love-makin'. god!" hump doane was still clinging to the rifle upon which thornton had laid his hands, and they stood there, two claimants, neither of whom was willing to surrender his title to a disputed prize--the prize of bas rowlett's life. but at length the older fingers loosened their hold and the older man took a stumbling step and knelt by his dead. then the younger, with the gun cradled in his elbow, and a light of release in his eyes--a light that seemed almost one of contentment--went out through the door and crossed the yard to the fence where his mount was hitched. chapter xxxii sim, standing at the barn door, had watched parish thornton ride away that morning with a troubled heart, as he wondered what sequel these events would bring for himself. then he went to the house and called softly to dorothy. she was crooning a lullaby, behind the closed door of her room, to the small mite of humanity that had come, in healthy pinkness, to the comparatively mature age of one month. "thar hain't nuthin' ter be done right now," the hired man told her, "an' i've got ter fare over ter my own place fer a spell. a man's comin' ter haggle with me over a cattle deal." but sim was not going to his own house. he was acting under standing orders which might in no wise be disobeyed. the organization that had been born in secret and nurtured to malignant vigour had never held a daylight session before. no call had gone out for one now, but an understanding existed and an obligation, acknowledged by its membership in the oath of allegiance. if ever at any time, day or night, shine or storm, such an occasion developed as carried the urge of emergency, each rider must forthwith repair to his designated post, armed and ready for instant action. this prearranged mobilization must follow automatically upon the event that brought the need, and it involved squad meetings at various points. in its support a system of signalling and communication had been devised, whereby separated units might establish and hold unbroken touch, and might flow together like shattered beads of quicksilver. unless sim squires was profoundly mistaken, such a time had come. but sim went with a heavy heart of divided allegiance. he dared not absent himself, and he knew that after last night's happening the space of twenty-four hours could scarcely pass without bringing the issue of decisive battle between the occult and the open powers that were warring for domination in that community. he realized that somehow a hideous blunder had been committed and he guessed with what a frenzy of rage bas rowlett had learned that the organization into which he had infused the breath of life had murdered one of his two confidential vassals. at the gorge that men called a "master shut-in", which was sim's rendezvous for such an emergency meeting, he found that others had arrived before him, and among the faces into which he looked was that of rick joyce, black with a wrath as yet held in abeyance, but promising speedy and stormy eruption. the spot was wild beyond description, lying in the lap of mountains that had in some day of world infancy been riven into a mighty boulder-strewn fissure between walls of sheer and gloomy precipices. it was a place to which men would come for no legitimate purpose; a place which the hounded bear and deer had avoided even when hard driven, and inviting only to copperhead, skunk, and fox. about it lay "laurel-hells" thick-matted and gnarled, briars that were like entanglements of barbed wire, and woods so black of recess that bats flew through their corridors of pine at midday. but these men had cut, and used familiarly, tortuous and hidden zig-zags of entry and exit, and they came separately from divergent directions. when sim arrived they were waiting for their informal quorum, but at last a dozen had assembled and in other places there were other dozens. each group had a commander freshly come from a sort of staff meeting, which had already decided the larger questions of policy. there would be little debate here, only the sharp giving of orders which none would venture to disobey. rick joyce took inventory of the faces and mentally called his roll. then he nodded his head and said brusquely, "we're ready ter go ahead now." the men lounged about him with a pretence of stoical composure, but under that guise was a mighty disquiet, for even in an organization of his own upbuilding the mountaineer frets against the despotic power that says "thou shall" and "thou shalt not." "thar's been treason amongst us," announced rick joyce, sharply, and every man seemed to find that wrathful glance resting accusingly upon himself. "thar's been treason that's got ter be paid in full an' with int'rest hereatter. thet thing thet tuck place last night was mighty damnable an' erginst all orders. ther fellers thet did hit affronted this hyar army of riders thet they stood sworn ter obey." whether among those followers gathered about him there were any who had participated in last night's murder rick joyce did not know, but he knew that a minority had run to a violence which had been neither ordered nor countenanced. they had gotten out of hand, wreaked a premature vengeance, and precipitated the need of action before the majority was ready. but it was now too late to waste time in lamentation. the thing was done, and the organization saddled with that guilt must strike or be struck down. the ku klux had meant to move at its own appointed time, with the irresistible sweep and force of an avalanche. before the designated season a lighter snowslide had broken away and the avalanche had no choice but to follow. to-morrow every aroused impulse of law and order would be battle-girt and the secret body would be on the defensive--perhaps even on the run. if it were to hold the offensive it must strike and terrorize before another day had dawned--and that was not as it had planned its course. "hit's too late now ter cry over spilt milk," declared joyce with a burr in his voice. "later on we'll handle our own traitors--right now thar's another task thet won't suffer no delay." he paused, scowling, then enlightened his hearers briefly: "we warn't ready ter finish up this matter yit but now we hain't got no choice. hit's ternight or never. we stands disgusted by all mankind, an' in sheer self-defence we've got ter terrify mankind so they won't dast utter what disgust they feels. old jim's nigh ter death an' we don't need ter bother with him; hump doane kin wait--one blow's done fell on him already--but thar's yit another man thet won't never cease ter dog us whilst he lives, an' thet's parish thornton--so ternight we aims ter hang him." once more there was a pause, then as though pointing his moral the spokesman supplemented his remarks: "hit hes need ter be a thing," he said, solemnly, "thet's goin' ter terrify this whole country in sich dire fashion thet fer twenty y'ars ter come no grand juror won't dast vote fer no investigation." there remained those exact details that should cause the elaborate operation to function together without hitch or miscarriage, and to these rick joyce addressed himself. the mob was to participate in force of full numbers and no absentees were to be tolerated. "when ther game starts up hit's got ter go quick as a bat flyin' through hell," enjoined the director. "every man teks his slicker an' his false-face, an' goes one by one ter ther woods eround thornton's house es soon es dusk sottles. every man's got ter be nigh enough afore sun-down ter make shore of gettin' thar on time. then they all draws in, holdin' ter ther thickets. ther signal will be ther callin' of whippoorwills--a double call with a count of five betwixt 'em. when we're all drawed up eround ther house, so no way hain't left open thet a rabbit could break through, i'll sing out--an' when i does thet ye all closes in on ther run. thar's a big walnuck tree right by ther door ter hang him on--an' termorrer mornin' folks'll hev a lesson thet they kin kinderly take ter heart." * * * * * on his way back from hump doane's house that morning parish thornton made a detour for a brief visit upon jase burrell, the man to whose discretion he had entrusted the keeping of bas rowlett's sealed confession. from the hands of that faithful custodian he took the envelope and thrust it into his breast pocket. now that his own pledge of suspended vengeance had been exonerated he would no longer need that bond of amnesty. moreover, he knew now that this compact had been a rope of sand to bas rowlett from the beginning, and would never be anything else. it only served to divert the plotter's activities and treacheries into subtler channels--and when the sun set to-day there would be either no bas rowlett to bind or no parish thornton to seek to bind him. then he rode home. thornton entered his own house silently, but with the face of an avenging spirit, and it was a face that told his story. the rigid pose and the set jaw, the irreconcilable light in the eyes, were all things that dorothy understood at once and without explanation. as she looked at her husband she thought, somehow, of a falcon or eagle poised on a bare tree-top at a precipice edge. there was the same alert restiveness as might have marked a bird of prey, gauging the blue sky-reaches with predatory eye, and ready to strike with a winged bolt of death. quietly, because the baby had just fallen asleep, she rose and laid the child on the bright patterned coverlet of the fourposter, and she paused, too, to brace herself with a glance into the cool shadows and golden lights of the ample branches beyond the window. then she came back to the door and her voice was steady but low as she said, "ye've done found out who did hit. i kin read thet in yore eyes, ken." he nodded, but until he had crossed the room and laid a hand on each of her shoulders, he did not speak. "since ther fust day i ever seed ye, honey," he declared with a sort of hushed fervour, "standin' up thar in ther winder, my heart hain't nuver struck a beat save ter love ye--an' thet war jest erbout a y'ar ago." "hit's been all my life, ken," she protested. "ther time thet went ahead of thet didn't skeercely count atall." her voice trembled, and the meeting of their gaze was a caress. then he said: "when i wedded with ye out thar--under thet old tree--with ther sun shinin' down on us--i swore ter protect ye erginst all harm." "hain't ye always done thet, ken?" "erginst all ther perils i knowed erbout--yes," he answered, slowly, then his tone leaped into vehemence. "but i didn't suspicion--until terday--thet whilst i was away from ye--ye hed ter protect yoreself erginst bas rowlett." "bas rowlett!" the name broke from her lips with a gasp and a spasmodic heart-clutch of panic. her well-kept secret stood unveiled! she did not know how it had come about, but she realized that the time of reckoning had come and, if her husband's face was an indication to be trusted, that reckoning belonged to to-day and would be neither diverted nor postponed. her old fear of what the consequence would be if this revelation came to his knowledge rose chokingly and overpoweringly. why had she not killed bas herself before sim squires came in to interfere that day? why had she allowed the moment to pass when a stroke of the blade might have ended the peril? atavistic impulses and contradictions of her blood welled confusedly up within her. this was her own battle and she wanted to fight it out for herself. if rowlett were to be executed it should be she herself who sent him to his accounting. she was torn, as she stood there, between her terror for the man she loved and her hatred for the other--a hatred which clamoured for blood appeasement. but she shook her head and sought to resolve the conflicting emotions. "i hid ther truth from ye, ken," she said, "because i feared fer what mout happen ef ye found out. i wasn't affrighted of bas fer myself--but i war fer _you_. i knowed ye trusted him an' ef ye diskivered he war a traitor----" "traitor!" the man interrupted her, passionately, "he hain't never deluded me es ter thet since ther fust night i laid in thet thar bed atter i'd been shot. him an' me come ter an' understandin' then an' thar--but he swore ter hold his hand twell we could meet man ter man, jest ther two of us." a bitter laugh came with his pause, then he went on: "i 'lowed you trusted him an' i didn't seek ter rouse up no needless fears in yore heart--but now we both knows ther truth, an' i'm startin' out d'reckly ter sottle ther score fer all time." dorothy thornton caught his shoulders and her eyes were full of pleading. "ye've done built up a name fer yoreself, ken," she urged with burning fervour. "hit war me thet told ye, thet day when aaron capper an' them others come, thet ye couldn't refuse ter lead men--but i told ye, too, ye war bounden ter lead 'em to'rds peace an' law. ye've done led 'em thetaway, ken, an' folks trusts ye, harpers an' doanes alike. now ye kain't afford ter start in leadin' 'em wrong--ye kain't afford ter dirty yore hands with bloodshed, ken. ye kain't afford ter do hit!" the man stood off looking at her with a love that was almost awe, with an admiration that was almost idolatry, but the obduracy persisted in his eyes. "partly ye're talkin' from conscience thet don't traffic ner barter with no evil, dorothy," he made sober response, "an' partly, too, ye're talkin', woman-fashion, outen a fear thet seeks ter shield yore man. i honours both them things, but this time i hain't follerin' no fox-fire an' i kain't be stayed." he paused, and the hand that closed over hers was firm and resolute for all the tenderness of its pressure. "hit's warfare now ter ther hilt of ther knife, honey, but hit's ther warfare of them that strives fer decency an' law erginst them thet murders in ther night-time. an' yit ther riders has good men amongst 'em, too--men thet's jest sorely misguided. i reckon ye don't know thet, either, but bas rowlett's ther one body thet brought 'em ter life an' eggs 'em on. when he dies ther riders'll fall apart like a string of beads thet's been cut in two. terday i aims ter cut ther thread." the woman stood trembling with the fervour of outraged indignation as he told her all he knew, but when he finished she nodded her head, in a finale of exhortation, toward the bedroom. possibly she was not unlike the lawyer whose duty is to argue for legal observances even though his heart cries out mutinously for a hotter course. "air hit wuth while--orphanin' him--an' widderin' me fer--ken?" "hit's wuth while his growin' up ter know thet he wasn't fathered by no craven, ner yit borne by a woman thet faltered," answered parish thornton; then he set hump doane's rifle in the corner and took out his own with the particularity of a man who, for a vital task, dares trust no tool save that with which he is most familiar. when he had gone dorothy sat down in her chair again. she remembered that other time when her mind had reeled under anxieties almost too poignant for endurance. now she was nursing a baby, and she must hold herself in hand. her eyes wandered about the place, seeking something upon which her mind might seize for support, and at length she rose and ran up the boxed-in stairway to the attic. when she came back again to the bedroom she carried the journal that had been so mysteriously lost and recovered, and then she drew a chair to the window and opened the document where she had left off in her reading. but often she laid the book absent-mindedly in her lap to listen with an ear turned toward the bed, and often, too, she looked out into the spreading softness of golden-green laced through by dove-gray and sepia-brown branches on which played baffling reflexes of soft and mossy colours. * * * * * parish thornton did not approach the house of his enemy from the front. he came upon it from behind and held to the shelter of the laurel as long as that was possible, but he found a padlock on the door and all the windows closed. for an hour or more he waited, but there was no return of the owner and parish carried his search elsewhere. bas, he reflected, was busy to-day conferring with those leaders of the riders from whom he ostensibly stood aloof, and the man who was hunting him down followed trail after trail along roads that could be ridden and "traces" that must be tramped. casual inquiries along the highway served only to send him hither and yon on a series of wild goose chases. this man and that had seen bas rowlett, and "bas he seemed right profoundly shocked an' sore distressed," they said. they gave thornton the best directions they could, and as the clan-leader rode on they nodded sage heads and reflected that it was both natural and becoming that he should be seeking for bas at such a time. the man who had been murdered last night was rowlett's kinsman and thornton was rowlett's friend. both men were prominent, and it was a time for sober counsel. the shadow of the riders lay over the country broader and deeper than that which the mountains cast across the valleys. so from early forenoon until almost sunset parish thornton went doggedly and vainly on with his man-hunt. yet he set his teeth and swore that he must not fail; that he could not afford to fail. he would go home and have supper with dorothy, then start out afresh. he was threading a blind and narrow pathway homeward between laurel thickets, when he came to the spot where he and bas rowlett had stood on that other june night a year ago, the spot where the shot rang out that had wounded him. there he paused in meditation, summing up in his mind the many things that had happened since then, and the sinister strands of rowlett's influence that ran defacingly through the whole pattern. below that shelf of rock, kissed by the long shadow of the mountain, lay the valley with its loop of quietly moving water. the roof of his own house was a patch of gray and the canopy of his own tree a spot of green beneath him. at one end, the ledge on which he stood broke away in a precipice that dropped two hundred feet, in sheer and perpendicular abruptness, to a rock-strewn gorge below. elsewhere it shelved off into the steep slope down which bas had carried him. suddenly thornton raised his head with abrupt alertness. he thought he had heard the breaking of a twig somewhere in the thicket, and he drew back until he himself was hidden. five minutes later the man he had spent the day seeking emerged alone from the woods and stood ten yards from his own hiding place. this was a coincidence too remarkable and providential to be credited, thought thornton, yet it was no coincidence at all. bas knew of the drama that was to be played out that night--a drama of which he was the anonymous author--and he was coming, in leisurely fashion, to a lookout from which he could witness its climax while he still held to his pose of detachment. the master-conspirator seated himself on a boulder and wiped his brow, for he had been walking fast. a little later he glanced up, to see bent upon him a pair of silent eyes whose message could not be misread. in one hand thornton held a cocked revolver, in the other a sealed envelope. rowlett rose to his feet and went pale, and parish advanced holding the paper out to him. "ther day hes come, bas," said thornton with the solemnity of an executioner, "when i don't need this pledge no longer. i aims ter give hit back ter ye now." chapter xxxiii one might have counted ten while the picture held with no other sound than the breathing of two men and the strident clamour of a blue-jay in a hickory sapling. rowlett had not been ordered to raise his hands, but he held them ostentatiously still and wide of his body. the revolver in its holster under his armpit might as well have been at home, for even had both started with an equal chance in the legerdemain of drawing and firing, he knew his master, and as it was, he stood covered. now, too, he faced an adversary no longer fettered by any pledge of private forbearance. this, then, was the end--and it arrived just a damnable shade too soon, when with the falling of dusk he might have witnessed the closing scenes of his enemy's doom. to-morrow there would be no parish thornton to dread, but also to-morrow there would be no bas rowlett to enjoy immunity from fear. "hit war jest erbout one y'ar ago, bas," came the even and implacable inflection of the other, "thet us two stud up hyar tergither, an' a heap hes done come ter pass since then--don't ye want yore envellip, bas?" silently and with a heavily moving hand, rowlett reached out and took the proffered paper which bore his incriminating admissions and signature, but he made no answer. "thet other time," went on thornton with maddening deliberation, "hit was in ther moonlight thet us two stud hyar, an' when ye told me ye war befriendin' me i war fool enough ter b'lieve ye. don't ye recollict how we turned and looked down, an' ye p'inted out thet big tree--in front of ther house?" the intriguer ground his teeth, but from the victor's privilege of verbose taunting he had no redress. after all, it would be a transient victory. parish might "rub it in" now, but in a few hours he would be dangling at a rope's end. "ye showed hit ter me standin' thar high an' widespread in ther moonlight, an' i seems ter recall thet ye 'lowed ye'd cut hit down ef ye hed yore way. ye hain't hed yore way, though, bas, despite satan's unflaggin' aid. ther old tree still stands thar a-castin' hits shade over a place thet's come ter be my home--a place ye've done vainly sought ter defile." still rowlett did not speak. there was a grim vestige of comfort left in the thought that when the moon shone again parish thornton would have less reason to love that tree. "ye don't seem no master degree talkative terday, bas," suggested the man with the pistol, which was no longer held levelled but swinging--though ready to leap upward. then almost musingly he added, "an' thet's a kinderly pity, too, seein' ye hain't nuver goin' ter hev no other chanst." "why don't ye shoot an' git done?" barked rowlett with a leer of desperation. "pull yore trigger an' be damned ter ye--we'll meet in hell afore long anyhow." when thornton spoke again the naked and honest wrath that had smouldered for a year like a banked fire at last leaped into untrammelled blazing. "i don't strike down even a man like _you_ outen sheer hate an' vengeance," he declared, with an electrical vibrance of pitch. "hit's a bigger thing then thet an' ye've got ter know in full what ye dies for afore i kills ye--ye hain't deluded me as fur es ye thinks ye have--i knows ye betrayed me in virginny; i knows ye shot at old jim an' fathered ther infamies of ther riders; i knows ye sought ter fo'ce yoreself on dorothy; but i didn't git thet knowledge from _her_. she kep' her bargain with ye." "a man right often thinks he knows things when he jest suspicions 'em," bas reminded him, with a forced and factitious calm summoned for his final interview, but the other waved aside the subterfuge. "right often--yes--but not always, an' this hain't one of them delusions. i knows ther full sum an' substance of yore infamies, an' yit i've done held my hand. mebby ye thought my wrath war coolin'. ef ye did ye thought wrong!" parish thornton drew a long breath and the colour gradually went out of his brown face, leaving it white and rapt in an exaltation of passion. "i've been bidin' my time an' my time hes come," he declared in a voice that rang like a bronze bell. "when i kills ye i does a holy act. hit's a charity ter mankind an' womankind--an' yit some foreparent bred hit inter me ter be a fool, an' i've got ter go on bein' one." a note of hopefulness, incredulous, yet quickening with a new lease on courage, flashed into the gray despair of the conspirator's mind and he demanded shortly: "what does ye mean?" thornton recognized that grasping at hope, and laughed ironically. "i hain't goin' ter shoot ye down like ye merits," he said, "an' yit i misdoubts ef hit's so much because i've got ter give ye a chanst, atter all, es ther hunger ter see yore life go out under my bare fingers." slowly dying hope had its redawning in bas rowlett's face. his adversary's strength and quickness were locally famous, but he, too, was a giant in perfect condition, and the prize of life was worth a good fight. he stood now with hands held high while thornton disarmed him and flung his pistol and knife far backward into the thicket. his own weapon, the harper leader still held. "now, me an' you are goin' ter play a leetle game by ther name of 'craven an' damn fool'," thornton enlightened him with a grim smile. "i'm ther damn fool. hit's fist an' skull, tooth an' nail, or anything else ye likes, but fust i'm goin' ter put this hyar gun of mine in a place whar ye kain't git at hit, an' then one of us is goin' ter fling t'other one offen thet rock-clift whar she draps down them two hundred feet. does ye like thet play, bas?" "i reckon i'll do my best," said rowlett, sullenly; "i hain't skeercely got no rather in ther matter nohow." thornton stripped off his coat and rolled his sleeves high and the other man followed suit. bas even grinned sardonically in appreciation when the other at length thrust his pistol under a rock which it strained his strength to lift. the man who got that weapon out would need to be one who had time and deliberation at his disposal--not one who snatched it up in any short-winded interval of struggle. then the two stood glaring into each other's faces with the naked savagery of wild beasts, and under the stress of their hate-lust the whites of their eyes were already bloodshot and fever-hot with murder-bent. yet with an impulse that came through even that red fog of fury parish thornton turned his head and looked for the fraction of an instant down upon the gray roof and the green tree where the shadows lay lengthed in the valley--and in that half second of diverted gaze rowlett launched himself like a charging bull, with head down to ram his adversary's solar plexus and with arms outstretched for a bone-breaking grapple. it was a suddenness which even with suddenness expected came bolt-like, and thornton, leaping sidewise, caught its passing force and stumbled, but grappled and carried his adversary down with him. the two rolled in an embrace that strained ribs inward on panting lungs, leg locking leg, and fingers clutching for a vulnerable hold. but thornton slipped eel-like out of the chancery that would have crushed him into helplessness and sprang to his feet, and if rowlett was slower, it was by only a shade of difference. they stood, with sweat already flowing in tiny freshets out of their pores and eyes blazing with murderous fire. they crouched and circled, advancing step by step, each warily sparring for an advantage and ready to plunge in or leap sidewise. then came the impact of bone and flesh once more, and both went down, thornton's face pressed against that of his enemy as they fell, and rowlett opened and clamped his jaws as does a bull-dog trying for a grip upon the jugular. that battle was homerically barbaric and starkly savage. it was fought between two wild creatures who had shed their humanity: one the stronger and more massive of brawn; the other more adroit and resourceful. but the teeth of the conspirator closed on the angle of the jawbone instead of the neck--and found no fleshy hold, and while they twisted and writhed with weird incoherencies of sound going up in the smother of dust, bas rowlett felt the closing of iron fingers on his throat. while he clawed and gripped and kicked to break the strangle, his eyes seemed to swell and burn and start from their sockets, and the patch of darkening sky went black. it was only the collapse of the human mass in his arms into dead weight that brought parish thornton again out of his mania and back to consciousness. the battle was over, and as he drew his arms away his enemy sank shapeless and limp at his feet. for a few seconds more thornton stood rocking on unsteady legs, then, with a final and supreme effort, he stooped and lifted the heavy weight that hung sagging like one newly dead and not yet rigid. with his burden parish staggered to the cliff's edge and swung his man from side to side, gaining momentum. then suddenly he stopped and stood silhouetted there, sweat-shiny and tattered, blood-stained and panting, and instead of pitching bas rowlett outward he laid him down again on the shelf of rock. how much later he did not know, though he knew that it was twilight now, bas rowlett seemed to come out of a heavy and disturbed sleep in which there had been no rest, and he found himself lying with his feet hanging over the precipice edge, and with thornton looking intently down upon him. in thornton's hand was the recovered pistol--so there must have been time enough for that. but his perplexed brain reeled to the realization that he still lay up here instead of among the rocks upon which he should have been broken two hundred feet below. presumably the victor had waited for returning consciousness in the victim to consummate that atrocity. but thornton's unaccountable whims had flown at another tangent. "git up, bas," he commanded, briefly, "yore life b'longs ter me. i won hit--an' ye're goin' ter die--but my fingers don't ache no more fer a holt on yore throat--they're satisfied." "what air--ye goin' ter do, now?" rowlett found words hard to form; and the victor responded promptly, "i've done concluded ter take ye down thar, afore ye dies, an' make ye crave dorothy's pardon on yore bended knees. ye owes hit ter her." slowly rowlett dragged himself to a sitting posture. his incredulous senses wanted to sing out in exultation, but he forced himself to demur with surly obduracy. "hain't hit enough ter kill me without humiliatin' me, too?" "no, hit hain't enough fer me an' hit's too tardy fer _you_ ter make no terms now." bas rowlett exaggerated his dizzy weakness. there was every reason for taking time. this mad idea that had seized upon the other was a miracle of deliverance for him. if only he could kill time until night had come and the moon had risen, it would prove not only a respite but a full pardon--capped with a reserved climax of triumph. down there at that house the mob would soon come, and circumstance would convert him, at a single turn of the wheel, from humbled victim to the avenger ironically witnessing the execution of his late victor. after a while he rose and stood experimentally on his legs. "i reckon i kin walk now," he said, drearily, "ef so be ye lets me go slow--i hain't got much of my stren'th back yit." "thar hain't no tormentin' haste," responded thornton; "we've got all night afore us." * * * * * when they reached the house, it stood mistily bulked among shadows, with its front door open upon an unlighted room. the men had tramped down that slope in silence, and they crossed the threshold in silence, too, the captive preceding his captor; and the householder paused to bolt the door behind him. then, holding a vigilant eye on the forced guest who had not spoken, thornton lighted a lamp and backed to the closed bedroom door at whose sill he had seen a slender thread of brightness. in all his movements he went with a wary slowness, as though he were held by a cord, and the cord was the line of direct glance that he never permitted to deviate from the face of his prisoner. now while his right hand still fondled the revolver, he groped with his left for the latch and opened the door at his back. "dorothy," he called in a low voice, "i wisht ye'd come in hyar, honey." from within he heard a sound like a low moan; but he knew it was a sigh of relief loosening tight nerve cords that had been binding his wife's heart in suspense. "thank god, ye're back, ken," she breathed. "air ye all right--an' unharmed?" "all right an' unharmed," he responded, as he stepped to the side of the door frame and stood there a rigid and unmoving sentinel. but when dorothy came to the threshold, she took in at once the whole picture, pregnant with significance: the glint of lamplight on the ready revolver, the relentless, tooth-marked face of her husband, and the figure of the vanquished plotter with its powerful shoulders hunched forward and its head hanging. on the mantel ticked the small tin clock, which bas rowlett watched from the tail of a furtive eye. as dorothy thornton stood in gracious slenderness against the background of the lighted door with a nimbus about her head, she was all feminine delicacy and allurement. but in that moment she stiffened to an overwhelming rush of memories which incited her to a transport of wrath for which she had no words. she saw bas rowlett stripped naked to the revolting bareness of his unclean soul, and she drew back with a shudder of loathing and unmoderated hate. "why did ye dally with him, ken?" she demanded, fiercely; "don't ye know thet whilst ye lets him live yere jest handlin' an' playin' with a rattlesnake?" "he hain't got long ter live," came the coldly confident response, "but afore he dies, he wants ter crave yore pardon, dorothy, an' he wants ter do hit kneelin' down." bas rowlett shot a sidelong glance at the clock. time was soul and essence of the matter now and minutes were the letters that spelled life and death. he listened tensely, too, and fancied that he heard a whippoorwill. there were many whippoorwills calling out there in the woods but he thought this was a double call and that between its whistlings a man might have counted five. of that, however, he could not be sure. "i hain't got no choice, dorothy," whined the man, whose craven soul was suffering acutely as he fenced for delay--delay at any cost. "even ef i hed, though, i'd crave yore pardon of my own free will--but afore i does hit, thar's jest a few words i'd love ter say." dorothy thornton stood just inside the door. pity, mercy, and tenderness were qualities as inherent in her as perfume in a wild flower, but there was something else in her as well--as there is death in some perfumes. if he had been actually a poisonous reptile instead of a snake soul in the body of a man bas rowlett could have been to her, just then, no less human. "yes," she said, slowly, as a memory stirred the confession of her emotions, "thar's one thing i'd like ter say, too--but hit hain't in no words of my own--hit's somethin' thet was said a long spell back." from the mantel shelf she produced the old journal, and opened its yellowed pages. "i've been settin' hyar," said dorothy thornton, in a strained quietness of voice, "readin' this old book mighty nigh all day--i _hed_ ter read hit--" her voice broke there, then went steadily on again--"or else go mad, whilst i was waitin'--waitin' ter know whether ken hed kilt ye or _you'd_ kilt _him_." again she paused for a moment and turned her eyes to her husband. "this book sheds light on a heap of things thet we all needs ter know erbout--hit tells how his foreparent sought ter kill ther tree thet our ancestors planted--an' hit's kinderly like an indictment in ther high co'te." while dorothy thornton accused the blood sprung from the renegade and his indian squaw out of those ancient pages the men listened. to the husband it was incitement and revelation. the tree out there standing warder in the dark became, as he listened with engrossed interest, more than ever a being of sentient spirit and less than ever a thing of mere wood and leaf. to bas rowlett it should have been an indictment, or perhaps an excuse, with its testimony of blood strains stronger than himself--but from its moral his mind was wandering to a more present and gripping interest. now he was sure he had heard the double whippoorwill call! in five minutes more he would be saved--yet five minutes might be too long. dorothy paused. "ye sees," she said with a deep gravity, "from ther start, in this country, our folks hev been despitefully tricked an' misused by ther offspring of thet indian child thet our foreparents tuck in an' befriended. from ther start, ther old tree hes held us safe with hits charm erginst evil! ever since----" she broke off there and paused with astonished eyes that turned to the door, upon which had sounded a commanding rap. then she rose and went over cautiously to open it an inch or two and look out. but when she raised the latch a man, rendered uncognizable by a black slicker that cloaked him to his ankles and a masked face, threw it wide, so that the woman was forced, stumbling, back. then through the opening poured a half dozen others in like habiliments of disguise. all held outthrust rifles, and that one who had entered first shouted: "all right, boys, ther door's open." parish thornton had not been able to shoot at the initial instant because dorothy stood in his way. after that it was useless--and he saw bas rowlett step forward with a sudden change of expression on his pasty face. "now, then," said bas, exultantly, "hit's a gray hoss of another colour!" chapter xxxiv when parish thornton had brought his captive down the slope that afternoon he had left his rifle in safe concealment, not wishing to hamper himself with any weapon save the revolver, which had never left his palm until this moment. now with the instant gone in which he might have used it to stem the tide of invasion, he was not fool enough to fire. a silent and steady current of black-clad humanity was still flowing inward across the threshold, and every man was armed. yet at the ring of victorious elation in bas rowlett's voice the impulse to strike down that master of deceit before his own moment came almost overpowered him--almost but not quite. he knew that the bark of his weapon would bring chorused retort from other firearms, and that dorothy might fall. as it was, the mob had come for him alone, so he walked over and laid his revolver quietly down on the table. but the girl had seen the by-play and had rightly interpreted its meaning. for her the future held no promise--except a tragedy she could not face, and for a distracted moment she forgot even her baby as she reacted to the bitterness of her vendetta blood. so she caught up hump doane's rifle that still rested against the wall near her hand and threw the muzzle to rowlett's breast. "i'll git _you_, anyhow," she screamed between clenched teeth, and it was a promise she would have kept; a promise that would have turned that room into a shambles had not one of the masked figures been dexterous enough in his intervention to reach her and snatch the gun from her grasp--still unfired. dorothy stepped back then, her eyes staring with the fury of failure as she gazed at the man who had disarmed her--while one by one other dark and uniformed figures continued to enter and range themselves about the wall. the night-rider who held the captured rifle had not spoken, but the woman's eye, as it ranged up and down, caught sight of a shoe--and she recognized a patch. that home-mending told her that the enemy who had balked her in the last poor comfort of vengeance was sim squires, a member of her own household, and her lips moved in their impulse to call out his name in denunciation and revilement. they moved and then, in obedience to some sudden afterthought, closed tight again without speaking, but her eyes did speak in silent anathema of scorn--and though she did not know or suspect it, the thoughts mirrored in them were read and interpreted by the mob-leader. dorothy crossed the floor of the room, ringed with its border of grimly cloaked humanity, and took her stand by the side of the man who leaned stoically at the corner of his hearth. at least she could do that much in declaration of loyalty. thornton himself folded his arms and, as his eyes ran over the anonymous beings who had come to kill him, he fell back on the only philosophy left him: that of dying with such as unwhining demeanour as should rob them of triumph in their gloating. at length the door closed, and it was with a dramatic effect of climax that the last man who entered bore, coiled on his arm, the slender but stout rope which was to be both actual instrument and symbol of their purpose there. parish felt dorothy, whose two hands were clasped about his folded arm, wince and shudder at the sinister detail, and unwilling to remain totally passive, even with the end so near and so certain, he chose to speak before they spoke to him. "i knows right well what ye've come fer, men," he said, and in the level steadiness of his voice was more of disdain than abjectness, "but i hain't got no lamentation ter make, an' somehow i hain't es much terrified as mebby i ought ter be." "ye've got a right good license ter be terrified," announced the disguised voice of the masked leader, "onlessen death's a thing ye favours over life. even ef ye does thet, hangin's a right shameful way ter die." but parish thornton shook his head. "hit hain't hangin' hitself thet's shameful," he corrected the other, "hit's what a man hangs fer." he paused, then with the note of entire seriousness he inquired: "i reckon ye don't aim ter deny me ther privilege of sayin' a few words fust, does ye? i've always heered thet they let a man talk afore he got hung." "go on," growled the other, "but mebby ye'd better save hit, twell we've done tried ye. we aims ter give ye a hearin' afore ye dies." thornton inclined his head gravely, more sensible of the clutching grasp of his wife's fingers on his tensed biceps than of more fateful matters. "when ye gits through hangin' me," he told them by way of valedictory, "i wants ye ter recall thet thar's somethin' ye hain't kilt yit in these hills--an' won't nuver kill. thar's a sperit that some of us hes fostered hyar, and hit'll go on jest ther same without us--hit's a bigger thing then any man, an' hit's goin' ter dog ye till hit gits ye all--every sneakin' mother's son an' every murderin' man-jack of yore sorry outfit! what things we've ondertook hain't a-goin' ter die with me ner with no other man ye gang murders--an' when ther high co'te sets next time, thar'll be soldiers hyar thet hain't none affrighted by ther repute ye b'ars!" he paused, then added soberly, yet with a conviction that carried persuasiveness: "thet's all i've got ter say, an' albeit _i'm_ ther victim right now, god in heaven knows i pities all of ye from ther bottom of my heart--because i'm confident that amongst ye right now air some siv'ral thet, save fer bein' deluded by traitors an' cravens, air good men." the individual who was acting as spokesman bent forward and thrust his face close to that of the man they had come to lynch. "nuther yore brag nor yore threats hain't agoin' ter avail ye none, parish thornton--because yore time is done come. thar's a hugeous big tree astandin' out thar by yore front door, an' afore an hour's gone by, ye're goin' ter be swingin' from hit. folks norrates thet yore woman an' you sets a heap of store by thet old walnuck an' calls hit ther roof tree, an' believes hit holds a witch-spell ter safeguard ye.... we're goin' ter see kin hit save ye now." he paused, and at the mention of the walnut dorothy clutched her hands to her breast and caught her breath, but the man went on: "ye hain't no native-born man hyar, thornton, albeit ye've done sought ter run ther country like some old-time king or lord beyond ther water.... ye hain't nuthin' but a trespassin' furriner, nohow--an' we don't love no tyrant. this roof-tree hain't yourn by no better right then ther nest thet ther cuckoo steals from ther bird thet built hit...." again he paused, then, added with a sneer: "we don't even grant ye ownership of thet old walnuck tree--but we aims ter loan hit ter ye long enough ter hang on." he halted and looked about the place, then with cheap theatricism demanded: "who accuses this man? let him stand ter ther front." three or four dark figures moved unhurriedly toward the centre of the circle, but one who had not been rehearsed in his part stepped with a more eager haste to the fore, and that one was bas rowlett. "i don't know es i've rightly got no license ter speak up--amongst men that i kain't _ree_cognize," he made hypocritical declaration, "but yit, i kain't hardly hold my peace, because ye come in good season fer me--an' saved my life." after a momentary pause, as if waiting for permission to be heard, he went on: "this man thet i saved from death one time when somebody sought ter kill him laywayed me an hour or so back, an' atter he'd done disarmed an' maltreated me, he fotched me home hyar ter insult me some more in front of his woman--afore he kilt me in cold blood.... he done them things because i wouldn't censure an' disgust you men thet calls yoreself ther riders." parish thornton smiled derisively as he listened to that indictment, then he capped it with an ironic amendment. "we all knows ye're ther true leader of this murder-gang, bas--ye don't need ter be bashful erbout speakin' out yore mind ter yore own slaves." rowlett wheeled, his swarthy face burning to its high cheekbones with a flush that spread and dyed his bull-like neck. "all right, then," he barked out, at last casting aside all subterfuge. "ef they h'arkens ter what i says i'll tell 'em ter string ye up, hyar an' now, ter thet thar same tree you an' yore woman sots sich store by! i'll tell 'em ter teach virginny meddlers what hit costs ter come trespassin' in kaintuck." he was breathing thickly with the excited reaction from his recent terror and despair. "men," he bellowed, almost jubilantly, "don't waste no time--ther gallows tree stands ready. hit's right thar by ther front porch." dorothy had listened in a stunned silence. her face was parchment-pale but she was hardly able yet to grasp the sudden turn of events to irremediable tragedy. the irrevocable meaning of the thing she had feared in her dreams seemed too vast to comprehend when it drew near her, and she had not clearly realized that minutes now--and few of them--stood between her husband and his death. her scornful eyes had been dwelling on the one figure she had recognized: the figure of sim squires, whom it had never occurred to her to distrust. but when several night-riders pushed her brusquely from her place beside her man, and drew his hands together at his back and began whipping cords about his unresisting wrists, the horror broke on her in its ghastly fullness and nearness. the stress they laid on the mention of the tree had brought her out of the coma of her dazed condition into an acute agony of reality. there was a fiendish symbolism in their intent.... the man they called a usurper must die on the very tree that gave their home its significance, and no other instrument of vengeance would satisfy them. the old bitterness had begun generations ago when the renegade who "painted his face and went to the indians" had sought to destroy it, and happiness with it. now his descendant was renewing the warfare on the spot where it had begun, and the tree was again the centre of the drama. dorothy thornton thought that her heart would burst with the terrific pressure of her despair and helplessness. then her knees weakened and she would have fallen had she not reeled back against the corner of the mantel, and a low, heart-broken moan came, long drawn, from her lips. there was nothing to be done--yet every moment before death was a moment of life, and submission meant death. in the woman's eyes blazed an unappeasable hunger for battle, and as they met those of her husband they flashed the unspoken exhortation: "don't submit ... die fighting!" it was the old dogma of mountain ferocity, but parish thornton knew its futility and shook his head. then he answered her silent incitement in words: "hit's too late, dorothy.... i'd only git you kilt as well as me.... i reckon they hain't grudgin' _you_ none, es things stands now." but the mob leader laughed, and turning his face to the wife, he ruthlessly tore away even that vestige of reassurance. "we hain't makin' no brash promises erbout ther woman, thornton," he brutally announced. "i read in her eyes jest now thet she _ree_co'nized one of us--an' hit hain't safe ter know too much." they were still working at the ropes on the prisoner's wrists and the knots were not yet secure. the man had gauged his situation and resigned himself to die like a slaughter-house animal, instead of a mountain lion--in order to save his wife. now they denied him that. suddenly his face went black and his eyes became torrential with fury. his lunging movement was as swift and powerful as a tiger-spring, and his transition from quiet to earthquake violence as abrupt and deadly as the current of the electric chair. his shoulders and wrists ripped at their bonds, and the men busied about them were hurled away as with a powder blast. the arms came free and the hands seized up a chair. a human tornado was at work in a space too crowded for the use of firearms; and when the insufficient weapon had been shattered into splinters and fallen in worthless bits there were broken crowns and prostrate figures in that room. faces were marked with bruise and blood and laceration--but the odds were too overwhelmingly uneven, and at last they bore him down, pounded and kicked, to the puncheon floor, and when they lifted him to his feet again the ropes that fastened him were firm enough to hold. then parish thornton spoke again: spoke with a passion that seemed almost as destructive as the short-lived chair he had been swinging flail-like, though the panting exertion made his voice come in disjointed and sob-like gasps. "ye hain't done yit," he shouted into their maddened faces as they crowded and yapped about him. "by dint of numbers ye've done tuck me alive, but thar's still a reckonin' ahead!" above the answering chorus of jeers rang his berserk fury of defiance. "ye kin go ahead an' hang me now--an' be damned ter ye! ye kin even murder a woman ef ye've got a mind ter--but thar's a baby in this house thet's comin' ter manhood some day." "ye won't be hyar ter train him up fer vengeance," came the sneering voice of bas rowlett who had stood clear of that conflict; and glaring at him thornton managed a bitter laugh. "he won't need no trainin' up," he retorted. "hit's bred in his blood an' his bone ter hate snakes an' kill 'em. he's drunk hit in at his mother's breast an' breathed hit in ther air.... he'll settle our scores some day!" chapter xxxv sim squires knew that when the brief farce of the trial took place he would be called forward to testify with a few prearranged lies. in his mouth was a pebble, put there to change his voice--but in his mutinous heart was an obsession of craving to see bas rowlett in such a debased position as that which parish thornton occupied--for, of all men, he feared and hated bas most. this unrelished participation in the mob spirit was more abhorrent than it had been before. the scorn of dorothy's eyes had a scorpion sting that he could not escape--and this woman had given his life an atmosphere of friendliness and kindliness which it had not known before. "now," announced the masked spokesman, "we're well-nigh ready, an' thar hain't no virtue in bein' dilitary--albeit we don't aim ter hang him untried. witness number one, come forward." witness number one was sim squires, and as though his tongue had been stricken with sudden dumbness and his limbs with paralysis, he hung back when he had been called. slowly he looked at parish thornton, whose face was pale, but set once more to the calm of resoluteness--and at the ghost-terror and the lingering contempt in the deep and suffering eyes of the wife. "thar's a man hyar in this room," began sim squires, "thet's done been seekin' evi_dence_ erginst ther riders, an' he's done secured a lavish of hit, too." so far, his words were running in expected grooves, and as the voice went on a little indistinct because of the pebble under the tongue, his impatient audience accorded him only a perfunctory attention. "he's done hed spies amongst ye an' he's got evi_dence_ thet no co'te kain't fail ter convict on," proceeded the witness, slowly. "he aims ter penitenshery _you_," his finger rose and settled, pointing toward the man who had acted as spokesman, and who was rick joyce. then it rose again and fell on others, as sim added, "an' _you_--an' _you_!" "we don't aim ter give him no chanst," interrupted joyce, and it was then that sim squires branched into unanticipated ways. suddenly this amazing witness ripped off his mask and threw aside his hat. then he spat out the pebble that interfered with his enunciation and annoyed him, and like the epilepsy victim who slides abruptly from sane normality into his madness, the man became transformed. the timidities that had fettered him and held him a slave to cowardice were swept away like unconsidered drift on the tide of a passion that was willing to court death, if vengeance could come first. he had definitely crossed the line of allegiance and meant to swing the fatal fury of that mob from one victim to another, or die in his effort to that end. his eyes were the ember pupils of the madman or the martyr, his face was the frenzied face of a man to whom ordinary considerations no longer count; whose idea as fixed and single, and to whom personal consequences have become unimportant. his body was rigid yet vibrant, and his voice rang through the room as his finger rose and pointed into the face of bas rowlett. "thet man," he shouted, "hes bore ther semblance of yore friend, but he aims ter _dee_stroy ye.... i knows because i've done been his slave an' he's told me so ... he aims ter hev ye murder parish thornton fer him fust ... an' then ter penitenshery ye fer doin' his dirty work. ye hain't nothin' on god's green y'arth but only his dupes!" squires paused for breath, and instead of the clamour and outcry for which he had braced himself he encountered a hushed stillness through which he could hear the hammering of his own heart. rowlett had started to bellow out an enraged denial, but he had swiftly reconsidered and chosen instead to treat the accusation with a quieter and more telling contempt. now he laughed derisively as he turned toward joyce. "i reckon," he suggested, "i don't even need ter gainsay no sich damn lie es thet, does i?" but of late there had been so much traitorousness that no man knew whom he could trust. now to rowlett's astonished discomfiture he recognized the stern and ominous note of doubt in joyce's response. "ef i was you, i wouldn't only gainsay hit, but i'd strive master hard ter _prove_ my denial." "i hain't done yit," shouted sim with a new vigour of aggressiveness, and at the sight of this human hurricane which had developed out of a man heretofore regarded as unimportant, the tempest violence of the mob hung suspended, inquisitive, astonished. the tanned face of the witness had become pallid, but out of it his eyes shot jets of fire, hysterical to madness, yet convincing in an earnestness that transcended the fear of death and carried indubitable conviction. his body shook with a palsy as he confronted the man whom, next to bas rowlett, he had feared above all others; and now in evidence of his impassioned sincerity he blurted out his own confession. "i kilt joe joyce," announced sim squires, "an' i sought ter kill parish thornton, too, when he fust come hyar, but i done both them deeds because i didn't dast gainsay ther man thet bade me do 'em. his bull-dozin' terrified me ... his power over me made me a craven, an' his dollars in my pocket paid me fer them dasterdly jobs. thet man war bas rowlett thar!" the leader of the mob stood for an instant with the stunned senses of an ox struck by a cleaver, and after that first dumfounded moment he wanted the truth, as a starving man wants food. joe joyce had been his nephew, and if this witness were telling the truth it would not appease him to take vengeance on the servant only. a more summary punishment was owing to the master. now he gulped down the tight constriction of his throat and ordered, "go on! tell hit all!" rowlett again thrust himself forward, but rick joyce, scarcely looking at him, sent him reeling backward with an open-handed blow against his chest. with torrential and cascading onrush came the capitulation of the long and black record against the master plotter from its beginning in jealousy to its end in betrayal of the ku klux. "he come over hyar when this man thornton lay in jail an' sought ter make love ter thet woman," shouted the frenzied witness, but dorothy, who had been leaning unnerved and dazed against the wall, raised a warning hand and interrupted. "stop!" she shouted. "i've done told parish all thet! whatever he heers erbout this man, he heers from me. we don't need no other testimony!" then it was that the room began to waver and spin about dorothy thornton, until with the drone of the hired man's voice diminishing in her ears she fell swooning, and was lifted to a chair. when her eyes opened--even before they opened--she was conscious again of that voice, but now it was one of dominating confidence, stinging with invective; scourging with accusations that could be verified; ripping away to its unbelievable nakedness all the falsity of bas rowlett's record--a voice of triumph. in the altered attitudes of the attentive figures the woman could read that the accuser was no longer talking to a hostile audience, but to one capriciously grown receptive, and educated to the deceits of the accused. they knew now how bas had craftily set the harpers and the doanes at one another's throats, and how thornton had tranquilized them; they knew how their own grievances against the man they had come to hang had been trumped up from carefully nourished misconceptions. but above all that, they saw how they themselves had been dupes and tools, encouraged to organize and jeopardize their necks only that they might act as executioners of rowlett's private enemy, and then be thrown to the wolves of the law. "i come inter this house," declared sim squires, "at bas rowlett's behest, ter spy on parish thornton--an' i j'ined ther riders fer ther same reason--but i'm done with lyin' now! hit's bas rowlett thet made a fool of me an' seeks ter make convicts outen _you_." he paused; then wheeling once more he walked slowly, step by step, to where bas rowlett stood cowering. "ye come hyar ter hang ther wrong man, boys," he shouted, "but ther right man's hyar--ther rope's hyar, an' ther tree's hyar! hang bas rowlett!" there was a silence of grim tension over the room when the accuser's voice fell quiet after its staccato peroration of incitement. the masked men gave no betrayal of final sentiment yet, and the woman rose unsteadily from her chair and pressed her hands against the tumultuous pounding of her heart. she could not still it while she waited for the verdict, and scarcely dared yet to hope. rowlett had been long trusted, and had there been left in him the audacity for ten adroitly used minutes of boldness, he might have been heard that night in his own defence. but bas had, back of all his brutal aggressions, a soul-fibre of baseness and it had wilted. now, with every eye turned on him, with the scales of his fate still trembling, the accused wretch cast furtive glances toward the door, weighing and considering the chances of escape. he abandoned that as hopeless, opened his lips and let his jaw sag, then crouched back as though in the shadow of the room's corner he hoped to find concealment. "look at him, men!" shouted sim squires, following up the wreck of arrogance who through years had brow-beaten him, and becoming in turn himself the bully. "look at him huddlin' thar like a whipped cur-dawg! hain't he done es good es made confession by ther guilty meanness in his face?" he paused, and then with a brutal laugh he struck the cowering rowlett across his mouth--a blow that he had dreamed of in his sleep but never dared to think of when awake--and rowlett condemned himself to death when he flinched and failed to strike back. "jest now, men," rushed on the exhorter, "ye seed thornton thar facin' death--an' he showed ye how a man kin demean himself when he thinks his time hes come. take yore choice between them two--an' decide which one needs hangin'!" then feeding on the meat of new authority, sim squires, who had always been an underling before, seized up from the hearth, where the ashes were dead, a charred stick--and it happened to be a bit of black walnut that had grown and died on the tree which was about to become a gallows. with its blackened end sim drew a line across the planks of the floor between himself and rick joyce. "thar, now," he passionately importuned his hearers. "thar hain't room in this country fer a lot of warrin' enemies thet would all be friends save fer mischief makers. parish thornton hes done admitted thar's good men amongst ye, an' we've agreed ter punish them briggatty fellers thet kilt pete doane, so thar hain't rightfully no grudge left outstandin'. i takes up my stand on this side of thet line, along with parish thornton, an' i summonses every man thet's decent amongst ye all ter come over hyar an' stand with us. we aims ter hev our hangin' without no _dee_fault, but with a diff'rent man swingin' on ther rope!" for the space of forty seconds that seemed as many minutes a thunder-brooding tension hung in the stillness of the room--then without haste or excitement rick joyce took off his hat and dropped it to the floor. after it he flung his mask, and when he had crossed the line, he turned. "come on, men," he gave brusque and half-peremptory invitation, "this hyar's whar we b'longs at." at first they responded singly and hesitantly, but soon it was a small stampede--save for those who kept guard at the doors--and ten minutes later parish thornton stood free of limb and bas rowlett trembled, putty pale, in the centre of the room with bound wrists and a noose draped across his shoulders. "i only asks one thing of ye," faltered bas, from whose soul had oozed the last drop of manly resistance, "i come hyar ter crave this woman's pardon--i still wants ter do thet--without nobody else ter heer what i says." "ef she's willin' ter listen, we'll let ye talk," acceded squires, who found himself unchallenged spokesman now. "but we won't take no chances with ye. when ther rope's over ther limb an' everything's ready, then ye kin hev yore say." * * * * * outside the night was as gracious as had been the last, when old hump doane had sat waiting vainly for the return of his son; but across the moonlit sky drifted squadrons of fleecy cloud sails, and through the plumed head of the mighty walnut sounded the restive whisper of a breeze. the house stood squarely blocked with cobalt shadows about it, and the hills were brooding in blue-black immensities--but over the valley was a flooding wash of platinum and silver. fragrances and quiet cadences stole along the warm current, but the song of the whippoorwill was genuine now, and plaintive with a saddened sweetness. the walnut tree itself, a child of the forest that had, through generations, been the friend of man, stood like a monument in the silence and majesty of its own long memories. under its base, where the roots sank deep into the foundations of the enduring hills, slept the dead who had loved it long ago. perhaps in its pungent and aromatic sap ran something of the converted life and essence that had been their blood. its bole, five feet of stalwart diameter, rose straight and tapering to the first right-angle limbs, each in itself almost a tree. its multitude of lance-head leaves swept outward and upward in countless succession to the feathery crests that stirred seventy feet overhead--seeming to brush the large, low-hanging stars that the moon had dimmed. all was tranquil and idyllic there--until the house door opened and a line of men filed out, bringing to his shameful end a human creature who shambled with the wretchedness of broken nerves. over the lowest branch, with business-like precision, sim squires pitched a stone on the end of a long cord, and to the cord he fastened the rope's end. all that was needed now was the weight which the rope was to lift, and in the blue-ink shadow that mercifully cloaked it and made it vague they placed the bound figure of their man. chapter xxxvi as though to mask a picture of such violence the tree's heavy canopy made that spot one of stygian murk, and even the moon hid its face just then, so that the world went black, and the stars seemed more brilliant against their inky velvet. but the light had held until the grim preparations were finished, and then when bas rowlett had taken his appointed place, tethered and wearing the hempen loop, when the other end of the long line had been passed through the broken slat of the closed window shutters, where it would be held by many hands in assurance against escape, sim squires kept his promise. his followers trooped callously back into the house and he himself remained there, on watch, only until with the stiffness of a sleep walker dorothy thornton appeared for a moment in the open door and came slowly to the foot of the tree. she could scarcely see the two men shrouded there in the profundity of shadow, and she had almost walked into the one who was to die before she realized his nearness and drew back shuddering. then sim, who was holding the loose end of the rope so that it would not slacken too freely, put it in her hand and, as their fingers touched, found it icy. "ye'll hev ter take hold of this," he directed, "we've got t'other end indoors. when ye're ready for us--or should he seek ter git away--jest give hit a tight jerk or two. we won't interfere with ye ner come out till we gits thet signal--but don't suffer him ter parley overlong." then the man left her, and the woman found herself standing there in the darkness with a terrible sense of death hovering at her shoulder. for a moment neither spoke, and dorothy thornton lifted her eyes to the tree from which had always emanated an influence of peace. she needed that message of peace now. she looked at the dark human figure, robbed of its menace, robbed of all its own paltry arrogance, and the furies that had torn her ebbed and subsided into a sickness of contemptuous pity. then the cloud drifted away from the moon and the world stood again out of darkness into silvery light; the breeze that had brought that brightening brought, too, a low wailing voice from high overhead, where the walnut tree seemed to sob with some poignant suffering; seemed to strive for the articulate voice that nature had denied it. that monument to honoured dead could never shed its hallowed spirit of peace again if once it had been outraged with the indignities of a gibbet! if once it bore, instead of its own sweetly wholesome produce, that debased fruit of the gallows tree, its dignity would be forever broken! there in the flooding moonlight of the white-and-blue night it was protesting with a moan of uneasy rustling. the thing could not be tolerated--and suddenly, but clearly, dorothy knew it. this man deserved death. no false pity could blind her to that truth, and death must ride at the saddle cantle of such as he; must some day overtake him. it might overtake him to-night--but it must not be here. "bas," she broke out in a low and trembling voice of abrupt decision, "i kain't suffer hit ter happen--i kain't do hit." the varied strains and terrors of that day and night had made her voice a thing of gasps and catching breath, but while the man stood silent she gathered her scattered powers and went on, ignoring him and talking to the tree. "he needs killin', god knows," she declared, "but he mustn't die on yore branches, old roof tree--hit was love thet planted ye--an' love thet planted ye back ergin when hate hed tore ye up by ther roots--i kain't suffer ye ter be defiled!" she broke off, and somehow the voice that stirred up there seemed to alter from its note of suffering to the long-drawn sigh of relief; the calm of a tranquilized spirit. the young woman stood for a moment straight and slim, but with such an eased heart as might come from answered prayer in the cloistered dimness of a cathedral. it was, to her, a cathedral that towered there above her, with its single column; a place hallowed by mercy, a zone of sanctuary; a spot where vengeance had always been thwarted; where malevolence had failed--and her voice came in a rapt whisper. "ye stands ternight fer ther same things ye've always stud fer," she said, "ye stands fer home an' decency--fer ther restin' place of dead foreparents--an' ther bornin' of new gin'rations--fer green leaves an' happiness--an' ther only death ye gives countenance to is thet of folks thet goes straight ter god, an' not them thet's destined fer torment." inside the room the conclave maintained a grim silence. the shuttered window screened from their sight the interview to which they were submitting with a rude sense of affording the man they had condemned some substitute for extreme unction: an interval to shrive his soul with penitence and prayer. but through the opening of the broken slat, high up in the shutter which gave sliding room, passed the rope, and at its other end stood the man upon whose neck it was fixed: the man whose hands and feet were tethered and whose movements were being watched by the woman. they shifted uneasily and impatiently on their feet in there. sim squires and rick joyce standing shoulder to shoulder held the free end of the rope in their hands. the others breathed heavily and their faces were implacable, restive of this time being vouchsafed to an idea, yet steadfast in their resolve to keep the word given their victim. "she's lettin' him talk too long," growled a voice, and in monosyllables rick joyce growled back, "shet up--he'll be dead a long time." but outside dorothy had turned again to the man. "you an' yore foreparents hev plotted an' worked evil since ther fust days ther white man come hyar, bas," she declared. "thar hain't no death too shameful fer ye--an' ther hain't no hate deeper then thet i feels fer ye. ye've betrayed an' wronged me an' everybody i ever loved, an' i swore i'd kill ye myself ef need be. i'm half sorrowful i didn't do hit--but from them fust days this hyar tree hes spread peace an' safety over this house an' them thet dwelt in hit. hit's been holy like some church thet god hed blessed, an' i aims ter keep hit holy. ef they hangs ye somewhars else, i reckon they'll do simple jestice--but hit hain't goin' ter be on this tree. my child hain't ergoin' ter look up in them branches an' see no shadow of evil thar. i hain't goin' ter lay buried in hits shade some day with yore black sperit hoverin' nigh. sin ner shame hain't nuver teched hit yit. they hain't nuver ergoin' ter. ther bright sun an' ther clean wind air goin' ter come ter hit an' find hit like hit's always been. god's breath is goin' ter stir in hit ther same es hit's always done." just then a heavier cloud shut off the moonlight, and still holding the rope steadily enough to prevent its sudden jerking in premature signal, she came close to bas rowlett and ordered in clipped syllables of contempt, "turn round! i aims ter sot ye free." she handed the loose rope to the man, and knowing full well the vital need of keeping it undisturbed, he held it gingerly. the other end of that line still rested in the hands of his executioners, who waited with no suspicion of any confederacy between their victim and the woman. dorothy loosened the noose and slipped it from his neck, and her fingers busied themselves nervously with his wrist-knots. she worked fast and anxiously, for she had promised to set frugal limits on the duration of that interview and the interval of clouded darkness was precious, but while she freed the cords, she talked: "i hain't doin' this fer yore sake, bas. ye richly merits ter die--an' i misdoubts ef ye escapes fur--but i hain't ergoin' ter suffer ye ter contam'nate this tree--an' i aims ter give ye a few minutes' start, ef i kin." now she rose from the ankle fetters and the man took a step, to find himself free. "begone," ordered the woman, tensely. "don't tarry--an' don't nuver let me see ye ergin'!" she saw him cross the fence in the heavy shadow, hardly discernible even to her straining eyes that had grown accustomed to the dark. she heard the light clatter of his feet and knew that he was running, with the speed and desperation of a hounded deer, then she straightened and lifted her eyes to the rustling masses of cool serenity overhead. across the ranges came a warm, damp scent that promised rain, and the clouds once more parted bringing the tranquil magic of a silver-toned nocturne. the tree stood with its loftiest plumes moving lightly, as though brushing the heavens, where the clouds were flakes of opal fleece. then the breeze stiffened a little and the branches swayed with an enhancement of movement and sound--and the murmur was that of a benediction. dorothy waited as long as she dared, and her soul was quiet despite the anger which she knew would shortly burst in an eruption over the threshold of her house. when she had stretched her allotted interval to its limit she gave the rope its designated signal of jerk, and saw the door swing to disgorge its impatient humanity. she saw them coming with lanterns held high, saw them halt halfway, and heard their outbursts of angry dismay when the yellow light revealed to them the absence of the victim they had left in her keeping. but dorothy turned and stood with her back against the great trunk and her fingers clutching at its seamed bark, and there she felt the confidence of sanctuary. "i couldn't suffer hit--ter happen hyar," she told them in a steady voice. "us two was married under this old tree--hit's like a church ter me--i couldn't let no man hang on hit--i turned him loose." for an instant she thought that sim squires would leap upon her with all the transferred rage that she had thwarted on the eve of its glutting. the others, too, seemed to crouch, poised, waiting for their cue and signal from sim, but parish thornton came over and took her in his arms. then with an abrupt transition of mood sim squires wheeled to his waiting cohorts. "men," he shouted, "we kain't handily blame her--she's a woman, an' i honours her fer bein' tenderhearted, but any other tree'll do jest as well! he kain't hev got fur off yit. scatter out an' rake ther woods." she saw them piling over the fence like a pack of human hounds, and she shuddered. the last man carried the rope, which he had paused to pull from the limb. they had already forgotten her and the man they had come to kill. they were running on a fresh scent, and were animated with renewed eagerness. for a few minutes the two stood silent, then to their ears came a shout, and though he said nothing, the husband thought he recognized the piercing shrillness of the hunchback's voice and the resonant tones of the sheriff. he wondered if hump doane had belatedly received an inkling of that night's work and gathered a posse at his back. there followed a shot--then a fusilade. but parish thornton closed dorothy in his arms and they stood alone. "ther old tree's done worked hits magic ergin, honey," he whispered, "an' this time i reckon ther spell will last so long es we lives." the end [illustration] the country life press, garden city, n. y. the roof tree _by_ charles neville buck _author of "the tempering," "the call of the cumberlands," "the clan call," etc._ the very breath of the kentucky hills is in charles neville buck's novels. in interpreting its elemental life, and its big-boned and big-hearted people, he takes his place beside john fox, jr. here he tells a tale, the beginnings of which are laid several generations in the past. then the roof tree was planted, a token of love to celebrate the wedding of thornton and the first dorothy parrish. but the same soil held the blood-watered seed of feud war, and now it was bringing forth bitter fruit again, in the romance of the new dorothy parrish and thornton's descendant. under the name of cal maggard he had fled from virginia, where, with the juries packed against him, justice would have been a travesty. in self-defense his sister had killed her husband, and he had taken the guilt. he sought only a refuge. returning from a friendly visit to his neighbor's where he met dorothy, he found nailed to his door, a threat of death if he repeated the visit. what follows; the strange reopening of an ancient feud, the treachery and hatred--and the conquering loyalty and love; and how in its course, war ends forever in these mountains, makes a story of compelling power and tensity. proofreading team. html version by al haines. vendetta a story of one forgotten by marie corelli author of "ardath," "thelma," "a romance of two worlds," "wormwood," etc., etc. preface lest those who read the following pages should deem this story at all improbable, it is perhaps necessary to say that its chief incidents are founded on an actual occurrence which took place in naples during the last scathing visitation of the cholera in . we know well enough, by the chronicle of daily journalism, that the infidelity of wives is, most unhappily, becoming common--far too common for the peace and good repute of society. not so common is an outraged husband's vengeance--not often dare he take the law into his own hands--for in england, at least, such boldness on his part would doubtless be deemed a worse crime than that by which he personally is doomed to suffer. but in italy things are on a different footing--the verbosity and red-tape of the law, and the hesitating verdict of special juries, are not there considered sufficiently efficacious to soothe a man's damaged honor and ruined name. and thus--whether right or wrong--it often happens that strange and awful deeds are perpetrated--deeds of which the world in general hears nothing, and which, when brought to light at last, are received with surprise and incredulity. yet the romances planned by the brain of the novelist or dramatist are poor in comparison with the romances of real life--life wrongly termed commonplace, but which, in fact, teems with tragedies as great and dark and soul-torturing as any devised by sophocles or shakespeare. nothing is more strange than truth--nothing, at times, more terrible! marie corelli. august, . vendetta! chapter i. i, who write this, am a dead man. dead legally--dead by absolute proofs--dead and buried! ask for me in my native city and they will tell you i was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged naples in , and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of my ancestors. yet--i live! i feel the warm blood coursing through my veins--the blood of thirty summers--the prime of early manhood invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and bright--these muscles strong as iron--this hand powerful of grip--this well-knit form erect and proud of bearing. yes!--i am alive, though declared to be dead; alive in the fullness of manly force--and even sorrow has left few distinguishing marks upon me, save one. my hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever. "a constitutional inheritance?" asks one physician, observing my frosted locks. "a sudden shock?" suggests another. "exposure to intense heat?" hints a third. i answer none of them. i did so once. i told my story to a man i met by chance--one renowned for medical skill and kindliness. he heard me to the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the possibility of madness. since then i have never spoken. but now i write. i am far from all persecution--i can set down the truth fearlessly. i can dip the pen in my own blood if i choose, and none shall gainsay me! for the green silence of a vast south american forest encompasses me--the grand and stately silence of a virginal nature, almost unbroken by the ruthless step of man's civilization--a haven of perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the fluttering wings and soft voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy murmur of the freeborn winds of heaven. within this charmed circle of rest i dwell--here i lift up my overburdened heart like a brimming chalice, and empty it on the ground, to the last drop of gall contained therein. the world shall know my history. dead, and yet living! how can that be?--you ask. ah, my friends! if you seek to be rid of your dead relations for a certainty, you should have their bodies cremated. otherwise there is no knowing what may happen! cremation is the best way--the only way. it is clean, and safe. why should there be any prejudice against it? surely it is better to give the remains of what we loved (or pretended to love) to cleansing fire and pure air than to lay them in a cold vault of stone, or down, down in the wet and clinging earth. for loathly things are hidden deep in the mold--things, foul and all unnameable--long worms--slimy creatures with blind eyes and useless wings--abortions and deformities of the insect tribe born of poisonous vapor--creatures the very sight of which would drive you, oh, delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would provoke even you, oh, strong man, to a shudder of repulsion! but there is a worse thing than these merely physical horrors which come of so-called christian burial--that is, the terrible uncertainty. what, if after we have lowered the narrow strong box containing our dear deceased relation into its vault or hollow in the ground--what, if after we have worn a seemly garb of woe, and tortured our faces into the fitting expression of gentle and patient melancholy--what, i say, if after all the reasonable precautions taken to insure safety, they should actually prove insufficient? what--if the prison to which we have consigned the deeply regretted one should not have such close doors as we fondly imagined? what, if the stout coffin should be wrenched apart by fierce and frenzied fingers--what, if our late dear friend should not be dead, but should, like lazarus of old, come forth to challenge our affection anew? should we not grieve sorely that we had failed to avail ourselves of the secure and classical method of cremation? especially if we had benefited by worldly goods or money left to us by the so deservedly lamented! for we are self-deceiving hypocrites--few of us are really sorry for the dead--few of us remember them with any real tenderness or affection. and yet god knows! they may need more pity than we dream of! but let me to my task. i, fabio romani, lately deceased, am about to chronicle the events of one short year--a year in which was compressed the agony of a long and tortured life-time! one little year!--one sharp thrust from the dagger of time! it pierced my heart--the wound still gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls! one suffering, common to many, i have never known--that is--poverty. i was born rich. when my father, count filippo romani, died, leaving me, then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions--sole head of his powerful house--there were many candid friends who, with their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future. nay, there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation--and they were estimable persons too. they were respectably connected--their words carried weight--and for a time i was an object of their maliciously pious fears. i was destined, according to their calculations, to be a gambler, a spendthrift, a drunkard, an incurable roue of the most abandoned character. yet, strange to say, i became none of these things. though a neapolitan, with all the fiery passions and hot blood of my race, i had an innate scorn for the contemptible vices and low desires of the unthinking vulgar. gambling seemed to me a delirious folly--drink, a destroyer of health and reason--and licentious extravagance an outrage on the poor. i chose my own way of life--a middle course between simplicity and luxury--a judicious mingling of home-like peace with the gayety of sympathetic social intercourse--an even tenor of intelligent existence which neither exhausted the mind nor injured the body. i dwelt in my father's villa--a miniature palace of white marble, situated on a wooded height overlooking the bay of naples. my pleasure-grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their love-melodies to the golden moon. sparkling fountains rose and fell in huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their cool murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest summer air. in this retreat i lived at peace for some happy years, surrounded by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends--young men whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were capable of equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or the flavor of a rare vintage. of women i saw little or nothing. truth to tell, i instinctively avoided them. parents with marriageable daughters invited me frequently to their houses, but these invitations i generally refused. my best books warned me against feminine society--and i believed and accepted the warning. this tendency of mine exposed me to the ridicule of those among my companions who were amorously inclined, but their gay jests at what they termed my "weakness" never affected me. i trusted in friendship rather than love, and i had a friend--one for whom at that time i would gladly have laid down my life--one who inspired me with the most profound attachment. he, guido ferrari, also joined occasionally with others in the good-natured mockery i brought down upon myself by my shrinking dislike of women. "fie on thee, fabio!" he would cry. "thou wilt not taste life till thou hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rose-red lips--thou shalt not guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down into the fathomless glory of a maiden's eyes--thou canst not know delight till thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and heard the beating of a passionate heart against thine own! a truce to thy musty volumes! believe it, those ancient and sorrowful philosophers had no manhood in them--their blood was water--and their slanders against women were but the pettish utterances of their own deserved disappointments. those who miss the chief prize of life would fain persuade others that it is not worth having. what, man! thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay smile, a supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love? what says voltaire of the blind god? "'qui que tu sois voila ton maitre, il fut--il est--ou il doit etre!'" when my friend spoke thus i smiled, but answered nothing. his arguments failed to convince me. yet i loved to hear him talk--his voice was mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an eloquence greater than all speech. i loved him--god knows! unselfishly, sincerely--with that rare tenderness sometimes felt by schoolboys for one another, but seldom experienced by grown men. i was happy in his society, as he, indeed, appeared to be in mine. we passed most of our time together, he, like myself, having been bereaved of his parents in early youth, and therefore left to shape out his own course of life as suited his particular fancy. he chose art as a profession, and, though a fairly successful painter, was as poor as i was rich. i remedied this neglect of fortune for him in various ways with due forethought and delicacy--and gave him as many commissions as i possibly could without rousing his suspicion or wounding his pride. for he possessed a strong attraction for me--we had much the same tastes, we shared the same sympathies, in short, i desired nothing better than his confidence and companionship. in this world no one, however harmless, is allowed to continue happy. fate--or caprice--cannot endure to see us monotonously at rest. something perfectly trivial--a look, a word, a touch, and lo! a long chain of old associations is broken asunder, and the peace we deemed so deep and lasting is finally interrupted. this change came to me, as surely as it comes to all. one day--how well i remember it!--one sultry evening toward the end of may, , i was in naples. i had passed the afternoon in my yacht, idly and slowly sailing over the bay, availing myself of what little wind there was. guido's absence (he had gone to rome on a visit of some weeks' duration) rendered me somewhat of a solitary, and as my light craft ran into harbor, i found myself in a pensive, half-uncertain mood, which brought with it its own depression. the few sailors who manned my vessel dispersed right and left as soon as they were landed--each to his own favorite haunts of pleasure or dissipation--but i was in no humor to be easily amused. though i had plenty of acquaintance in the city, i cared little for such entertainment as they could offer me. as i strolled along through one of the principal streets, considering whether or not i should return on foot to my own dwelling on the heights, i heard a sound of singing, and perceived in the distance a glimmer of white robes. it was the month of mary, and i at once concluded that this must be an approaching procession of the virgin. half in idleness, half in curiosity, i stood still and waited. the singing voices came nearer and nearer--i saw the priests, the acolytes, the swinging gold censers heavy with fragrance, the flaring candles, the snowy veils of children and girls--and then all suddenly the picturesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a whirling blur of brilliancy and color from which looked forth--one face! one face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses--one face of rose-tinted, childlike loveliness--a loveliness absolutely perfect, lighted up by two luminous eyes, large and black as night--one face in which the small, curved mouth smiled half provokingly, half sweetly! i gazed and gazed again, dazzled and excited, beauty makes such fools of us all! this was a woman--one of the sex i mistrusted and avoided--a woman in the earliest spring of her youth, a girl of fifteen or sixteen at the utmost. her veil had been thrown back by accident or design, and for one brief moment i drank in that soul-tempting glance, that witch-like smile! the procession passed--the vision faded--but in that breath of time one epoch of my life had closed forever, and another had begun! * * * * * of course i married her. we neapolitans lose no time in such matters. we are not prudent. unlike the calm blood of englishmen, ours rushes swiftly through our veins--it is warm as wine and sunlight, and needs no fictitious stimulant. we love, we desire, we possess; and then? we tire, you say? these southern races are so fickle! all wrong--we are less tired than you deem. and do not englishmen tire? have they no secret ennui at times when sitting in the chimney nook of "home, sweet home," with their fat wives and ever-spreading families? truly, yes! but they are too cautious to say so. i need not relate the story of my courtship--it was brief and sweet as a song sung perfectly. there were no obstacles. the girl i sought was the only daughter of a ruined florentine noble of dissolute character, who gained a bare subsistence by frequenting the gaming-tables. his child had been brought up in a convent renowned for strict discipline--she knew nothing of the world. she was, he assured me, with maudlin tears in his eyes, "as innocent as a flower on the altar of the madonna." i believed him--for what could this lovely, youthful, low-voiced maiden know of even the shadow of evil? i was eager to gather so fair a lily for my own proud wearing--and her father gladly gave her to me, no doubt inwardly congratulating himself on the wealthy match that had fallen to the lot of his dowerless daughter. we were married at the end of june, and guido ferrari graced our bridal with his handsome and gallant presence. "by the body of bacchus!" he exclaimed to me when the nuptial ceremony was over, "thou hast profited by my teaching, fabio! a quiet rogue is often most cunning! thou hast rifled the casket of venus, and stolen her fairest jewel--thou hast secured the loveliest maiden in the two sicilies!" i pressed his hand, and a touch of remorse stole over me, for he was no longer first in my affection. almost i regretted it--yes, on my very wedding-morn i looked back to the old days--old now though so recent--and sighed to think they were ended. i glanced at nina, my wife. it was enough! her beauty dazzled and overcame me. the melting languor of her large limpid eyes stole into my veins--i forgot all but her. i was in that high delirium of passion in which love, and love only, seems the keynote of creation. i touched the topmost peak of the height of joy--the days were feasts of fairy-land, the nights dreams of rapture! no; i never tired! my wife's beauty never palled upon me; she grew fairer with each day of possession. i never saw her otherwise than attractive, and within a few months she had probed all the depths of my nature. she discovered how certain sweet looks of hers could draw me to her side, a willing and devoted slave; she measured my weakness with her own power; she knew--what did she not know? i torture myself with these foolish memories. all men past the age of twenty have learned somewhat of the tricks of women--the pretty playful nothings that weaken the will and sap the force of the strongest hero. she loved me? oh, yes, i suppose so! looking back on those days, i can frankly say i believe she loved me--as nine hundred wives out of a thousand love their husbands, namely--for what they can get. and i grudged her nothing. if i chose to idolize her, and raise her to the stature of an angel when she was but on the low level of mere womanhood, that was my folly, not her fault. we kept open house. our villa was a place of rendezvous for the leading members of the best society in and around naples. my wife was universally admired; her lovely face and graceful manners were themes of conversation throughout the whole neighborhood. guido ferrari, my friend, was one of those who were loudest in her praise, and the chivalrous homage he displayed toward her doubly endeared him to me. i trusted him as a brother; he came and went as pleased him; he brought nina gifts of flowers and fanciful trifles adapted to her taste, and treated her with fraternal and delicate kindness. i deemed my happiness perfect--with love, wealth, and friendship, what more could a man desire? yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. on the first morning of may, , our child was born--a girl-babe, fair as one of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the woods surrounding our home. they brought the little one to me in the shaded veranda where i sat at breakfast with guido--a tiny, almost shapeless bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace. i took the fragile thing in my arms with a tender reverence; it opened its eyes; they were large and dark like nina's, and the light of a recent heaven seemed still to linger in their pure depths. i kissed the little face; guido did the same; and those clear, quiet eyes regarded us both with a strange half-inquiring solemnity. a bird perched on a bough of jasmine broke into a low, sweet song, the soft wind blew and scattered the petals of a white rose at our feet. i gave the infant back to the nurse, who waited to receive it, and said, with a smile, "tell my wife we have welcomed her may-blossom." guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired; his face was unusually pale. "thou art a good fellow, fabio!" he said, abruptly. "indeed! how so?" i asked, half laughingly; "i am no better than other men." "you are less suspicious than the majority," he returned, turning away from me and playing idly with a spray of clematis that trailed on one of the pillars of the veranda. i glanced at him in surprise. "what do you mean, amico? have i reason to suspect any one?" he laughed and resumed his seat at the breakfast-table. "why, no!" he answered, with a frank look. "but in naples the air is pregnant with suspicion--jealousy's dagger is ever ready to strike, justly or unjustly--the very children are learned in the ways of vice. penitents confess to priests who are worse than penitents, and by heaven! in such a state of society, where conjugal fidelity is a farce"--he paused a moment, and then went on--"is it not wonderful to know a man like you, fabio? a man happy in home affections, without a cloud on the sky of his confidence?" "i have no cause for distrust," i said. "nina is as innocent as the little child of whom she is to-day the mother." "true!" exclaimed ferrari. "perfectly true!" and he looked me full in the eyes, with a smile. "white as the virgin snow on the summit of mont blanc--purer than the flawless diamond--and unapproachable as the furthest star! is it not so?" i assented with a certain gravity; something in his manner puzzled me. our conversation soon turned on different topics, and i thought no more of the matter. but a time came--and that speedily--when i had stern reason to remember every word he had uttered. chapter ii. every one knows what kind of summer we had in naples in . the newspapers of all lands teemed with the story of its horrors. the cholera walked abroad like a destroying demon; under its withering touch scores of people, young and old, dropped down in the streets to die. the fell disease, born of dirt and criminal neglect of sanitary precautions, gained on the city with awful rapidity, and worse even than the plague was the unreasoning but universal panic. the never-to-be-forgotten heroism of king humbert had its effect on the more educated classes, but among the low neapolitan populace, abject fear, vulgar superstition, and utter selfishness reigned supreme. one case may serve as an example of many others. a fisherman, well known in the place, a handsome and popular young fellow, was seized, while working in his boat, with the first symptoms of cholera. he was carried to his mother's house. the old woman, a villainous-looking hag, watched the little procession as it approached her dwelling, and taking in the situation at once, she shut and barricaded her door. "santissima madonna!" she yelled, shrilly, through a half-opened window. "leave him in the street, the abandoned, miserable one! the ungrateful pig! he would bring the plague to his own hard-working, honest mother! holy joseph! who would have children? leave him in the street, i tell you!" it was useless to expostulate with this feminine scarecrow; her son was, happily for himself, unconscious, and after some more wrangling he was laid down on her doorstep, where he shortly afterward expired, his body being afterward carted away like so much rubbish by the beccamorti. the heat in the city was intense. the sky was a burning dome of brilliancy, the bay was still as a glittering sheet of glass. a thin column of smoke issuing from the crater of vesuvius increased the impression of an all-pervading, though imperceptible ring of fire, that seemed to surround the place. no birds sung save in the late evening, when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in a bubbling torrent of melody, half joyous, half melancholy. up on that wooded height where i dwelt it was comparatively cool. i took all precautions necessary to prevent the contagion from attacking our household; in fact, i would have left the neighborhood altogether, had i not known that hasty flight from an infected district often carries with it the possibility of closer contact with the disease. my wife, besides, was not nervous--i think very beautiful women seldom are. their superb vanity is an excellent shield to repel pestilence; it does away with the principal element of danger--fear. as for our stella, a toddling mite of two years old, she was a healthy child, for whom neither her mother nor myself entertained the least anxiety. guido ferrari came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt-loving neapolitans by hundreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants, none of whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and retired early, and enjoyed the most perfect health. among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful and well-trained voice. she sung with exquisite expression, and many an evening when guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little stella had gone to bed, nina would ravish our ears with the music of her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint stornelli and ritornelli--songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty. in these guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain with the trill of a bird. i can hear those two voices now; their united melody still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of orange-blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the king of thule's goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again i behold those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my wife, my friend--those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me than my own. ah! they were happy days--days of self-delusion always are. we are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our dream--yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it. august was the most terrible of all the summer months in naples. the cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to be literally mad with terror. some of them, seized with a wild spirit of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a reckless disregard of consequences. one of these frantic revels took place at a well-known cafe. eight young men, accompanied by eight girls of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they were served with a sumptuous repast. at its close one of the party raised his glass and proposed, "success to the cholera!" the toast was received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with delirious laughter. that very night every one of the revelers died in horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose. dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not morbidly impressed by them. stella was a living charm against pestilence; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and mentally wholesome. one morning--one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month--i woke at an earlier hour than usual. a suggestion of possible coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. my wife slept soundly at my side. i dressed softly, without disturbing her. as i was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look at her once more. how lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep! my heart beat as i gazed--she had been mine for three years--mine only!--and my passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to that length of time. i raised one of the scattered golden locks that lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly. then--all unconscious of my fate--i left her. a faint breeze greeted me as i sauntered slowly along the garden walks--a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat of the past night. i was at that time absorbed in the study of plato, and as i walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and deep questions suggested by that great teacher. lost in a train of profound yet pleasant thought, i strayed on further than i intended, and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household--a winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. it was shady and cool, and i followed the road almost unconsciously, till i caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage of the overarching trees. i was then about to retrace my steps, when i was startled by a sudden sound. it was a low moan of intense pain--a smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. i turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on the grass, a boy--a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of age. his basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, grapes, pomegranates, and melons--lovely but dangerous eating in cholera times. i touched the lad on the shoulder. "what ails you?" i asked. he twisted himself convulsively and turned his face toward me--a beautiful face, though livid with anguish. "the plague, signor!" he moaned; "the plague! keep away from me, for the love of god! i am dying!" i hesitated. for myself i had no fear. but my wife--my child--for their sakes it was necessary to be prudent. yet i could not leave this poor boy unassisted. i resolved to go to the harbor in search of medical aid. with this idea in my mind i spoke cheerfully. "courage, my boy," i said; "do not lose heart! all illness is not the plague. rest here till i return; i am going to fetch a doctor." the little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and tried to smile. he pointed to his throat, and made an effort to speak, but vainly. then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in torture like a hunted animal wounded to the death. i left him and walked on rapidly; reaching the harbor, where the heat was sulphurous and intense, i found a few scared-looking men standing aimlessly about, to whom i explained the boy's case, and appealed for assistance. they all hung back--none of them would accompany me, not even for the gold i offered. cursing their cowardice, i hurried on in search of a physician, and found one at last, a sallow frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my account of the condition in which i had left the little fruit-seller, and at the end shook his head decisively, and refused to move. "he is as good as dead," he observed, with cold brevity. "better call at the house of the miserecordia; the brethren will fetch his body." "what!" i cried; "you will not try if you can save him?" the frenchman bowed with satirical suavity. "monsieur must pardon me! my own health would be seriously endangered by touching a cholera corpse. allow me to wish monsieur the good-day!" and he disappeared, shutting his door in my face. i was thoroughly exasperated, and though the heat and the fetid odor of the sun-baked streets made me feel faint and sick, i forgot all danger for myself as i stood in the plague-stricken city, wondering what i should do next to obtain succor. a grave, kind voice saluted my ear. "you seek aid, my son?" i looked up. a tall monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pale, but resolute features, stood at my side--one of those heroes who, for the love of christ, came forth at that terrible time and faced the pestilence fearlessly, where the blatant boasters of no-religion scurried away like frightened hares from the very scent of danger. i greeted him with an obeisance, and explained my errand. "i will go at once," he said, with an accent of pity in his voice. "but i fear the worst. i have remedies with me; i may not be too late." "i will accompany you," i said, eagerly. "one would not let a dog die unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless." the monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together. "you are not residing in naples?" he asked. i gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position of my villa. "up on that height we enjoy perfect health," i added. "i cannot understand the panic that prevails in the city. the plague is fostered by such cowardice." "of course!" he answered, calmly. "but what will you? the people here love pleasure. their hearts are set solely on this life. when death, common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark shadow. religion itself"--here he sighed deeply--"has no hold upon them." "but you, my father," i began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a sharp throbbing pain in my temples. "i," he answered, gravely, "am the servant of christ. as such, the plague has no terrors for me. unworthy as i am, for my master's sake i am ready--nay, willing--to face all deaths." he spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. i looked at him in a certain admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame me, and i caught at his arm to save myself from falling. the street rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in circles of blue fire. the feeling slowly passed, and i heard the monk's voice, as though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously what was the matter. i forced a smile. "it is the heat, i think," i said, in feeble tones like those of a very aged man. "i am faint--giddy. you had best leave me here--see to the boy. oh, my god!" this last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. my limbs refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the pavement in a kind of convulsion. the tall and sinewy monk, without a moment's hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes. here he placed me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known. though suffering acutely i was conscious, and could hear and see everything that passed. "attend to him well, pietro--it is the rich count fabio romani. thou wilt not lose by thy pains. i will return within an hour." "the count romani! santissima madonna! he has caught the plague!" "thou fool!" exclaimed the monk, fiercely. "how canst thou tell? a stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! see to him, or by st. peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!" the trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head. the monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal mixture, which i swallowed mechanically. "rest here, my son," he said, addressing me in soothing tones. "these people are good-natured. i will but hasten to the boy for whom you sought assistance--in less than an hour i will be with you again." i laid a detaining hand on his arm. "stay," i murmured, feebly, "let me know the worst. is this the plague?" "i hope not!" he replied, compassionately. "but what if it be? you are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear." "i have no fear," i said. "but, father, promise me one thing--send no word of my illness to my wife--swear it! even if i am unconscious--dead--swear that i shall not be taken to the villa. swear it! i cannot rest till i have your word." "i swear it most willingly, my son," he answered, solemnly. "by all i hold sacred, i will respect your wishes." i was infinitely relieved--the safety of those i loved was assured--and i thanked him by a mute gesture. i was too weak to say more. he disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. let me try to revolve these delusions. i plainly see the interior of the common room where i lie. there is the timid innkeeper--he polishes his glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my direction. groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry away. i observe all this--i know where i am--yet i am also climbing the steep passes of an alpine gorge--the cold snow is at my feet--i hear the rush and roar of a thousand torrents. a crimson cloud floats above the summit of a white glacier--it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright center a face smiles forth! "nina! my love, my wife, my soul!" i cry aloud. i stretch out my arms--i clasp her!--bah! it is this good rogue of an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! i struggle with him fiercely--pantingly. "fool!" i shriek in his ear. "let me go to her--her lips pout for kisses--let me go!" another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back on the pillows--they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible exhaustion steals away my strength. i cease to struggle. pietro and his assistant look down upon me. "e morto!" they whisper one to the other. i hear them and smile. dead? not i! the scorching sunlight streams through the open door of the inn--the thirsty flies buzz with persistent loudness--some voices are singing "la fata di amalfi"--i can distinguish the words-- "chiagnaro la mia sventura si non tuorne chiu, rosella! tu d' amalfi la chiu bella, tu na fata si pe me! viene, vie, regina mie, viene curre a chisto core, ca non c'e non c'e sciore, non c'e stella comm'a te!" [footnote: a popular song in the neapolitan dialect.] that is a true song, nina mia! "non c'e stella comm' a te!" what did guido say? "purer than the flawless diamond--unapproachable as the furthest star!" that foolish pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. i see him--his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but i cannot understand how he comes to be here at all, for i am on the banks of a tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie asleep in the sun. their large jaws are open--their small eyes glitter greenly. a light boat glides over the silent water--in it i behold the erect lithe figure of an indian. his features are strangely similar to those of guido. he draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he approaches. brave fellow!--he means to attack single-handed the cruel creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. he springs to land--i watch him with a weird fascination. he passes the alligators--he seems not to be aware of their presence--he comes with swift, unhesitating step to me--it is i whom he seeks--it is in my heart that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping with blood! once--twice--thrice!--and yet i cannot die! i writhe--i moan in bitter anguish! then something dark comes between me and the glaring sun--something cool and shadowy, against which i fling myself despairingly. two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice speaks: "be calm, my son, be calm. commend thyself to christ!" it is my friend the monk. i recognize him gladly. he has returned from his errand of mercy. though i can scarcely speak, i hear myself asking for news of the boy. the holy man crosses himself devoutly. "may his young soul rest in peace! i found him dead." i am dreamily astonished at this. dead--so soon! i cannot understand it; and i drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. as i look back now to that time, i find i have no specially distinct recollection of what afterward happened to me. i know i suffered intense, intolerable pain--that i was literally tortured on a rack of excruciating anguish--and that through all the delirium of my senses i heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. i have an idea that i also heard the tinkle of the bell that accompanies the host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each moment, and i cannot be certain of this. i remember shrieking out after what seemed an eternity of pain, "not to the villa! no, no, not there! you shall not take me--my curse on him who disobeys me!" i remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep whirlpool, from whence i stretched up appealing hands and eyes to the monk who stood above me--i caught a drowning glimpse of a silver crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry for help, i sunk--down--down! into an abyss of black night and nothingness! chapter iii. there followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. i seemed to have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and obscurity. dream-like images still flitted before my fancy--these were at first undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain shapes. strange fluttering creatures hovered about me--lonely eyes stared at me from a visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers grasping at nothing made signs to me of warning or menace. then--very gradually, there dawned upon my sense of vision a cloudy red mist like a stormy sunset, and from the middle of the blood-like haze a huge black hand descended toward me. it pounced upon my chest--it grasped my throat in its monstrous clutch, and held me down with a weight of iron. i struggled violently--i strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me all power of utterance. i twisted myself to right and left in an endeavor to escape--but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on all sides. yet i continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force that strove to overwhelm me--little by little--inch by inch--so! at last! one more struggle--victory! i woke! merciful god! where was i? in what horrible atmosphere--in what dense darkness? slowly, as my senses returned to me, i remembered my recent illness. the monk--the man pietro--where were they? what had they done to me? by degrees, i realized that i was lying straight down upon my back--the couch was surely very hard? why had they taken the pillows from under my head? a pricking sensation darted through my veins--i felt my own hands curiously--they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully. but what was this that hindered my breathing? air--air! i must have air! i put up my hands--horror! they struck against a hard opposing substance above me. quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! i had been buried--buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a coffin! a frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift possession of me--with hands and nails i tore and scratched at the accursed boards--with all the force of my shoulders and arms i toiled to wrench open the closed lid! my efforts were fruitless! i grew more ferociously mad with rage and terror. how easy were all deaths compared to one like this! i was suffocating--i felt my eyes start from their sockets--blood sprung from my mouth and nostrils--and icy drops of sweat trickled from my forehead. i paused, gasping for breath. then, suddenly nerving myself for one more wild effort, i hurled my limbs with all the force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison. it cracked--it split asunder!--and then--a new and horrid fear beset me, and i crouched back, panting heavily. if--if i were buried in the ground--so ran my ghastly thoughts--of what use to break open the coffin and let in the mold--the damp wormy mold, rich with the bones of the dead--the penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth and eyes, and seal me into silence forever! my mind quailed at this idea--my brain tottered on the verge of madness! i laughed--think of it!--and my laugh sounded in my ears like the last rattle in the throat of a dying man. but i could breathe more easily--even in the stupefaction of my fears--i was conscious of air. yes!--the blessed air had rushed in somehow. revived and encouraged as i recognized this fact, i felt with both hands till i found the crevice i had made, and then with frantic haste and strength i pulled and dragged at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the coffin gave way, and i was able to force up the lid. i stretched out my arms--no weight of earth impeded their movements--i felt nothing but air--empty air. yielding to my first strong impulse, i leaped out of the hateful box, and fell--fell some little distance, bruising my hands and knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. something weighty fell also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. the darkness was impenetrable. but there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was cool and refreshing. with some pain and difficulty i raised myself to a sitting position where i had fallen. my limbs were stiff and cramped as well as wounded, and i shivered as with strong ague. but my senses were clear--the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts became even and connected--my previous mad excitement gradually calmed, and i began to consider my condition. i had certainly been buried alive--there was no doubt of that. intense pain had, i suppose, resolved itself into a long trance of unconsciousness--the people of the inn where i had been taken ill had at once believed me to be dead of cholera, and with the panic-stricken, indecent haste common in all italy, especially at a time of plague, had thrust me into one of those flimsy coffins which were then being manufactured by scores in naples--mere shells of thin deal, nailed together with clumsy hurry and fear. but how i blessed their wretched construction! had i been laid in a stronger casket, who knows if even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have proved unavailing! i shuddered at the thought. yet the question remained--where was i? i reviewed my case from all points, and for some time could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. stay, though! i remembered that i had told the monk my name; he knew that i was the only descendant of the rich romani family. what followed? why, naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon him to do. he had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors--the great romani vault that had never been opened since my father's body was carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and magnificence of a wealthy nobleman's funeral obsequies. the more i thought of this the more probable it seemed. the romani vault! its forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when i followed my father's coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and i had turned my eyes away in shuddering pain when i was told to look at the heavy oaken casket hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished silver, which contained all that was left of my mother, who died young. i had felt sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered myself when i stood out again in the free air with the blue dome of heaven high above me. and now i was shut in the same vault--a prisoner--with what hope of escape? i reflected. the entrance to the vault, i remembered, was barred by a heavy door of closely twisted iron--from thence a flight of steep steps led downward--downward to where in all probability i now was. suppose i could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to that door--of what avail? it was locked--nay, barred--and as it was situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days--perhaps not for weeks. then must i starve? or die of thirst? tortured by these imaginings, i rose up from the pavement and stood erect. my feet were bare, and the cold stone on which i stood chilled me to the marrow. it was fortunate for me, i thought, that they had buried me as a cholera corpse--they had left me half-clothed for fear of infection. that is, i had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking trousers. something there was, too, round my neck; i felt it, and as i did so a flood of sweet and sorrowful memories rushed over me. it was a slight gold chain, and on it hung a locket containing the portraits of my wife and child. i drew it out in the darkness; i covered it with passionate kisses and tears--the first i had shed since my death--like trance-tears scalding and bitter welled into my eyes. life was worth living while nina's smile lightened the world! i resolved to fight for existence, no matter what dire horrors should be yet in store for me. nina--my love--my beautiful one! her face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of the charnel-house; her eyes beckoned me--her young faithful eyes that were now, i felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. i seemed to see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty silence of the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between herself and me; her lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and haggard with the bitterness of grief! baby stella, too, no doubt she would wonder, poor innocent! why i did not come to swing her as usual under the orange boughs. and guido--brave and true friend! i thought of him with tenderness. i felt i knew how deep and lasting would be his honest regret for my loss. oh, i would leave no means of escape untried; i would find some way out of this grim vault! how overjoyed they would all be to see me again--to know that i was not dead after all! what a welcome i should receive! how nina would nestle into my arms; how my little child would cling to me; how guido would clasp me by the hand! i smiled as i pictured the scene of rejoicing at the dear old villa--the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and faithful love! a deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me--one! two! three! i counted the strokes up to twelve. it was some church bell tolling the hour. my pleasing fancies dispersed--i again faced the drear reality of my position. twelve o'clock! midday or midnight? i could not tell. i began to calculate. it was early morning when i had been taken ill--not much past eight when i had met the monk and sought his assistance for the poor little fruit-seller who had after all perished alone in his sufferings. now supposing my illness had lasted some hours, i might have fallen into a trance--died--as those around me had thought, somewhere about noon. in that case they would certainly have buried me with as little delay as possible--before sunset at all events. thinking these points over one by one, i came to the conclusion that the bell i had just heard must have struck midnight--the midnight of the very day of my burial. i shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over me. i have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in spite of my education, i am somewhat superstitious--what neapolitan is not? it runs in the southern blood. and there was something unutterably fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of his ancestors close within reach of his hand! i tried to conquer my feelings--to summon up my fortitude. i endeavored to reason out the best method of escape. i resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps of the vault, and with this idea in my mind i put out my hands and began to move along slowly and with the utmost care. what was that? i stopped; i listened; the blood curdled in my veins! a shrill cry, piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches of my tomb. a cold perspiration broke out all over my body--my heart beat so loudly that i could hear it thumping against my ribs. again--again--that weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. i breathed again. "it is an owl," i said to myself, ashamed of my fears; "a poor innocent bird--a companion and watcher of the dead, and therefore its voice is full of sorrowful lamentation--but it is harmless," and i crept on with increased caution. suddenly out of the dense darkness there stared two large yellow eyes, glittering with fiendish hunger and cruelty. for a moment i was startled, and stepped back; the creature flew at me with the ferocity of a tiger-cat! i fought with the horrible thing in all directions; it wheeled round my head, it pounced toward my face, it beat me with its large wings--wings that i could feel but not see; the yellow eyes alone shone in the thick gloom like the eyes of some vindictive demon! i struck at it right and left--the revolting combat lasted some moments--i grew sick and dizzy, yet i battled on recklessly. at last, thank heaven! the huge owl was vanquished; it fluttered backward and downward, apparently exhausted, giving one wild screech of baffled fury, as its lamp-like eyes disappeared in the darkness. breathless, but not subdued--every nerve in my body quivering with excitement--i pursued my way, as i thought, toward the stone staircase feeling the air with my outstretched hands as i groped along. in a little while i met with an obstruction--it was hard and cold--a stone wall, surely? i felt it up and down and found a hollow in it--was this the first step of the stair? i wondered; it seemed very high. i touched it cautiously--suddenly i came in contact with something soft and clammy to the touch like moss or wet velvet. fingering this with a kind of repulsion, i soon traced out the oblong shape of a coffin. curiously enough, i was not affected much by the discovery. i found myself monotonously counting the bits of raised metal which served, as i judged, for its ornamentation. eight bits lengthwise--and the soft wet stuff between--four bits across; then a pang shot through me, and i drew my hand away quickly, as i considered--whose coffin was this? my father's? or was i thus plucking, like a man in delirium, at the fragments of velvet on that cumbrous oaken casket wherein lay the sacred ashes of my mother's perished beauty? i roused myself from the apathy into which i had fallen. all the pains i had taken to find my way through the vault were wasted; i was lost in the profound gloom, and knew not where to turn. the horror of my situation presented itself to me with redoubled force. i began to be tormented with thirst. i fell on my knees and groaned aloud. "god of infinite mercy!" i cried. "saviour of the world! by the souls of the sacred dead whom thou hast in thy holy keeping, have pity upon me! oh, my mother! if indeed thine earthly remains are near me--think of me, sweet angel in that heaven where thy spirit dwells at rest--plead for me and save me, or let me die now and be tortured no more!" i uttered these words aloud, and the sound of my wailing voice ringing through the somber arches of the vault was strange and full of fantastic terror to my own ears. i knew that were my agony much further prolonged i should go mad. and i dared not picture to myself the frightful things which a maniac might be capable of, shut up in such a place of death and darkness, with moldering corpses for companions! i remained on my knees, my face buried in my hands. i forced myself into comparative calmness, and strove to preserve the equilibrium of my distracted mind. hush! what exquisite far-off floating voice of cheer was that? i raised my head and listened, entranced! "jug, jug, jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, sweet!" it was a nightingale. familiar, delicious, angel-throated bird! how i blessed thee in that dark hour of despair! how i praised god for thine innocent existence! how i sprung up and laughed and wept for joy, as, all unconscious of me, thou didst shake out a shower of pearly warblings on the breast of the soothed air! heavenly messenger of consolation!--even now i think of thee with tenderness--for thy sweet sake all birds possess me as their worshiper; humanity has grown hideous in my sight, but the singing-life of the woods and hills--how pure, how fresh!--the nearest thing to happiness on this side heaven! a rush of strength and courage invigorated me. a new idea entered my brain. i determined to follow the voice of the nightingale. it sung on sweetly, encouragingly--and i began afresh my journeyings through the darkness. i fancied that the bird was perched on one of the trees outside the entrance of the vault, and that if i tried to get within closer hearing of its voice, i should most likely be thus guided to the very staircase i had been so painfully seeking. i stumbled along slowly. i felt feeble, and my limbs shook under me. this time nothing impeded my progress; the nightingale's liquid notes floated nearer and nearer, and hope, almost exhausted, sprung up again in my heart. i was scarcely conscious of my own movements. i seemed to be drawn along like one in a dream by the golden thread of the bird's sweet singing. all at once i caught my foot against a stone and fell forward with some force, but i felt no pain--my limbs were too numb to be sensible of any fresh suffering. i raised my heavy, aching eyes in the darkness; as i did so i uttered an exclamation of thanksgiving. a slender stream of moonlight, no thicker than the stem of an arrow, slanted downward toward me, and showed me that i had at last reached the spot i sought--in fact, i had fallen upon the lowest step of the stone stairway. i could not distinguish the entrance door of the vault, but i knew that it must be at the summit of the steep ascent. i was too weary to move further just then. i lay still where i was, staring at the solitary moon-ray, and listening to the nightingale, whose rapturous melodies now rang out upon my ears with full distinctness. one! the harsh-toned bell i had heard before clanged forth the hour. it would soon be morning; i resolved to rest till then. utterly worn out in body and mind, i laid down my head upon the cold stones as readily as if they had been the softest cushions, and in a few moments forgot all my miseries in a profound sleep. * * * * * i must have slumbered for some time, when i was suddenly awakened by a suffocating sensation of faintness and nausea, accompanied by a sharp pain on my neck as though some creatures were stinging me. i put my hand up to the place--god! shall i ever forget the feel of the thing my trembling fingers closed upon! it was fastened in my flesh--a winged, clammy, breathing horror! it clung to me with a loathly persistency that nearly drove me frantic, and wild with disgust and terror i screamed aloud! i closed both hands convulsively upon its fat, soft body--i literally tore it from my flesh and flung it as far back as i could into the interior blackness of the vault. for a time i believe i was indeed mad--the echoes rang with the piercing shrieks i could not restrain! silent at last through sheer exhaustion i glared about me. the moonbeam had vanished, in its place lay a shaft of pale gray light, by which i could easily distinguish the whole length of the staircase and the closed gateway at its summit. i rushed up the ascent with the feverish haste of a madman--i grasped the iron grating with both hands and shook it fiercely. it was firm as a rock, locked fast. i called for help. utter silence answered me. i peered through the closely twisted bars. i saw the grass, the drooping boughs of trees, and straight before my line of vision a little piece of the blessed sky, opal tinted and faintly blushing with the consciousness of the approaching sunrise. i drank in the sweet fresh air, a long trailing branch of the wild grape vine hung near me; its leaves were covered thickly with dew. i squeezed one hand through the grating and gathered a few of these green morsels of coolness--i ate them greedily. they seemed to me more delicious than any thing i had ever tasted, they relieved the burning fever of my parched throat and tongue. the glimpse of the trees and sky soothed and calmed me. there was a gentle twittering of awaking birds, my nightingale had ceased singing. i began to recover slowly from my nervous terrors, and leaning against the gloomy arch of my charnel house i took courage to glance backward down the steep stairway up which i had sprung with such furious precipitation. something white lay in a corner on the seventh step from the top. curious to see what it was, i descended cautiously and with some reluctance; it was the half of a thick waxen taper, such as are used in the catholic ritual at the burial of the dead. no doubt it had been thrown down there by some careless acolyte, to save himself the trouble of carrying it after the service had ended. i looked at it meditatively. if i only had a light! i plunged my hands half abstractedly into the pockets of my trousers--something jingled! truly they had buried me in haste. my purse, a small bunch of keys, my card-case--one by one i drew them out and examined them surprisedly--they looked so familiar, and withal so strange! i searched again; and this time found something of real value to one in my condition--a small box of wax vestas. now, had they left me my cigar-case? no, that was gone. it was a valuable silver one--no doubt the monk, who attended my supposed last moments, had taken it, together with my watch and chain, to my wife. well, i could not smoke, but i could strike a light. and there was the funeral taper ready for use. the sun had not yet risen. i must certainly wait till broad day before i could hope to attract by my shouts any stray person who might pass through the cemetery. meanwhile, a fantastic idea suggested itself. i would go and look at my own coffin! why not? it would be a novel experience. the sense of fear had entirely deserted me; the possession of that box of matches was sufficient to endow me with absolute hardihood. i picked up the church-candle and lighted it; it gave at first a feeble flicker, but afterward burned with a clear and steady flame. shading it with one hand from the draught, i gave a parting glance at the fair daylight that peeped smilingly in through my prison door, and then went down--down again into the dismal place where i had passed the night in such indescribable agony. chapter iv. numbers of lizards glided away from my feet as i descended the steps, and when the flare of my torch penetrated the darkness i heard a scurrying of wings mingled with various hissing sounds and wild cries. i knew now--none better--what weird and abominable things had habitation in this storehouse of the dead, but i felt i could defy them all, armed with the light i carried. the way that had seemed so long in the dense gloom was brief and easy, and i soon found myself at the scene of my unexpected awakening from sleep. the actual body of the vault was square-shaped, like a small room inclosed within high walls--walls which were scooped out in various places so as to form niches in which the narrow caskets containing the bones of all the departed members of the romani family were placed one above the other like so many bales of goods arranged evenly on the shelves of an ordinary warehouse. i held the candle high above my head and looked about me with a morbid interest. i soon perceived what i sought--my own coffin. there it was in a niche some five feet from the ground, its splintered portions bearing decided witness to the dreadful struggle i had made to obtain my freedom. i advanced and examined it closely. it was a frail shell enough--unlined, unornamented--a wretched sample of the undertaker's art, though god knows _i_ had no fault to find with its workmanship, nor with the haste of him who fashioned it. something shone at the bottom of it--it was a crucifix of ebony and silver. that good monk again! his conscience had not allowed him to see me buried without this sacred symbol; he had perhaps laid it on my breast as the last service he could render me; it had fallen from thence, no doubt, when i had wrenched my way through the boards that inclosed me. i took it and kissed it reverently--i resolved that if ever i met the holy father again, i would tell him my story, and, as a proof of its truth, restore to him this cross, which he would be sure to recognize. had they put my name on the coffin-lid? i wondered. yes, there it was--painted on the wood in coarse, black letters, "fabio romani"--then followed the date of my birth; then a short latin inscription, stating that i had died of cholera on august , . that was yesterday--only yesterday! i seemed to have lived a century since then. i turned to look at my father's resting-place. the velvet on his coffin hung from its sides in moldering remnants--but it was not so utterly damp-destroyed and worm-eaten as the soaked and indistinguishable material that still clung to the massive oaken chest in the next niche, where she lay--she from whose tender arms i had received my first embrace--she in whose loving eyes i had first beheld the world! i knew by a sort of instinct that it must have been with the frayed fragments on her coffin that my fingers had idly played in the darkness. i counted as before the bits of metal--eight bits length-wise, and four bits across--and on my father's close casket there were ten silver plates lengthwise and five across. my poor little mother! i thought of her picture--it hung in my library at home; the picture of a young, smiling, dark-haired beauty, whose delicate tint was as that of a peach ripening in the summer sun. all that loveliness had decayed into--what? i shuddered involuntarily--then i knelt humbly before those two sad hollows in the cold stone, and implored the blessing of the dead and gone beloved ones to whom, while they lived, my welfare had been dear. while i occupied this kneeling position the flame of my torch fell directly on some small object that glittered with remarkable luster. i went to examine it; it was a jeweled pendant composed of one large pear-shaped pearl, set round with fine rose brilliants! surprised at this discovery, i looked about to see where such a valuable gem could possibly have come from. i then noticed an unusually large coffin lying sideways on the ground; it appeared as if it had fallen suddenly and with force, for a number of loose stones and mortar were sprinkled near it. holding the light close to the ground, i observed that a niche exactly below the one in which _i_ had been laid was empty, and that a considerable portion of the wall there was broken away. i then remembered that when i had sprung so desperately out of my narrow box i had heard something fall with a crash beside me. this was the thing, then--this long coffin, big enough to contain a man seven feet high and broad in proportion. what gigantic ancestor had i irreverently dislodged?--and was it from a skeleton throat that the rare jewel which i held in my hand had been accidentally shaken? my curiosity was excited, and i bent close to examine the lid of this funeral chest. there was no name on it--no mark of any sort, save one--a dagger roughly painted in red. here was a mystery! i resolved to penetrate it. i set up my candle in a little crevice of one of the empty niches, and laid the pearl and diamond pendant beside it, thus disembarrassing myself of all incumbrance. the huge coffin lay on its side, as i have said; its uppermost corner was splintered; i applied both hands to the work of breaking further asunder these already split portions. as i did so a leathern pouch or bag rolled out and fell at my feet. i picked it up and opened it--it was full of gold pieces! more excited than ever, i seized a large pointed stone, and by the aid of this extemporized instrument, together with the force of my own arms, hands, and feet, i managed, after some ten minutes' hard labor, to break open the mysterious casket. when i had accomplished this deed i stared at the result like a man stupefied. no moldering horror met my gaze--no blanched or decaying bones; no grinning skull mocked me with its hollow eye-sockets. i looked upon a treasure worthy of an emperor's envy! the big coffin was literally lined and packed with incalculable wealth. fifty large leathern bags tied with coarse cord lay uppermost; more than half of these were crammed with gold coins, the rest were full of priceless gems--necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, watches, chains, and other articles of feminine adornment were mingled with loose precious stones--diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and opals, some of unusual size and luster, some uncut, and some all ready for the jeweler's setting. beneath these bags were packed a number of pieces of silk, velvet, and cloth of gold, each piece being wrapped by itself in a sort of oil-skin, strongly perfumed with camphor and other spices. there were also three lengths of old lace, fine as gossamer, of matchless artistic design, in perfect condition. among these materials lay two large trays of solid gold workmanship, most exquisitely engraved and ornamented, also four gold drinking-cups, of quaint and massive construction. other valuables and curious trifles there were, such as an ivory statuette of psyche on a silver pedestal, a waistband of coins linked together, a painted fan with a handle set in amber and turquois, a fine steel dagger in a jeweled sheath, and a mirror framed in old pearls. last, but not least, at the very bottom of the chest lay rolls upon rolls of paper money amounting to some millions of francs--in all far surpassing what i had myself formerly enjoyed from my own revenues. i plunged my hands deep in the leathern bags; i fingered the rich materials; all this treasure was mine! i had found it in my own burial vault! i had surely the right to consider it as my property? i began to consider--how could it have been placed there without my knowledge? the answer to this question occurred to me at once. brigands! of course!--what a fool i was not to have thought of them before; the dagger painted on the lid of the chest should have guided me to the solution of the mystery. a red dagger was the recognized sign-manual of a bold and dangerous brigand named carmelo neri, who, with his reckless gang, haunted the vicinity of palermo. "so!" i thought, "this is one of your bright ideas, my cut-throat carmelo! cunning rogue! you calculated well--you thought that none would disturb the dead, much less break open a coffin in search of gold. admirably planned, my carmelo! but this time you must play a losing game! a supposed dead man coming to life again deserves something for his trouble, and i should be a fool not to accept the goods the gods and the robbers provide. an ill-gotten hoard of wealth, no doubt; but better in my hands than in yours friend carmelo!" and i meditated for some minutes on this strange affair. if, indeed--and i saw no reason to doubt it--i had chanced to find some of the spoils of the redoubtable neri, this great chest must have been brought over by sea from palermo. probably four stout rascals had carried the supposed coffin in a mock solemn procession, under the pretense of its containing the body of a comrade. these thieves have a high sense of humor. yet the question remained to be solved--how had they gained access to my ancestral vault, unless by means of a false key? all at once i was left in darkness. my candle went out as though blown upon by a gust of air. i had my matches, and of course could easily light it again, but i was puzzled to imagine the cause of its sudden extinction. i looked about me in the temporary gloom and saw, to my surprise, a ray of light proceeding from a corner of the very niche where i had fixed the candle between two stones. i approached and put my hand to the place; a strong draught blew through a hole large enough to admit the passage of three fingers. i quickly relighted my torch, and examining this hole and the back of the niche attentively, found that four blocks of granite in the wall had been removed and their places supplied by thick square logs cut from the trunks of trees. these logs were quite loosely fitted. i took them out easily one by one, and then came upon a close pile of brushwood. as i gradually cleared this away a large aperture disclosed itself wide enough for any man to pass through without trouble. my heart beat with the rapture of expected liberty; i clambered up--i looked--thank god! i saw the landscape--the sky! in two minutes i stood outside the vault on the soft grass, with the high arch of heaven above me, and the broad bay of naples glittering deliciously before my eyes! i clapped my hands and shouted for pure joy! i was free! free to return to life, to love, to the arms of my beautiful nina--free to resume the pleasant course of existence on the gladsome earth--free to forget, if i could, the gloomy horrors of my premature burial. if carmelo neri had heard the blessings i heaped upon his head--he would for once have deemed himself a saint rather than a brigand. what did i not owe to the glorious ruffian! fortune and freedom! for it was evident that this secret passage into the romani vault had been cunningly contrived by himself or his followers for their own private purposes. seldom has any man been more grateful to his best benefactor than i was to the famous thief upon whose grim head, as i knew, a price had been set for many months. the poor wretch was in hiding. well! the authorities should get no aid from me, i resolved; even if i were to discover his whereabouts. why should i betray him? he had unconsciously done more for me than my best friend. nay, what friends will you find at all in the world when you need substantial good? few, or none. touch the purse--test the heart! what castles in the air i built as i stood rejoicing in the morning light and my newly acquired liberty--what dreams of perfect happiness flitted radiantly before my fancy! nina and i would love each other more fondly than before, i thought--our separation had been brief, but terrible--and the idea of what it might have been would endear us to one another with tenfold fervor. and little stella! why--this very evening i would swing her again under the orange boughs and listen to her sweet shrill laughter! this very evening i would clasp guido's hand in a gladness too great for words! this very night my wife's fair head would lie pillowed on my breast in an ecstatic silence broken only by the music of kisses. ah! my brain grew dizzy with the joyful visions that crowded thickly and dazzlingly upon me! the sun had risen--his long straight beams, like golden spears, touched the tops of the green trees, and roused little flashes as of red and blue fire on the shining surface of the bay. i heard the rippling of water and the measured soft dash of oars; and somewhere from a distant boat the mellifluous voice of a sailor sung a verse of the popular ritornello-- "sciore d'amenta sta parolella mia tieul' ammento zompa llari llira! sciore limone! le voglio fa mori de passione zompa llari llira!" [footnote: neapolitan dialect] i smiled--"mori de passione!" nina and i would know the meaning of those sweet words when the moon rose and the nightingales sung their love-songs to the dreaming flowers! full of these happy fancies, i inhaled the pure morning air for some minutes, and then re-entered the vault. chapter v. the first thing i did was to repack all the treasures i had discovered. this work was easily accomplished. for the present i contented myself with taking two of the leathern bags for my own use, one full of gold pieces, the other of jewels. the chest had been strongly made, and was not much injured by being forced open. i closed its lid as tightly as possible, and dragged it to a remote and dark corner of the vault, where i placed three heavy stones upon it. i then took the two leathern pouches i had selected, and stuffed one in each of the pockets of my trousers. the action reminded me of the scantiness of attire in which i stood arrayed. could i be seen in the public roads in such a plight? i examined my purse, which, as i before stated, had been left to me, together with my keys and card-case, by the terrified persons who had huddled me into my coffin with such scant ceremony. it contained two twenty-franc pieces and some loose silver. enough to buy a decent costume of some sort. but where could i make the purchase, and how? must i wait till evening and slink out of this charnel-house like the ghost of a wretched criminal? no! come what would, i made up my mind not to linger a moment longer in the vault. the swarms of beggars that infest naples exhibit themselves in every condition of rags, dirt, and misery; at the very worst i could only be taken for one of them. and whatever difficulties i might encounter, no matter!--they would soon be over. satisfied that i had placed the brigand coffin in a safe position, i secured the pearl and diamond pendant i had first found, to the chain round my neck. i intended this ornament as a gift for my wife. then, once more climbing through the aperture, i closed it completely with the logs and brushwood as it was before, and examining it narrowly from the outside, i saw that it was utterly impossible to discern the smallest hint of any entrance to a subterranean passage, so well and cunningly had it been contrived. now, nothing more remained for me to do but to make the best of my way to the city, there to declare my identity, obtain food and clothes, and then to hasten with all possible speed to my own residence. standing on a little hillock, i looked about me to see which direction i should take. the cemetery was situated on the outskirts of naples--naples itself lay on my left hand. i perceived a sloping road winding in that direction, and judged that if i followed it it would lead me to the city suburbs. without further hesitation i commenced my walk. it was now full day. my bare feet sunk deep in the dust that was hot as desert sand--the blazing sun beat down fiercely on my uncovered head, but i felt none of these discomforts; my heart was too full of gladness. i could have sung aloud for delight as i stepped swiftly along toward home--and nina! i was aware of a great weakness in my limbs--my eyes and head ached with the strong dazzling light; occasionally, too, an icy shiver ran through me that made my teeth chatter. but i recognized these symptoms as the after effects of my so nearly fatal illness, and i paid no heed to them. a few weeks' rest under my wife's loving care, and i knew i should be as well as ever. i stepped on bravely. for some time i met no one, but at last i overtook a small cart laden with freshly gathered grapes. the driver lay on his seat asleep; his pony meanwhile cropped the green herbage by the roadside, and every now and then shook the jingling bells on his harness as though expressing the satisfaction he felt at being left to his own devices. the piled-up grapes looked tempting, and i was both hungry and thirsty. i laid a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder; he awoke with a start. seeing me, his face assumed an expression of the wildest terror; he jumped from his cart and sunk down on his knees in the dust, imploring me by the madonna, st. joseph, and all the saints to spare his life. i laughed; his fears seemed to me ludicrous. surely there was nothing alarming about me beyond my paucity of clothing. "get up, man!" i said. "i want nothing of you but a few grapes, and for them i will pay." and i held out to him a couple of francs. he rose from the dust, still trembling and eying me askance with evident suspicion, took several bunches of the purple fruit, and gave them to me without saying a word. then, pocketing the money i proffered, he sprung into his cart, and lashing his pony till the unfortunate animal plunged and reared with pain and fury, rattled off down the road at such a break-neck speed that i saw nothing but a whirling blot of wheels disappearing in the distance. i was amused at the absurdity of this man's terror. what did he take me for, i wondered? a ghost or a brigand? i ate my grapes leisurely as i walked along--they were deliciously cool and refreshing--food and wine in one. i met several other persons as i neared the city, market people and venders of ices--but they took no note of me--in fact, i avoided them all as much as possible. on reaching the suburbs i turned into the first street i saw that seemed likely to contain a few shops. it was close and dark and foul-smelling, but i had not gone far down it when i came upon the sort of place i sought--a wretched tumble-down hovel, with a partly broken window, through which a shabby array of second-hand garments were to be dimly perceived, strung up for show on pieces of coarse twine. it was one of those dirty dens where sailors, returning from long voyages, frequently go to dispose of the various trifles they have picked up in foreign countries, so that among the forlorn specimens of second-hand wearing apparel many quaint and curious objects were to be seen, such as shells, branches of rough coral, strings of beads, cups and dishes carved out of cocoa-nut, dried gourds, horns of animals, fans, stuffed parakeets, and old coins--while a grotesque wooden idol peered hideously forth from between the stretched-out portions of a pair of old nankeen trousers, as though surveying the miscellaneous collection in idiotic amazement. an aged man sat smoking at the open door of this promising habitation--a true specimen of a neapolitan grown old. the skin of his face was like a piece of brown parchment scored all over with deep furrows and wrinkles, as though time, disapproving of the history he had himself penned upon it, had scratched over and blotted out all records, so that no one should henceforth be able to read what had once been clear writing. the only animation left in him seemed to have concentrated itself in his eyes, which were black and bead-like, and roved hither and thither with a glance of ever-restless and ever-suspicious inquiry. he saw me coming toward him, but he pretended to be absorbed in a profound study of the patch of blue sky that gleamed between the closely leaning houses of the narrow street. i accosted him--and he brought his gaze swiftly down to my level, and stared at me with keen inquisitiveness. "i have had a long tramp," i said, briefly, for he was not the kind of man to whom i could explain my recent terrible adventure, "and i have lost some of my clothes by an accident on the way. can you sell me a suit? anything will do--i am not particular." the old man took his pipe from his mouth. "do you fear the plague?" he asked. "i have just recovered from an attack of it," i replied, coolly. he looked at me attentively from head to foot, and then broke into a low chuckling laugh. "ha! ha!" he muttered, half to himself, half to me. "good--good! here is one like myself--not afraid--not afraid! we are not cowards. we do not find fault with the blessed saints--they send the plague. the beautiful plague!--i love it! i buy all the clothes i can get that are taken from the corpses--they are nearly always excellent clothes. i never clean them--i sell them again at once--yes--yes! why not? the people must die--the sooner the better! i help the good god as much as i can." and the old blasphemer crossed himself devoutly. i looked down upon him from where i stood drawn up to my full height, with a glance of disgust. he filled me with something of the same repulsion i had felt when i touched the unnameable thing that fastened on my neck while i slept in the vault. "come!" i said, somewhat roughly, "will you sell me a suit or no?" "yes, yes!" and he rose stiffly from his seat; he was very short of stature, and so bent with age and infirmity that he looked more like the crooked bough of a tree than a man, as he hobbled before me into his dark shop. "come inside, come inside! take your choice; there is enough here to suit all tastes. see now, what would you? behold here the dress of a gentleman, ah! what beautiful cloth, what strong wool! english make? yes, yes! he was english that wore it; a big, strong milord, that drank beer and brandy like water--and rich--just heaven!--how rich! but the plague took him; he died cursing god, and calling bravely for more brandy. ha, ha! a fine death--a splendid death! his landlord sold me his clothes for three francs--one, two, three--but you must give me six; that is fair profit, is it not? and i am old and poor. i must make something to live upon." i threw aside the tweed suit he displayed for my inspection. "nay," i said, "i care nothing for the plague, but find me something better than the cast-off clothing of a brandy-soaked englishman. i would rather wear the motley garb of a fellow who played the fool in carnival." the old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat, like the rattling of stones in a tin pot. "good, good!" he croaked. "i like that, i like that! thou art old, but thou art merry. that pleases me; one should laugh always. why not? death laughs; you never see a solemn skull; it laughs always!" and he plunged his long lean fingers into a deep drawer full of miscellaneous garments, mumbling to himself all the while. i stood beside him in silence, pondering on his words, "thou art old, but merry." what did he mean by calling me old? he must be blind, i thought, or in his dotage. suddenly he looked up. "talking of the plague," he said, "it is not always wise. it did a foolish thing yesterday--a very foolish thing. it took one of the richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as if he would never die. the plague touched him in the morning--before sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault--a cold lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on the heights yonder. when i heard the news i told the madonna she was wicked. oh, yes! i rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a good scolding brings her to reason. look you! i am a friend to god and the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took count fabio romani." i started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of indifference. "indeed!" i said, carelessly. "and pray who was he that he should not deserve to die as well as other people?" the old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me with his keen black eyes. "who was he? who was he?" he cried, in a shrill tone. "oh, he! one can see you know nothing of naples. you have not heard of the rich romani? see you, i wished him to live. he was clever and bold, but i did not grudge him that--no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of francs in charity. i have seen him often--i saw him married." and here his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most malignant cruelty. "pah! i hate his wife--a fair, soft thing, like a white snake! i used to watch them both from the corners of the streets as they drove along in their fine carriage, and i wondered how it would all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first. i wanted him to win; i would have helped him to kill her, yes! but the saints have made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all. oh, yes! god and the plague have done a foolish thing for once." i listened to the old wretch with deepening aversion, yet with some curiosity too. why should he hate my wife? i thought, unless, indeed, he hated all youth and beauty, as was probably the case. and if he had seen me as often as he averred he must know me by sight. how was it then that he did not recognize me now? following out this thought, i said aloud: "what sort of looking man was this count romani? you say he was handsome--was he tall or short--dark or fair?" putting back his straggling gray locks from his forehead, the dealer stretched out a yellow, claw-like hand, as though pointing to some distant vision. "a beautiful man!" he exclaimed; "a man good for the eyes to see! as straight as you are!--as tall as you are!--as broad as you are! but your eyes are sunken and dim--his were full and large and sparkling. your face is drawn and pale--his was of a clear olive tint, round and flushed with health; and his hair was glossy black--ah! as jet-black, my friend, as yours is snow-white!" i recoiled from these last words in a sort of terror; they were like an electric shock! was i indeed so changed? was it possible that the horrors of a night in the vault had made such a dire impression upon me? my hair white?--mine! i could hardly believe it. if so, perhaps nina would not recognize me--she might be terrified at my aspect--guido himself might have doubts of my identity. though, for that matter, i could easily prove myself to be indeed fabio romani--even if i had to show the vault and my own sundered coffin. while i revolved all this in my mind the old man, unconscious of my emotion, went on with his mumbling chatter. "ah, yes, yes! he was a fine fellow--a strong fellow. i used to rejoice that he was so strong. he could have taken the little throat of his wife between finger and thumb and nipped it--so! and she would have told no more lies. i wanted him to do it--i waited for it. he would have done it surely, had he lived. that is why i am sorry he died." mastering my feelings by a violent effort, i forced myself to speak calmly to this malignant old brute. "why do you hate the countess romani so much?" i asked him with sternness. "has she done you any harm?" he straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in the eyes. "see you!" he answered, with a sort of leering laugh about the corners of his wicked mouth. "i will tell you why i hate her--yes--i will tell you, because you are a man and strong. i like strong men--they are sometimes fooled by women, it is true--but then they can take revenge. i was strong myself once. and you--you are old--but you love a jest--you will understand. the romani woman has done me no harm. she laughed--once. that was when her horses knocked me down in the street. i was hurt--but i saw her red lips widen and her white teeth glitter--she has a baby smile--the people will tell you--so innocent! i was picked up--her carriage drove on--her husband was not with her--he would have acted differently. but it is no matter--i tell you she laughed--and then i saw at once the likeness." "the likeness!" i exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me. "what likeness?" "between her and my wife," the dealer replied, fixing his cruel eyes upon me with increasing intensity of regard. "oh, yes! i know what love is. i know too that god had very little to do with the making of women. it was a long time before even he could find the madonna. yes--yes, i know! i tell you i married a thing as beautiful as a morning in spring-time--with a little head that seemed to droop like a flower under its weight of sunbeam hair--and eyes! ah--like those of a tiny child when it looks up and asks you for kisses. i was absent once--i returned and found her sleeping tranquilly--yes! on the breast of a black-browed street-singer from venice--a handsome lad enough and brave as a young lion. he saw me and sprung at my throat--i held him down and knelt upon his chest--she woke and gazed upon us, too terrified to speak or scream--she only shivered and made a little moaning sound like that of a spoiled baby. i looked down into her prostrate lover's eyes and smiled. 'i will not hurt you,' i said. 'had she not consented, you could not have gained the victory. all i ask of you is to remain here for a few moments longer.' he stared, but was mute. i bound him hand and foot so that he could not stir. then i took my knife and went to her. her blue eyes glared wide--imploringly she turned them upon me--and ever she wrung her small hands and shivered and moaned. i plunged the keen bright blade deep through her soft white flesh--her lover cried out in agony--her heart's blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining with a bright hue the white garments she wore; she flung up her arms--she sank back on her pillows--dead. i drew the knife from her body, and with it cut the bonds of the venetian boy. i then gave it to him. "'take it as a remembrance of her,' i said. 'in a month she would have betrayed you as she betrayed me.'" "he raged like a madman. he rushed out and called the gendarmes. of course i was tried for murder--but it was not murder--it was justice. the judge found extenuating circumstances. naturally! he had a wife of his own. he understood my case. now you know why i hate that dainty jeweled woman up at the villa romani. she is just like that other one--that creature i slew--she has just the same slow smile and the same child-like eyes. i tell you again, i am sorry her husband is dead--it vexes me sorely to think of it. for he would have killed her in time--yes!--of that i am quite sure!" chapter vi. i listened to his narrative with a pained feeling at my heart, and a shuddering sensation as of icy cold ran through my veins. why, i had fancied that all who beheld nina must, perforce, love and admire her. true, when this old man was accidentally knocked down by her horses (a circumstance she had never mentioned to me), it was careless of her not to stop and make inquiry as to the extent of his injuries, but she was young and thoughtless; she could not be intentionally heartless. i was horrified to think that she should have made such an enemy as even this aged and poverty-stricken wretch; but i said nothing. i had no wish to betray myself. he waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my silence. "say now, my friend!" he queried, with a sort of childish eagerness, "did i not take a good vengeance? god himself could not have done better!" "i think your wife deserved her fate," i said, curtly, "but i cannot say i admire you for being her murderer." he turned upon me rapidly, throwing both hands above his head with a frantic gesticulation. his voice rose to a kind of muffled shriek. "murderer you call me--ha! ha! that is good. no, no! she murdered me! i tell you i died when i saw her asleep in her lover's arms--she killed me at one blow. a devil rose up in my body and took swift revenge; that devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! that is why i do not fear the plague; the devil in me frightens away death. some day it will leave me"--here his smothered yell sunk gradually to a feeble, weary tone; "yes, it will leave me and i shall find a dark place where i can sleep; i do not sleep much now." he eyed me half wistfully. "you see," he explained, almost gently, "my memory is very good, and when one thinks of many things one cannot sleep. it is many years ago, but every night i see her; she comes to me wringing her little white hands, her blue eyes stare, i hear short moans of terror. every night, every night!" he paused, and passed his hands in a bewildered way across his forehead. then, like a man suddenly waking from sleep, he stared as though he saw me now for the first time, and broke into a low chuckling laugh. "what a thing, what a thing it is, the memory!" he muttered. "strange--strange! see, i remembered all that, and forgot you! but i know what you want--a suit of clothes--yes, you need them badly, and i also need the money for them. ha, ha! and you will not have the fine coat of milord inglese! no, no! i understand. i will find you something--patience, patience!" and he began to grope among a number of things that were thrown in a confused heap at the back of the shop. while in this attitude he looked so gaunt and grim that he reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over carrion, and yet there was something pitiable about him too. in a way i was sorry for him; a poor half-witted wretch, whose life had been full of such gall and wormwood. what a different fate was his to mine, i thought. _i_ had endured but one short night of agony; how trifling it seemed compared to his hourly remorse and suffering! he hated nina for an act of thoughtlessness; well, no doubt she was not the only woman whose existence annoyed him; it was most probably that he was at enmity with all women. i watched him pityingly as he searched among the worn-out garments which were his stock-in-trade, and wondered why death, so active in smiting down the strongest in the city, should have thus cruelly passed by this forlorn wreck of human misery, for whom the grave would have surely been a most welcome release and rest. he turned round at last with an exulting gesture. "i have found it!" he exclaimed. "the very thing to suit you. you are perhaps a coral-fisher? you will like a fisherman's dress. here is one, red sash, cap and all, in beautiful condition! he that wore it was about your height it will fit you as well as it fitted him, and, look you! the plague is not in it, the sea has soaked through and through it; it smells of the sand and weed." he spread out the rough garb before me. i glanced at it carelessly. "did the former wearer kill his wife?" i asked, with a slight smile. the old rag-picker shook his head and made a sign with his outspread fingers expressive of contempt. "not he!--he was a fool--he killed himself." "how was that? by accident or design?" "che! che! he knew very well what he was doing. it happened only two months since. it was for the sake of a black-eyed jade, she lives and laughs all day long up at sorrento. he had been on a long voyage, he brought her pearls for her throat and coral pins for her hair. she had promised to marry him. he had just landed, he met her on the quay, he offered her the pearl and coral trinkets. she threw them back and told him she was tired of him. just that--nothing more. he tried to soften her; she raged at him like a tiger-cat. yes, i was one of the little crowd that stood round them on the quay, i saw it all. her black eyes flashed, she stamped and bit her lips at him, her full bosom heaved as though it would burst her laced bodice. she was only a market-girl, but she gave herself the airs of a queen. 'i am tired of you!' she said to him. 'go! i wish to see you no more.' he was tall and well-made, a powerful fellow; but he staggered, his face grew pale, his lips quivered. he bent his head a little--turned--and before any hand could stop him he sprung from the edge of the quay into the waves, they closed over his head, for he did not try to swim; he just sunk down, down, like a stone. next day his body came ashore, and i bought his clothes for two francs; you shall have them for four." "and what became of the girl?" i asked. "oh, she! she laughs all day long, as i told you. she has a new lover every week. what should she care?" i drew out my purse. "i will take this suit," i said. "you ask four francs, here are six, but for the extra two you must show me some private corner where i can dress." "yes, yes. but certainly!" and the old fellow trembled all over with avaricious eagerness as i counted the silver pieces into his withered palm. "anything to oblige a generous stranger! there is the place i sleep in; it is not much, but there is a mirror--her mirror--the only thing i keep of hers; come this way, come this way!" and stumbling hastily along, almost falling over the disordered bundles of clothing that lay about in all directions, he opened a little door that seemed to be cut in the wall, and led me into a kind of close cupboard, smelling most vilely, and furnished with a miserable pallet bed and one broken chair. a small square pane of glass admitted light enough to see all that there was to be seen, and close to this extemporized window hung the mirror alluded to, a beautiful thing set in silver of antique workmanship, the costliness of which i at once recognized, though into the glass itself i dared not for the moment look. the old man showed me with some pride that the door to this narrow den of his locked from within. "i made the lock and key, and fitted it all myself," he said. "look how neat and strong! yes; i was clever once at all that work--it was my trade--till that morning when i found her with the singer from venice; then i forgot all i used to know--it went away somehow, i could never understand why. here is the fisherman's suit; you can take your time to put it on; fasten the door; the room is at your service." and he nodded several times in a manner that was meant to be friendly, and left me. i followed his advice at once and locked myself in. then i stepped steadily to the mirror hanging on the wall, and looked at my own reflection. a bitter pang shot through me. the dealer's sight was good, he had said truly. i was old! if twenty years of suffering had passed over my head, they could hardly have changed me more terribly. my illness had thinned my face and marked it with deep lines of pain; my eyes had retreated far back into my head, while a certain wildness of expression in them bore witness to the terrors i had suffered in the vault, and to crown all, my hair was indeed perfectly white. i understood now the alarm of the man who had sold me grapes on the highway that morning; my appearance was strange enough to startle any one. indeed, i scarcely recognized myself. would my wife, would guido recognize me? almost i doubted it. this thought was so painful to me that the tears sprung to my eyes. i brushed them away in haste. "fy on thee, fabio! be a man!" i said, addressing myself angrily. "of what matter after all whether hairs are black or white? what matter how the face changes, so long as the heart is true? for a moment, perhaps, thy love may grow pale at sight of thee; but when she knows of thy sufferings, wilt thou not be dearer to her than ever? will not one of her soft embraces recompense thee for all thy past anguish, and suffice to make thee young again?" and thus encouraging my sinking spirits, i quickly arrayed myself in the neapolitan coral-fisher's garb. the trousers were very loose, and were provided with two long deep pockets, convenient receptacles, which easily contained the leathern bags of gold and jewels i had taken from the brigand's coffin. when my hasty toilet was completed i took another glance at the mirror, this time with a half smile. true, i was greatly altered; but after all i did not look so bad. the fisherman's picturesque costume became me well; the scarlet cap sat jauntily on the snow-white curls that clustered so thickly over my forehead, and the consciousness i had of approaching happiness sent a little of the old fearless luster back into my sunken eyes. besides, i knew i should not always have this care-worn and wasted appearance; rest, and perhaps a change of air, would infallibly restore the roundness to my face and the freshness to my complexion; even my white locks might return to their pristine color, such things had been; and supposing they remained white? well!--there were many who would admire the peculiar contrast between a young man's face and an old man's hair. having finished dressing, i unlocked the door of the stuffy little cabin and called the old rag-picker. he came shuffling along with his head bent, but raising his eyes as he approached me, he threw up his hands in astonishment, exclaiming, "santissima madonna! but you are a fine man--a fine man! eh, eh! holy joseph! what height and breadth! a pity--a pity you are old; you must have been strong when you were young!" half in joke, and half to humor him in his fancy for mere muscular force, i rolled up the sleeve of my jacket to the shoulder, saying, lightly, "oh, as for being strong! there is plenty of strength in me still, you see." he stared; laid his yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of ghoul-like interest and wonder, and felt the muscles of it with childish, almost maudlin admiration. "beautiful, beautiful!" he mumbled. "like iron--just think of it! yes, yes. you could kill anything easily. ah! i used to be like that once. i was clever at sword-play. i could, with well-tempered steel, cut asunder a seven-times-folded piece of silk at one blow without fraying out a thread. yes, as neatly as one cuts butter! you could do that too if you liked. it all lies in the arm--the brave arm that kills at a single stroke." and he gazed at me intently with his small blear eyes as though anxious to know more of my character and temperament. i turned abruptly from him, and called his attention to my own discarded garments. "see," i said, carelessly; "you can have these, though they are not of much value. and, stay, here are another three francs for some socks and shoes, which i dare say you can find to suit me." he clasped his hands ecstatically, and poured out a torrent of thanks and praises for this additional and unexpected sum, and protesting by all the saints that he and the entire contents of his shop were at the service of so generous a stranger, he at once produced the articles i asked for. i put them on--and then stood up thoroughly equipped and ready to make my way back to my own home when i chose. but i had resolved on one thing. seeing that i was so greatly changed, i determined not to go to the villa romani by daylight, lest i should startle my wife too suddenly. women are delicate; my unexpected appearance might give her a nervous shock which perhaps would have serious results. i would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to the house by a back way i knew of, and try to get speech with one of the servants. i might even meet my friend guido ferrari, and he would break the joyful news of my return from death to nina by degrees, and also prepare her for my altered looks. while these thoughts flitted rapidly through my brain, the old ragpicker stood near me with his head on one side like a meditative raven, and regarded me intently. "are you going far?" he asked at last, with a kind of timidity. "yes," i answered him, abruptly; "very far." he laid a detaining hand on my sleeve, and his eyes glittered--with a malignant expression. "tell me," he muttered, eagerly, "tell me--i will keep the secret. are you going to a woman?" i looked down upon him, half in disdain, half in amusement. "yes!" i said, quietly, "i am going to a woman." he broke into silent laughter--hideous laughter that contorted his visage and twisted his body in convulsive writhings. i glanced at him in disgust, and shaking off his hand from my arm, i made my way to the door of the shop. he hobbled quickly after me, wiping away the moisture that his inward merriment had brought into his eyes. "going to a woman!" he croaked. "ha, ha! you are not the first, nor will you be the last, that has gone so! going to a woman! that is well--that is good! go to her, go! you are strong, you have a brave arm! go to her, find her out, and--kill her! yes, yes--you will be able to do it easily--quite easily! go and kill her." he stood at his low door mouthing and pointing, his stunted figure and evil face reminding me of one of heinrich heine's dwarf devils who are depicted as piling fire on the heads of the saints. i bade him "good day" in an indifferent tone, but he made me no answer. i walked slowly away. looking back once i saw him still standing on the threshold of his wretched dwelling, his wicked mouth working itself into all manner of grimaces, while with his crooked fingers he made signs in the air as if he caught an invisible something and throttled it. i went on down the street and out of it into the broader thoroughfares, with his last words ringing in my ears, "go and kill her!" chapter vii. that day seemed very long to me i wandered aimlessly about the city, seeing few faces that i knew, for the wealthier inhabitants, afraid of the cholera, had either left the place together or remained closely shut within their own houses. everywhere i went something bore witness to the terrible ravages of the plague. at almost every corner i met a funeral procession. once i came upon a group of men who were standing in an open door way packing a dead body into a coffin too small for it. there was something truly revolting in the way they doubled up the arms and legs and squeezed in the shoulders of the deceased man--one could hear the bones crack. i watched the brutal proceedings for a minute or so, and then i said aloud: "you had better make sure he is quite dead." the beccamorti looked at me in surprise; one laughed grimly and swore. "by the body of god, if i thought he were not i would twist his accursed neck for him! but the cholera never fails, he is dead for certain--see!" and he knocked the head of the corpse to and fro against the sides of the coffin with no more compunction than if it had been a block of wood. sickened at the sight, i turned away and said no more. on reaching one of the more important thoroughfares i perceived several knots of people collected, who glanced at one another with eager yet shamed faces, and spoke in low voices. a whisper reached my ears, "the king! the king!" all heads were turned in one direction; i paused and looked also. walking at a leisurely pace, accompanied by a few gentlemen of earnest mien and grave deportment, i saw the fearless monarch, humbert of italy--he whom his subjects delight to honor. he was making a round of visits to all the vilest holes and corners of the city, where the plague raged most terribly--he had not so much as a cigarette in his mouth to ward off infection. he walked with the easy and assured step of a hero; his face was somewhat sad, as though the sufferings of his people had pressed heavily upon his sympathetic heart. i bared my head reverently as he passed, his keen kind eyes lighted on me with a smile. "a subject for a painting, yon white-haired fisherman!" i heard him say to one of his attendants. almost i betrayed myself. i was on the point of springing forward and throwing myself at his feet to tell him my story. it seemed to me both cruel and unnatural that he, my beloved sovereign, should pass me without recognition--me, to whom he had spoken so often and so cordially. for when i visited rome, as i was accustomed to do annually, there were few more welcome guests at the balls of the quirinal palace than count fabio romani. i began to wonder stupidly who fabio romani was; the gay gallant known as such seemed no longer to have any existence--a "white-haired fisherman" usurped his place. but though i thought these things i refrained from addressing the king. some impulse, however, led me to follow him at a respectful distance, as did also many others. his majesty strolled through the most pestilential streets with as much unconcern as though he were taking his pleasure in a garden of roses; he stepped quietly into the dirtiest hovels where lay both dead and dying; he spoke words of kindly encouragement to the grief-stricken and terrified mourners, who stared through their tears at the monarch with astonishment and gratitude; silver and gold were gently dropped into the hands of the suffering poor, and the very pressing cases received the royal benefactor's personal attention and immediate relief. mothers with infants in their arms knelt to implore the king's blessing--which to pacify them he gave with a modest hesitation, as though he thought himself unworthy, and yet with a parental tenderness that was infinitely touching. one wild-eyed, black-haired girl flung herself down on the ground right in the king's path; she kissed his feet, and then sprung erect with a gesture of triumph. "i am saved!" she cried; "the plague cannot walk in the same road with the king!" humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and passed on. a cluster of men and women standing at the open door of one of the poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch's attention. there was some noisy argument going on; two or three beccamorti were loudly discussing together and swearing profusely--some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant. one of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased, the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs. "what is wrong here, my friends?" the monarch asked with exceeding gentleness. there was silence for a moment; the beccamorti looked sullen and ashamed. then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little throng to the front and spoke. "may the holy virgin and saints bless your majesty!" she cried, in shrill accents. "and as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if those shameless pigs," pointing to the beccamorti, "would let us alone. they would kill a man rather than wait an hour--one little hour! the girl is dead, your majesty--and giovanni, poor lad! will not leave her; he has his two arms round her tight--holy virgin!--think of it! and she a cholera corpse--and do what we can, he will not be parted from her, and they seek her body for the burial. and if we force him away, poverino, he will lose his head for certain. one little hour, your majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade giovanni better than we can." the king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command--the little crowd parted before him--and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. his attendants followed; i, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. the scene disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without emotion--humbert of italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent. on a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth, her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of the death that had overtaken her. one would have thought she slept, had it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like pallor of her face and hands. right across her form, almost covering it from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there lifeless--indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to the contrary. his arms were closed firmly round the girl's corpse--his face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond to the warmth of his caresses. a straight beam of sunlight shot like a golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole scene--the prostrate figures on the bed--the erect form of the compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd of people who stood around him. "see! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died," whispered the woman who had before spoken; "and his hands are clinched round her like iron--one cannot move a finger!" the king advanced. he touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. his voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the listeners like a note of cheerful music. "figlio mio!" there was no answer. the women, touched by the simple endearing words of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a few drops from their eyes. again the king spoke. "figlio mio! i am your king. have you no greeting for me?" the man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. his haggard face, tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no escape but self-murder. "your hand, my son!" resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like authority. very slowly--very reluctantly--as though he were forced to the action by some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously, and stretched forth the hand as commanded. humbert caught it firmly within his own and held it fast--then looking the poor fellow full in the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity, "there is no death in love, my friend!" the young man's eyes met his--his set mouth softened--and wresting his hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of weeping. humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though sobbing convulsively as he went. the rush of tears had saved his reason, and most probably his life. a murmur of enthusiastic applause greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons who had witnessed what had taken place. acknowledging it with a quiet unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the beccamorti, who still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their melancholy office. he then went on his way attended by more heart-felt blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. i looked after his retreating figure till i could see it no more--i felt that i had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero--a man who indeed was "every inch a king." i am a royalist--yes. governed by such a sovereign, few men of calm reason would be otherwise. but royalist though i am, i would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! few monarchs are like humbert of italy--even now my heart warms when i think of him--in all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a supreme embodied beneficent force surrounded by the clear light of unselfish goodness--a light in which italia suns her fair face and smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high achievement--days in which her children were great, simply because they were earnest. the fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that there is no heart in anything we do--we seldom love our work for work's sake--we perform it solely for what we can get by it. therein lies the secret of failure. friends will scarcely serve each other unless they can also serve their own interests--true, there are exceptions to this rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains. as soon as the king disappeared i also left the scene of the foregoing incident. i had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where i had been taken ill, and after some trouble i found it. the door stood open. i saw the fat landlord, pietro, polishing his glasses as though he had never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench on which i had lain--where i had--as was generally supposed--died. i stepped in. the landlord looked up and bade me good-day. i returned his salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. seating myself carelessly at one of the little tables i turned over the newspaper, while he bustled about in haste to serve me. as he dusted and rubbed up a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly, "you have had a long voyage, amico? and successful fishing?" for a moment i was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering my wits together i smiled and answered readily in the affirmative. "and you?" i said, gayly. "how goes the cholera?" the landlord shook his head dolefully. "holy joseph! do not speak of it. the people die like flies in a honey-pot. only yesterday--body of bacchus!--who would have thought it?" and he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook his head more sorrowfully than before. "why, what happened yesterday?" i asked, though i knew perfectly well what he was going to say; "i am a stranger in naples, and empty of news." the perspiring pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table, and with it traced a pattern meditatively. "you never heard of the rich count romani?" he inquired. i made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup. "ah, well!" he went on with a half groan, "it does not matter--there is no count romani any more. it is all gone--finished! but he was rich--as rich as the king, they say--yet see how low the saints brought him! fra cipriano of the benedictines carried him in here yesterday morning--he was struck by the plague--in five hours he was dead," here the landlord caught a mosquito and killed it--"ah! as dead as that zinzara! yes, he lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. they buried him before sunset. it is like a bad dream!" i affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and spreading of my roll and butter. "i see nothing particular about it," i said, indifferently. "that he was rich is nothing--rich and poor must die alike." "and that is true, very true," assented pietro, with another groan, "for not all his property could save the blessed cipriano." i started, but quickly controlled myself. "what do you mean?" i asked, as carelessly as i could. "are you talking of some saint?" "well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be," replied the landlord; "i speak of the holy benedictine father who brought hither the count romani in a dying condition. ah i little he knew how soon the good god would call him himself!" i felt a sickening sensation at my heart. "is he dead?" i exclaimed. "dead as the martyrs!" answered pietro. "he caught the plague, i suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. ay, and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix upon it in the coffin. then up he went to the villa romani, taking with him the count's trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case--and nothing would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young contessa, telling her how her husband died." my poor nina!--i thought. "was she much grieved?" i inquired, with a vague curiosity. "how do i know?" said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. "the reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. but what of that? women swoon at everything--from a mouse to a corpse. as i said, the good cipriano attended the count's burial--and he had scarce returned from it when he was seized with the illness. and this morning he died at the monastery--may his soul rest in peace! i heard the news only an hour ago. ah! he was a holy man! he has promised me a warm corner in paradise, and i know he will keep his word as truly as st. peter himself." i pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. the food choked me. i could have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. one hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! i sat silent, lost in sorrowful thought. the landlord looked at me curiously. "the coffee does not please you?" he said at last. "you have no appetite?" i forced a smile. "nay--your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born of the breath of the sea. truly naples affords but sorry entertainment to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the dead?" pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic. "well, truly!" he answered, resignedly--"very little else. but what would you, amico? it is the plague and the will of god." as he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe. it was guido ferrari--my friend! i would have rushed out to speak to him--but something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me. he was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose la gloire de france, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the upper terrace of my villa. i stared at him as he passed--my feelings underwent a kind of shock. he looked perfectly happy and tranquil, happier indeed than ever i remembered to have seen him, and yet--and yet, according to his knowledge, i, his best friend, had died only yesterday! with this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man going to a festa, and wear a coral-pink rose, which surely was no sign of mourning! for one moment i felt hurt, the next, i laughed at my own sensitiveness. after all, what of the smile, what of the rose! a man could not always be answerable for the expression of his countenance, and as for the flower, he might have gathered it en passent, without thinking, or what was still more likely, the child stella might have given it to him, in which case he would have worn it to please her. he displayed no badge of mourning? true!--but then consider--i had only died yesterday! there had been no time to procure all those outward appurtenances of woe which social customs rendered necessary, but which were no infallible sign of the heart's sincerity. satisfied with my own self-reasoning i made no attempt to follow guido in his walk--i let him go on his way unconscious of my existence. i would wait, i thought, till the evening--then everything would be explained. i turned to the landlord. "how much to pay?" i asked. "what you will, amico" he replied--"i am never hard on the fisher folk--but times are bad, or you would be welcome to a breakfast for nothing. many and many a day have i done as much for men of your craft, and the blessed cipriano who is gone used to say that st. peter would remember me for it. it is true the madonna gives a special blessing if one looks after the fishers, because all the holy apostles were of the trade; and i would be loth to lose her protection--yet--" i laughed and tossed him a franc. he pocketed it at once and his eyes twinkled. "though you have not taken half a franc's worth," he admitted, with an honesty very unusual in a neapolitan--"but the saints will make it up to you, never fear!" "i am sure of that!" i said, gayly. "addio, my friend! prosperity to you and our lady's favor!" this salutation, which i knew to be a common one with sicilian mariners, the good pietro responded to with amiable heartiness, wishing me luck on my next voyage. he then betook himself anew to the polishing of his glasses--and i passed the rest of the day in strolling about the least frequented streets of the city, and longing impatiently for the crimson glory of the sunset, which, like a wide flag of triumph, was to be the signal of my safe return to love and happiness. chapter viii. it came at last, the blessed, the longed-for evening. a soft breeze sprung up, cooling the burning air after the heat of the day, and bringing with it the odors of a thousand flowers. a regal glory of shifting colors blazed on the breast of heaven--the bay, motionless as a mirror, reflected all the splendid tints with a sheeny luster that redoubled their magnificence. pricked in every vein by the stinging of my own desires, i yet restrained myself; i waited till the sun sunk below the glassy waters--till the pomp and glow attending its departure had paled into those dim, ethereal hues which are like delicate draperies fallen from the flying forms of angels--till the yellow rim of the round full moon rose languidly on the edge of the horizon--and then keeping back my eagerness no longer, i took the well-known road ascending to the villa romani. my heart beat high--my limbs trembled with excitement--my steps were impatient and precipitate--never had the way seemed so long. at last i reached the great gate-way--it was locked fast--its sculptured lions looked upon me frowningly. i heard the splash and tinkle of the fountains within, the scents of the roses and myrtle were wafted toward me with every breath i drew. home at last! i smiled--my whole frame quivered with expectancy and delight. it was not my intention to seek admission by the principal entrance--i contented myself with one long, loving look, and turned to the left, where there was a small private gate leading into an avenue of ilex and pine, interspersed with orange-trees. this was a favorite walk of mine, partly on account of its pleasant shade even in the hottest noon--partly because it was seldom frequented by any member of the household save myself. guido occasionally took a turn with me there, but i was more often alone, and i was fond of pacing up and down in the shadow of the trees, reading some favorite book, or giving myself up to the dolce far niente of my own imaginings. the avenue led round to the back of the villa, and as i now entered it, i thought i would approach the house cautiously by this means and get private speech with assunta, the nurse who had charge of little stella, and who was moreover an old and tried family servant, in whose arms my mother had breathed her last. the dark trees rustled solemnly as i stepped quickly yet softly along the familiar moss-grown path. the place was very still--sometimes the nightingales broke into a bubbling torrent of melody, and then were suddenly silent, as though overawed by the shadows of the heavy interlacing boughs, through which the moonlight flickered, casting strange and fantastic patterns on the ground. a cloud of lucciole broke from a thicket of laurel, and sparkled in the air like gems loosened from a queen's crown. faint odors floated about me, shaken from orange boughs and trailing branches of white jasmine. i hastened on, my spirits rising higher the nearer i approached my destination. i was full of sweet anticipation and passionate longing--i yearned to clasp my beloved nina in my arms--to see her lovely lustrous eyes looking fondly into mine--i was eager to shake guido by the hand--and as for stella, i knew the child would be in bed at that hour, but still, i thought, i must have her wakened to see me. i felt that my happiness would not be complete till i had kissed her little cherub face, and caressed those clustering curls of hers that were like spun gold. hush--hush! what was that? i stopped in my rapid progress as though suddenly checked by an invisible hand. i listened with strained ears. that sound--was it not a rippling peal of gay sweet laughter? a shiver shook me from head to foot. it was my wife's laugh--i knew the silvery chime of it well! my heart sunk coldly--i paused irresolute. she could laugh then like that, while she thought me lying dead--dead and out of her reach forever! all at once i perceived the glimmer of a white robe through the trees; obeying my own impulse, i stepped softly aside--i hid behind a dense screen of foliage through which i could see without being seen. the clear laugh rang out once again on the stillness--its brightness pierced my brain like a sharp sword! she was happy--she was even merry--she wandered here in the moonlight joyous-hearted, while i--i had expected to find her close shut within her room, or else kneeling before the mater dolorosa in the little chapel, praying for my soul's rest, and mingling her prayers with her tears! yes--i had expected this--we men are such fools when we love women! suddenly a terrible thought struck me. had she gone mad? had the shock and grief of my so unexpected death turned her delicate brain? was she roaming about, poor child, like ophelia, knowing not whither she went, and was her apparent gayety the fantastic mirth of a disordered brain? i shuddered at the idea--and bending slightly apart the boughs behind which i was secreted, i looked out anxiously. two figures were slowly approaching--my wife and my friend, guido ferrari. well--there was nothing in that--it was as it should be--was not guido as my brother? it was almost his duty to console and cheer nina as much as lay in his power. but stay! stay! did i see aright--was she simply leaning on his arm for support--or--a fierce oath, that was almost a cry of torture, broke from my lips! oh, would to god i had died! would to god i had never broken open the coffin in which i lay at peace! what was death--what were the horrors of the vault--what was anything i had suffered to the anguish that racked me now? the memory of it to this day burns in my brain like inextinguishable fire, and my hand involuntarily clinches itself in an effort to beat back the furious bitterness of that moment! i know not how i restrained the murderous ferocity that awoke within me--how i forced myself to remain motionless and silent in my hiding-place. but i did. i watched the miserable comedy out to its end. i looked dumbly on at my own betrayal! i saw my honor stabbed to the death by those whom i most trusted, and yet i gave no sign! they--guido ferrari and my wife--came so close to my hiding-place that i could note every gesture and hear every word they uttered. they paused within three steps of me--his arm encircled her waist--hers was thrown carelessly around his neck--her head rested on his shoulder. even so had she walked with me a thousand times! she was dressed in pure white save for one spot of deep color near her heart--a red rose, as red as blood. it was pinned there with a diamond pin that flashed in the moonlight. i thought wildly, that instead of that rose, there should be blood indeed--instead of a diamond pin there should be the good steel of a straight dagger! but i had no weapon--i stared at her, dry-eyed and mute. she looked lovely--exquisitely lovely! no trace of grief marred the fairness of her face--her eyes were as languidly limpid and tender as ever--her lips were parted in the child-like smile that was so sweet--so innocently trustful! she spoke--ah, heaven! the old bewitching music of her low voice made my heart leap and my brain reel. "you foolish guido!" she said, in dreamily amused accents. "what would have happened, i wonder, if fabio had not died so opportunely." i waited eagerly for the answer. guido laughed lightly. "he would never have discovered anything. you were too clever for him, piccinina! besides, his conceit saved him--he had so good an opinion of himself that he would not have deemed it possible for you to care for any other man." my wife--flawless diamond-pearl of pure womanhood!--sighed half restlessly. "i am glad he is dead!" she murmured; "but, guido mio, you are imprudent. you cannot visit me now so often--the servants will talk! then i must go into mourning for at least six months--and there are many other things to consider." guide's hand played with the jeweled necklace she wore--he bent and kissed the place where its central pendant rested. again--again, good sir, i pray you! let no faint scruples interfere with your rightful enjoyment! cover the white flesh with caresses--it is public property! a dozen kisses more or less will not signify! so i madly thought as i crouched among the trees--the tigerish wrath within me making the blood beat in my head like a hundred hammer-strokes. "nay then, my love," he replied to her, "it is almost a pity fabio is dead! while he lived he played an excellent part as a screen--he was an unconscious, but veritable duenna of propriety for both of us, as no one else could be!" the boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. my wife started, and looked uneasily round her. "hush!" she said, nervously. "he was buried only yesterday--and they say there are ghosts sometimes. this avenue, too--i wish we had not come here--it was his favorite walk. besides," she added, with a slight accent of regret, "after all he was the father of my child--you must think of that." "by heaven!" exclaimed guido, fiercely, "do i not think of it? ay--and i curse him for every kiss he stole from your lips!" i listened half stupefied. here was a new phase of the marriage law! husbands were thieves then--they "stole" kisses; only lovers were honest in their embraces! oh, my dear friend--my more than brother--how near you were to death at that moment! had you but seen my face peering pallidly through the dusky leaves--could you have known the force of the fury pent up within me--you would not have valued your life at one baiocco! "why did you marry him?" he asked, after a little pause, during which he toyed with the fair curls that floated against his breast. she looked up with a little mutinous pout, and shrugged her shoulders. "why? because i was tired of the convent, and all the stupid, solemn ways of the nuns; also because he was rich, and i was horribly poor. i cannot bear to be poor! then he loved me"--here her eyes glimmered with malicious triumph--"yes--he was mad for me--and--" "you loved him?" demanded guido, almost fiercely. "ma che!" she answered, with an expressive gesture. "i suppose i did--for a week or two. as much as one ever loves a husband! what does one marry for at all? for convenience--money--position--he gave me these things, as you know." "you will gain nothing by marrying me, then," he said, jealously. she laughed, and laid her little white hand, glittering with rings, lightly against his lips. "of course not! besides--have i said i will marry you? you are very agreeable as a lover--but otherwise--i am not sure! and i am free now--i can do as i like; i want to enjoy my liberty, and--" she was not allowed to complete her sentence, for ferrari snatched her close to his breast and held her there as in a vise. his face was aflame with passion. "look you, nina," he said, hoarsely, "you shall not fool me, by heaven! you shall not! i have endured enough at your hands, god knows! when i saw you for the first time on the day of your marriage with that poor fool, fabio--i loved you, madly--ay, wickedly as i then thought, but not for the sin of it did i repent. i knew you were woman, not angel, and i waited my time. it came--i sought you--i told you my story of love ere three months of wedded life had passed over your head. i found you willing--ready--nay, eager to hear me! you led me on; you know you did! you tempted me by touch, word and look; you gave me all i sought! why try to excuse it now? you are as much my wife as ever you were fabio's--nay--you are more so, for you love me--at least you say so--and though you lied to your husband, you dare not lie to me. i tell you, you dare not! i never pitied fabio, never--he was too easily duped, and a married man has no right to be otherwise than suspicious and ever on his guard; if he relaxes in his vigilance he has only himself to blame when his honor is flung like a ball from hand to hand, as one plays with a child's toy. i repeat to you, nina, you are mine, and i swear you shall never escape me!" the impetuous words coursed rapidly from his lips, and his deep musical voice had a defiant ring as it fell on the stillness of the evening air. i smiled bitterly as i heard! she struggled in his arms half angrily. "let me go," she said. "you are rough, you hurt me!" he released her instantly. the violence of his embrace had crushed the rose she wore, and its crimson leaves fluttered slowly down one by one on the ground at her feet. her eyes flashed resentfully, and an impatient frown contracted her fair level brows. she looked away from him in silence, the silence of a cold disdain. something in her attitude pained him, for he sprung forward and caught her hand, covering it with kisses. "forgive me, carina mia" he cried, repentantly. "i did not mean to reproach you. you cannot help being beautiful--it is the fault of god or the devil that you are so, and that your beauty maddens me! you are the heart of my heart, the soul of my soul! oh, nina mia, let us not waste words in useless anger. think of it, we are free--free! free to make life a long dream of delight--delight more perfect than angels can know! the greatest blessing that could have befallen us is the death of fabio, and now that we are all in all to each other, do not harden yourself against me! nina, be gentle with me--of all things in the world, surely love is best!" she smiled, with the pretty superior smile of a young empress pardoning a recreant subject, and suffered him to draw her again, but with more gentleness, into his embrace. she put up her lips to meet his--i looked on like a man in a dream! i saw them cling together--each kiss they exchanged was a fresh stab to my tortured soul. "you are so foolish, guido mio" she pouted, passing her little jeweled fingers through his clustering hair with a light caress--"so impetuous--so jealous! i have told you over and over again that i love you! do you not remember that night when fabio sat out on the balcony reading his plato, poor fellow!"--here she laughed musically--"and we were trying over some songs in the drawing--room--did i not say then that i loved you best of any one in the world? you know i did! you ought to be satisfied!" guido smiled, and stroked her shining golden curls. "i am satisfied," he said, without any trace of his former heated impatience--"perfectly satisfied. but do not expect to find love without jealousy. fabio was never jealous--i know--he trusted you too implicitly--he was nothing of a lover, believe me! he thought more of himself than of you. a man who will go away for days at a time on solitary yachting and rambling excursions, leaving his wife to her own devices--a man who reads plato in preference to looking after her, decides his own fate, and deserves to be ranked with those so-called wise but most ignorant philosophers to whom woman has always remained an unguessed riddle. as for me--i am jealous of the ground you tread upon--of the air that touches you--i was jealous of fabio while he lived--and--by heaven!"--his eyes darkened with a somber wrath--"if any other man dared now to dispute your love with me i would not rest till his body had served my sword as a sheath!" nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness. "again!" she murmured, reproachfully, "you are going to be angry again!" he kissed her. "not i, sweet one! i will be as gentle as you wish, so long as you love me and only me. come--this avenue is damp and chilly for you--shall we go in?" my wife--nay, i should say our wife, as we had both shared her impartial favors--assented. with arms interlaced and walking slowly, they began to retrace their steps toward the house. once they paused. "do you hear the nightingales?" asked guido. hear them! who could not hear them? a shower of melody rained from the trees on every side--the pure, sweet, passionate tones pierced the ear like the repeated chime of little golden bells--the beautiful, the tender, the god-inspired birds sung their love-stories simply and with perfect rapture--love-stories untainted by hypocrisy--unsullied by crime--different, ah! so very different from the love-stories of selfish humanity! the exquisite poetic idyl of a bird's life and love--is it not a thing to put us inferior creatures to shame--for are we ever as true to our vows as the lark to his mate?--are we as sincere in our thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring? nay--not we! our existence is but one long impotent protest against god, combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in the struggle for base coin! nina listened--and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about her shoulders. "i hate them," she said, pettishly; "their noise is enough to pierce one's ears. and he used to be so fond of them! he used to sing--what was it? 'ti salute, rosignuolo, nel tuo duolo, il saluto! sei l'amante della rosa che morendo si fa sposa!'" her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the nightingales themselves. she broke off with a little laugh-- "poor fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung. come, guido!" and they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean--as though no just retribution dogged their steps--as though no shadow of a terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness! i watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance--i stretched my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife's white robe had vanished behind the thick foliage. they were gone--they would return no more that night. i sprung out from my hiding-place. i stood on the spot where they had stood. i tried to bring home to myself the actual truth of what i had witnessed. my brain whirled--circles of light swam giddily before me in the air--the moon looked blood-red. the solid earth seemed unsteady beneath my feet--almost i doubted whether i was indeed alive, or whether i was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to return from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all the fair, once precious things of by-gone days. the splendid universe around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of god--no more a majestic marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness--a mere ball for devils to kick and spurn through space! of what avail these twinkling stars--these stately leaf-laden trees--these cups of fragrance we know as flowers--this round wonder of the eyes called nature? of what avail was god himself, i widely mused, since even he could not keep one woman true? she whom i loved--she as delicate of form, as angel-like in face as the child-bride of christ, st. agnes--she, even she was--what? a thing lower than the beasts, a thing as vile as the vilest wretch in female form that sells herself for a gold piece--a thing--great heaven!--for all men to despise and make light of--for the finger of scorn to point out--for the foul hissing tongue of scandal to mock at! this creature was my wife--the mother of my child--she had cast mud on her soul by her own free will and choice--she had selected evil as her good--she had crowned herself with shame willingly, nay--joyfully; she had preferred it to honor. what should be done? i tortured myself occasionally with this question. i stared blankly on the ground--would some demon spring from it and give me the answer i sought? what should be done with her--with him, my treacherous friend, my smiling betrayer? suddenly my eyes lighted on the fallen rose-leaves--those that had dropped when guido's embrace had crushed the flower she wore. there they lay on the path, curled softly at the edges like little crimson shells. i stooped and picked them up--i placed them all in the hollow of my hand and looked at them. they had a sweet odor--almost i kissed them--nay, nay, i could not--they had too recently lain on the breast of an embodied lie! yes; she was that, a lie, a living, lovely, but accursed lie! "go and kill her." stay! where had i heard that? painfully i considered, and at last remembered--and then i thought moodily that the starved and miserable rag-picker was more of a man than i. he had taken his revenge at once; while i, like a fool, had let occasion slip. yes, but not forever! there were different ways of vengeance; one must decide the best, the keenest way--and, above all, the way that shall inflict the longest, the cruelest agony upon those by whom honor is wronged. true--it would be sweet to slay sin in the act of sinning, but then--must a romani brand himself as a murderer in the sight of men? not so; there were other means--other roads, leading to the same end if the tired brain could only plan them out. slowly i dragged my aching limbs to the fallen trunk of a tree and sat down, still holding the dying rose-leaves in my clinched palm. there was a surging noise in my ears--my mouth tasted of blood, my lips were parched and burning as with fever. "a white-haired fisherman." that was me! the king had said so. mechanically i looked down at the clothes i wore--the former property of a suicide. "he was a fool," the vender of them had said, "he killed himself." yes, there was no doubt of it--he was a fool. i would not follow his example, or at least not yet. i had something to do first--something that must be done if i could only see my way clear to it. yes--if i could only see my way and follow it straightly, resolutely, remorselessly! my thoughts were confused, like the thoughts of a fever-stricken man in delirium--the scent of the rose-leaves i held sickened me strangely--yet i would not throw them from me; no, i would keep them to remind me of the embraces i had witnessed! i felt for my purse! i found and opened it, and placed the withering red petals carefully within it. as i slipped it again in my pocket i remembered the two leathern pouches i carried--the one filled with gold, the other with the jewels i had intended for--her. my adventures in the vault recurred to me; i smiled as i recollected the dire struggle i had made for life and liberty. life and liberty!--of what use were they to me now, save for one thing--revenge? i was not wanted; i was not expected back to refill my former place on earth--the large fortune i had possessed was now my wife's by the decree of my own last will and testament, which she would have no difficulty in proving. but still, wealth was mine--the hidden stores of the brigands were sufficient to make any man more than rich for the term of his natural life. as i considered this, a sort of dull pleasure throbbed in my veins. money! anything could be done for money--gold would purchase even vengeance. but what sort of vengeance? such a one as i sought must be unique--refined, relentless, and complete. i pondered deeply. the evening wind blew freshly up from the sea; the leaves of the swaying trees whispered mysteriously together; the nightingales warbled on with untired sweetness; and the moon, like the round shield of an angel warrior, shone brightly against the dense blue background of the sky. heedless of the passing of hours, i sat still, lost in a bewildered reverie. "there was always a false note somewhere when he sung!" so she had said, laughing that little laugh of hers as cold and sharp as the clash of steel. true, true; by all the majesty of heaven, most true! there was indeed a false note--jarring, not so much the voice as the music of life itself. there is stuff in all of us that will weave, as we desire it, into a web of stately or simple harmony; but let the meteor-like brilliancy of a woman's smile--a woman's touch--a woman's lie--intermingle itself with the strain, and lo! the false note is struck, discord declares itself, and god himself, the great composer, can do nothing in this life to restore the old calm tune of peaceful, unspoiled days! so i have found; so all of you must find, long before you and sorrow grow old together. "a white-haired fisherman!" the words of the king repeated themselves over and over again in my tortured brain. yes--i was greatly changed, i looked worn and old--no one would recognize me for my former self. all at once, with this thought, an idea occurred to me--a plan of vengeance, so bold, so new, and withal so terrible, that i started from my seat as though stung by an adder. i paced up and down restlessly, with this lurid light of fearful revenge pouring in on every nook and cranny of my darkened mind. from whence had come this daring scheme? what devil, or rather what angel of retribution, had whispered it to my soul? dimly i wondered--but amid all my wonder i began practically to arrange the details of my plot. i calculated every small circumstance that was likely to occur in the process of carrying it out. my stupefied senses became aroused from the lethargy of despair, and stood up like soldiers on the alert armed to the teeth. past love, pity, pardon, patience--pooh! what were all these resources of the world's weakness to me? what was it to me that the bleeding christ forgave his enemies in death? he never loved a woman! strength and resolution returned to me. let common sailors and rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their unreasoning brute wrath when wronged; but as for me, why should i blot my family scutcheon with a merely vulgar crime? nay, the vengeance of a romani must be taken with assured calmness and easy deliberation--no haste, no plebeian fury, no effeminate fuss, no excitement. i walked up and down slowly, meditating on every point of the bitter drama in which i had resolved to enact the chief part, from the rise to the fall of the black curtain. the mists cleared from my brain--i breathed more easily--my nerves steadied themselves by degrees--the prospect of what i purposed doing satisfied me and calmed the fever in my blood. i became perfectly cool and collected. i indulged in no more futile regrets for the past--why should i mourn the loss of a love i never possessed? it was not as if they had waited till my supposed sudden death--no! within three months of my marriage they had fooled me; for three whole years they had indulged in their criminal amour, while i, blind dreamer, had suspected nothing. now i knew the extent of my injury; i was a man bitterly wronged, vilely duped. justice, reason, and self-respect demanded that i should punish to the utmost the miserable tricksters who had played me false. the passionate tenderness i had felt for my wife was gone--i plucked it from my heart as i would have torn a thorn from my flesh--i flung it from me with disgust as i had flung away the unseen reptile that had fastened on my neck in the vault. the deep warm friendship of years i had felt for guido ferrari froze to its very foundations--and in its place there rose up, not hate, but pitiless, immeasurable contempt. a stern disdain of myself also awoke in me, as i remembered the unreasoning joy with which, i had hastened--as i thought--home, full of eager anticipation and romeo-like ardor. an idiot leaping merrily to his death over a mountain chasm was not more fool than i! but the dream was over--the delusion of my life was passed. i was strong to avenge--i would be swift to accomplish. so, darkly musing for an hour or more, i decided on the course i had to pursue, and to make the decision final i drew from my breast the crucifix that the dead monk cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, i raised it aloft, and swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never to relax, never to rest, till i had brought my vow of just vengeance to its utmost fulfillment. the stars, calm witnesses of my oath, eyed me earnestly from their judgment thrones in the quiet sky--there was a brief pause in the singing of the nightingales, as though they too listened--the wind sighed plaintively, and scattered a shower of jasmine blossoms like snow at my feet. even so, i thought, fall the last leaves of my white days--days of pleasure, days of sweet illusion, days of dear remembrance; even so let them wither and perish utterly forever! for from henceforth my life must be something other than a mere garland of flowers--it must be a chain of finely tempered steel, hard, cold, and unbreakable--formed into links strong enough to wind round and round two false lives and imprison them so closely as to leave no means of escape. this was what must be done--and i resolved to do it. with a firm, quiet step i turned to leave the avenue. i opened the little private wicket, and passed into the dusty road. a clanging noise caused me to look up as i went by the principal entrance of the villa romani. a man servant--my own man-servant by the by--was barring the great gates for the night. i listened as he slid the bolts into their places, and turned the key. i remembered that those gates had been thoroughly fastened before, when i came up the road from naples--why then had they been opened since? to let out a visitor? of course! i smiled grimly at my wife's cunning! she evidently knew what she was about. appearances must be kept up--the signor ferrari must be decorously shown out by a servant at the chief entrance of the house. naturally!--all very unsuspicious-looking and quite in keeping with the proprieties! guido had just left her then? i walked steadily, without hurrying my pace, down the hill toward the city, and on the way i overtook him. he was strolling lazily along, smoking as usual, and he held a spray of stephanotis in his hand--well i knew who had given it to him! i passed him--he glanced up carelessly, his handsome face clearly visible in the bright moonlight--but there was nothing about a common fisherman to attract his attention--his look only rested upon me for a second and was withdrawn immediately. an insane desire possessed me to turn upon him--to spring at his throat--to wrestle with him and throw him in the dust at my feet--to spit at him and trample upon him--but i repressed those fierce and dangerous emotions. i had a better game to play--i had an exquisite torture in store for him, compared to which a hand-to-hand fight was mere vulgar fooling. vengeance ought to ripen slowly in the strong heat of intense wrath, till of itself it falls--hastily snatched before its time it is like unmellowed fruit, sour and ungrateful to the palate. so i let my dear friend--my wife's consoler--saunter on his heedless way without interference--i passed, leaving him to indulge in amorous musings to his false heart's content. i entered naples, and found a night's lodging at one of the usual resorts for men of my supposed craft, and, strange to say, i slept soundly and dreamlessly. recent illness, fatigue, fear, and sorrow, all aided to throw me like an exhausted child upon the quiet bosom of slumber, but perhaps the most powerfully soothing opiate to my brain was the consciousness i had of a practical plan of retribution--more terrible perhaps than any human creature had yet devised, so far as i knew. unchristian you call me? i tell you again, christ never loved a woman! had he done so, he would have left us some special code of justice. chapter ix. i rose very early the next morning--i was more than ever strengthened in my resolutions of the past night--my projects were entirely formed, and nothing remained now but for me to carry them out. unobserved of any one i took my way again to the vault. i carried with me a small lantern, a hammer, and some strong nails. arrived at the cemetery i looked carefully everywhere about me, lest some stray mourner or curious stranger might possibly be in the neighborhood. not a soul was in sight. making use of the secret passage, i soon found myself on the scene of my recent terrors and sufferings, all of which seemed now so slight in comparison with the mental torture of my present condition. i went straight to the spot where i had left the coffined treasure--i possessed myself of all the rolls of paper money, and disposed them in various small packages about my person and in the lining of my clothes till, as i stood, i was worth many thousand of francs. then with the help of the tools i had brought, i mended the huge chest in the split places where i had forced it open, and nailed it up fast so that it looked as if it had never been touched. i lost no time over my task, for i was in haste. it was my intention to leave naples for a fortnight or more, and i purposed taking my departure that very day. before leaving the vault i glanced at the coffin i myself had occupied. should i mend that and nail it up as though my body were still inside? no--better leave it as it was--roughly broken open--it would serve my purpose better so. as soon as i had finished all i had to do, i clambered through the private passage, closing it after me with extra care and caution, and then i betook myself directly to the molo. on making inquiries among the sailors who were gathered there, i heard that a small coasting brig was on the point of leaving for palermo. palermo would suit me as well as any other place; i sought out the captain of the vessel. he was a brown-faced, merry-eyed mariner--he showed his glittering white teeth in the most amiable of smiles when i expressed my desire to take passage with him, and consented to the arrangement at once for a sum which i thought extremely moderate, but which i afterward discovered to be about treble his rightful due. but the handsome rogue cheated me with such grace and exquisite courtesy, that i would scarcely have had him act otherwise than he did. i hear a good deal of the "plain blunt honesty" of the english. i dare say there is some truth in it, but for my own part i would rather be cheated by a friendly fellow who gives you a cheery word and a bright look than receive exact value for my money from the "plain blunt" boor who seldom has the common politeness to wish you a good-day. we got under way at about nine o'clock--the morning was bright, and the air, for naples, was almost cool. the water rippling against the sides of our little vessel had a gurgling, chatty murmur, as though it were talking vivaciously of all the pleasant things it experienced between the rising and the setting of the sun; of the corals and trailing sea-weed that grew in its blue depths, of the lithe glittering fish that darted hither and thither between its little waves, of the delicate shells in which dwelt still more delicate inhabitants, fantastic small creatures as fine as filmy lace, that peeped from the white and pink doors of their transparent habitations, and looked as enjoyingly on the shimmering blue-green of their ever-moving element as we look on the vast dome of our sky, bespangled thickly with stars. of all these things, and many more as strange and sweet, the gossiping water babbled unceasingly; it had even something to say to me concerning woman and woman's love. it told me gleefully how many fair female bodies it had seen sunk in the cold embrace of the conquering sea, bodies, dainty and soft as the sylphs of a poet's dream, yet which, despite their exquisite beauty, had been flung to and fro in cruel sport by the raging billows, and tossed among pebbles for the monsters of the deep to feed upon. as i sat idly on the vessel's edge and looked down, down into the clear mediterranean, brilliantly blue as a lake of melted sapphires, i fancied i could see her the delilah of my life, lying prone on the golden sand, her rich hair floating straightly around her like yellow weed, her hands clinched in the death agony, her laughing lips blue with the piercing chilliness of the washing tide--powerless to move or smile again. she would look well so, i thought--better to my mind than she looked in the arms of her lover last night. i fell into a train of profound meditation--a touch on my shoulder startled me. i looked up, the captain of the brig stood beside me. he smiled and held out a cigarette. "the signor will smoke?" he said courteously. i accepted the little roll of fragrant havanna half mechanically. "why do you call me signor?" i inquired brusquely. "i am a coral-fisher." the little man shrugged his shoulders and bowed deferentially, yet with the smile still dancing gayly in his eyes and dimpling his olive cheeks. "oh, certainly! as the signor pleases--ma--" and he ended with another expressive shrug and bow. i looked at him fixedly. "what do you mean?" i asked with some sternness. with that birdlike lightness and swiftness which were part of his manner, the sicilian skipper bent forward and laid a brown finger on my wrist. "scusa, vi prego! but the hands are not those of a fisher of coral." i glanced down at them. true enough, their smoothness and pliant shape betrayed my disguise--the gay little captain was sharp-witted enough to note the contrast between them and the rough garb i wore, though no one else with whom i had come in contact had been as keen of observation as he. at first i was slightly embarrassed by his remark--but after a moment's pause i met his gaze frankly, and lighting my cigarette i said, carelessly: "ebbene! and what then, my friend?" he made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. "nay, nay, nothing--but only this. the signor must understand he is perfectly safe with me. my tongue is discreet--i talk of things only that concern myself. the signor has good reasons for what he does--of that i am sure. he has suffered; it is enough to look in his face to see that. ah, dio if there are so many sorrows in life; there is love," he enumerated rapidly on his fingers--"there is revenge--there are quarrels--there is loss of money; any of these will drive a man from place to place at all hours and in all weathers. yes; it is so, indeed--i know it! the signor has trusted himself in my boat--i desire to assure him of my best services." and he raised his red cap with so charming a candor that in my lonely and morose condition i was touched to the heart. silently i extended my hand--he caught it with an air in which respect, sympathy, and entire friendliness were mingled. and yet he overcharged me for my passage, you exclaim! ay--but he would not have made me the object of impertinent curiosity for twenty times the money! you cannot understand the existence of such conflicting elements in the italian character? no--i dare say not. the tendency of the calculating northerner under the same circumstances would have been to make as much out of me as possible by means of various small and contemptible items, and then to go with broadly honest countenance to the nearest police-station and describe my suspicious appearance and manner, thus exposing me to fresh expense besides personal annoyance. with the rare tact that distinguishes the southern races the captain changed the conversation by a reference to the tobacco we were both enjoying. "it is good, is it not?" he asked. "excellent!" i answered, as indeed it was. his white teeth glittered in a smile of amusement. "it should be of the finest quality--for it is a present from one who will smoke nothing but the choice brands. ah, dio! what a fine gentleman spoiled is carmelo neri!" i could not repress a slight start of surprise. what caprice of fate associated me with this famous brigand? i was actually smoking his tobacco, and i owed all my present wealth to his stolen treasures secreted in my family vault! "you know the man, then?" i inquired with some curiosity. "know him? as well as i know myself. let me see, it is two months--yes--two months to-day since he was with me on board this very vessel. it happened in this way--i was at gaeta--he came to me and told me the gendarmes were after him. he offered me more gold than i ever had in my life to take him to termini, from whence he could get to one of his hiding-places in the montemaggiore. he brought teresa with him; he found me alone on the brig, my men had gone ashore. he said, 'take us to termini and i will give you so much; refuse and i will slit your throat.' ha! ha! ha! that was good. i laughed at him. i put a chair for teresa on deck, and gave her some big peaches. i said, 'see, my carmelo! what use is there in threats? you will not kill me, and i shall not betray you. you are a thief, and a bad thief--by all the saints you are--but i dare say you would not be much worse than the hotel-keepers, if you could only keep your hand off your knife.' (for you know, signor, if you once enter a hotel you must pay almost a ransom before you can get out again!) yes--and i reasoned with carmelo in this manner: i told him, 'i do not want a large fortune for carrying you and teresa across to termini--pay me the just passage and we shall part friends, if only for teresa's sake.' well, he was surprised. he smiled that dark smile of his, which may mean gratitude or murder. he looked at teresa. she sprung up from her seat, and let her peaches fall from her lap on the deck. she put her little hands on mine--the tears were in her pretty blue eyes. 'you are a good man,' she said. 'some woman must love you very much!' yes--she said that. and she was right. our lady be praised for it!" and his dark eyes glanced upward with a devout gesture of thanksgiving. i looked at him with a sort of jealous hunger gnawing at my heart. here was another self deluded fool--a fond wretch feasting on the unsubstantial food of a pleasant dream--a poor dupe who believed in the truth of woman! "you are a happy man," i said with a forced smile; "you have a guiding star for your life as well as for your boat--a woman that loves you and is faithful? is it so?" he answered me directly and simply, raising his cap slightly as he did so. "yes, signor--my mother." i was deeply touched by his naive and unexpected reply--more deeply than i cared to show. a bitter regret stirred in my soul--why, oh, why had my mother died so young! why had i never known the sacred joy that seemed to vibrate through the frame, and sparkle in the eyes of this common sailor! why must i be forever alone, with a curse of a woman's lie on my life, weighing me down to the dust and ashes of a desolate despair! something in my face must have spoken my thoughts, for the captain said, gently: "the signor has no mother?" "she died when i was but a child," i answered, briefly. the sicilian puffed lightly at his cigarette in silence--the silence of an evident compassion. to relieve him of his friendly embarrassment, i said: "you spoke of teresa? who is teresa?" "ah, you may well ask, signor! no one knows who she is; she loves carmelo neri, and there all is said. such a little thing she is--so delicate! like a foam-bell on the waves; and carmelo--you have seen carmelo, signor?" i shook my head in the negative. "ebbene! carmelo is big and rough and black like a wolf of the forests, all hair and fangs; teresa is, well! you have seen a little cloud in the sky at night, wandering past the moon all flecked with pale gold?--that is teresa. she is, small and slight as a child; she has rippling curls, and soft praying eyes, and tiny, weak, white hands, not strong enough to snap a twig in two. yet she can do anything with carmelo--she is the one soft spot in his life." "i wonder if she is true to him," i muttered, half to myself and half aloud. the captain caught up my words with an accent of surprise. "true to him? ah, dio! but the signor does not know her. there was one of carmelo's own band, as bold and handsome a cut-throat as ever lived--he was mad for teresa--he followed her everywhere like a beaten cur. one day he found her alone; he tried to embrace her--she snatched a knife from his own girdle and stabbed him with it, like a little fury! she did not kill him then, but carmelo did afterward. to think of a little woman like that with such a devil in her! it is her boast that no man, save carmelo, has ever touched so much as a ringlet of her hair. ay; she is true to him--more's the pity." "why--you would not have her false?" i asked. "nay, nay--for a false woman deserves death--but still it is a pity teresa should have fixed her love on carmelo. such a man! one day the gendarmes will have him, then he will be in the galleys for life, and she will die. yes--you may be sure of that! if grief does not kill her quickly enough, then she will kill herself, that is certain! she is slight and frail to look at as a flower, but her soul is strong as iron. she, will have her own way in death as well as in love--some women are made so, and it is generally the weakest-looking among them who have the most courage." our conversation was here interrupted by one of the sailors who came for his master's orders. the talkative skipper, with an apologetic smile and bow, placed his box of cigarettes beside me where i sat, and left me to my own reflections. i was not sorry to be alone. i needed a little breathing time--a rest in which to think, though my thoughts, like a new solar system, revolved round the red planet of one central idea, vengeance. "a false woman deserves death." even this simple sicilian mariner said so. "go and kill her, go and kill her!" these words reiterated themselves over and over again in my ears, till i found myself almost uttering them aloud. my soul sickened at the contemplation of the woman teresa--the mistress of a wretched brigand whose name was fraught with horror--whose looks were terrific--she, even she could keep herself sacred from the profaning touch of other men's caresses--she was proud of being faithful to her wolf of the mountains, whose temper was uncertain and treacherous--she could make lawful boast of her fidelity to her blood-stained lover--while nina--the wedded wife of a noble whose descent was lofty and unsullied, could tear off the fair crown of honorable marriage and cast it in the dust--could take the dignity of an ancient family and trample upon it--could make herself so low and vile that even this common teresa, knowing all, might and most probably would, refuse to touch her hand, considering it polluted. just god! what had carmelo neri done to deserve the priceless jewel of a true woman's heart? what had i done to merit such foul deception as that which i was now called upon to avenge? suddenly i thought of my child. her memory came upon me like a ray of light--i had almost forgotten her. poor little blossom!--the slow hot tears forced themselves between my eyelids, as i called up before my fancy the picture of the soft baby face--the young untroubled eyes--the little coaxing mouth always budding into innocent kisses! what should i do with her? when the plan of punishment i had matured in my brain was carried out to its utmost, should i take her with me far, far away into some quiet corner of the world, and devote my life to hers? alas! alas! she, too, would be a woman and beautiful--she was a flower born of a poisoned tree, who could say that there might not be a canker-worm hidden even in her heart, which waited but for the touch of maturity to commence its work of destruction! oh, men! you that have serpents coiled round your lives in the shape of fair false women--if god has given you children by them, the curse descends upon you doubly! hide it as you will under the society masks we are all forced to wear, you know there is nothing more keenly torturing than to see innocent babes look trustingly in the deceitful eyes of an unfaithful wife, and call her by the sacred name of "mother." eat ashes and drink wormwood, you shall find them sweet in comparison to that nauseating bitterness! for the rest of the day i was very much alone. the captain of the brig spoke cheerily to me now and then, but we were met by light contrary winds that necessitated his giving most of his attention to the management of his vessel, so that he could not permit himself to yield to the love of gossip that was inherent in him. the weather was perfect, and notwithstanding our constant shifting and tacking about to catch the erratic breeze, the gay little brig made merry and rapid way over the sparkling mediterranean, at a rate that promised our arrival at palermo by the sunset of the following day. as the evening came on the wind freshened, and by the time the moon soared like a large blight bird into the sky, we were scudding along sideways, the edge of our vessel leaning over to kiss the waves that gleamed like silver and gold, flecked here and there with phosphorescent flame. we skimmed almost under the bows of a magnificent yacht--the english flag floated from her mast--her sails glittered purely white in the moonbeams, and she sprung over the water like a sea-gull. a man, whose tall athletic figure was shown off to advantage by the yachting costume he wore, stood on deck, his arm thrown round the waist of a girl beside him. we were but a minute or two passing the stately vessel, yet i saw plainly this loving group of two, and--i pitied the man! why? he was english undoubtedly--the son of a country where the very soil is supposed to be odorous of virtue--therefore the woman beside him must be a perfect pearl of purity; an englishman never makes a mistake in these things! never? are you sure? ah, believe me, there is not much difference nowadays between women of opposite nations. once there was--i am willing to admit that possibility. once, from all accounts received, the english rose was the fitting emblem of the english woman, but now, since the world has grown so wise and made such progress in the art of running rapidly downhill, is even the aristocratic british peer quite easy in his mind regarding his fair peeress? can he leave her to her own devices with safety? are there not men, boastful too of their "blue blood," who are perhaps ready to stoop to the thief's trick of entering his house during his absence by means of private keys, and stealing away his wife's affections?--and is not she, though a mother of three or four children, ready to receive with favor the mean robber of her husband's rights and honor? read the london newspapers any day and you will find that once "moral" england is running a neck and neck race with other less hypocritical nations in pursuit of social vice. the barriers that once existed are broken down; "professional beauties" are received in circles where their presence formerly would have been the signal for all respectable women instantly to retire; ladies of title are satisfied to caper on the boards of the theatrical stage, in costumes that display their shape as undisguisedly as possible to the eyes of the grinning public, or they sing in concert halls for the pleasure of showing themselves off, and actually accept the vulgar applause of unwashed crowds with a smile and a bow of gratitude! ye gods! what has become of the superb pride of the old regime--the pride which disdained all ostentation and clung to honor more closely than life! what a striking sign of the times too, is this: let a woman taint her virtue before marriage, she is never forgiven--her sin is never forgotten; but let her do what she will when she has a husband's name to screen her, and society winks its eyes at her crimes. couple this fact with the general spirit of mockery that prevails in fashionable circles--mockery of religion, mockery of sentiment, mockery of all that is best and noblest in the human heart--add to it the general spread of "free-thought," and therefore of conflicting and unstable opinions--let all these things together go on for a few years longer and england will stare at her sister nations like a bold woman in a domino--her features partly concealed from a pretense at shame, but her eyes glittering coldly through the mask, betraying to all who look at her how she secretly revels in her new code of lawlessness coupled with greed. for she will always be avaricious--and the worst of it is, that her nature being prosaic, there will be no redeeming grace to cast a glamour about her. france is unvirtuous enough, god knows, yet there is a sunshiny smile on her lips that cheers the heart. italy is also unvirtuous, yet her voice is full of bird-like melody, and her face is a dream of perfect poetry! but england unvirtuous will be like a cautiously calculating, somewhat shrewish matron, possessed of unnatural and unbecoming friskiness, without either laugh, or song, or smile--her one god, gold, and her one commandment, the suggested eleventh, "thou shall not be found out!" i slept that night on deck. the captain offered me the use of his little cabin, and was, in his kind-hearted manner, truly distressed at my persistent refusal to occupy it. "it is bad to sleep in the moonlight, signor," he said, anxiously. "it makes men mad, they say." i smiled. had madness been my destiny, i should have gone mad last night, i thought! "have no fear!" i answered him, gently. "the moonlight is a joy to me--it has no impression on my mind save that of peace. i shall rest well here, my friend--do not trouble yourself about me." he hesitated and then abruptly left me, to return in the space of two or three minutes with a thick rug of sheepskin. he insisted so earnestly on my accepting this covering as a protection from the night air, that, to please him, i yielded to his entreaties and lay down, wrapped in its warm folds. the good-natured fellow then wished me a "buon riposo, signor!" and descended to his own resting-place, humming a gay tune as he went. from my recumbent posture on the deck i stared upward at the myriad stars that twinkled softly in the warm violet skies--stared long and fixedly till it seemed to me that our ship had also become a star, and was sailing through space with its glittering companions. what inhabitants peopled those fair planets, i wondered? mere men and women who lived and loved and lied to one another as bravely as we do? or superior beings to whom the least falsehood is unknown? was there one world among them where no women were born? vague fancies--odd theories--flitted through my brain. i lived over again the agony of my imprisonment in the vaults--again i forced myself to contemplate the scene i had witnessed between my wife and her lover--again i meditated on every small detail requisite to the fulfillment of the terrible vengeance i had designed. i have often wondered how, in countries where divorce is allowed, a wronged husband can satisfy himself with so meager a compensation for his injuries as the mere getting rid of the woman who has deceived him. it is no punishment to her--it is what she wishes. there is not even any very special disgrace in it according to the present standard of social observances. were public whipping the recognized penalty for the crime of a married woman's infidelity, there would be fewer of the like scandals--the divorce might follow the scourging. a daintily brought-up feminine creature would think twice, nay, fifty times, before she would run the risk of allowing her delicate body to be lashed by whips wielded by the merciless hands of a couple of her own sex--such a prospect of degradation, pain, shame, and outraged vanity would be more effectual to kill the brute in her than all the imposing ceremonials of courts of law and special juries. think of it, kings, lords, and commons! whipping at the cart's tail was once a legal punishment--if you would stop the growing immorality and reckless vice of women you had best revive it again--only apply it to rich as well as to poor, for it is most probable that the gay duchesses and countesses of your lands will need its sharp services more frequently than the work-worn wives of your laboring men. luxury, idleness, and love of dress are hot-beds for sin--look for it, therefore, not so much in the hovels of the starving and naked as in the rose-tinted, musk-scented boudoirs of the aristocracy--look for it, as your brave physicians would search out the seeds of a pestilence that threatens to depopulate a great city, and trample it out if you can and will--if you desire to keep the name of your countries glorious in the eyes of future history. spare not the rod because "my lady" forsooth! with her rich hair falling around her in beauteous dishevelment and her eyes bathed in tears, implores your mercy--for by very reason of her wealth and station she deserves less pity than the painted outcast who knows not where to turn for bread. a high post demands high duty! but i talk wildly. whipping is done away with, for women at least--we give a well-bred shudder of disgust at the thought of it. when do we shudder with equal disgust at our own social enormities? seldom or never. meanwhile, in cases of infidelity, husbands and wives can separate and go on their different ways in comparative peace. yes--some can and some do; but i am not one of these. no law in all the world can mend the torn flag of my honor; therefore i must be a law to myself--a counsel, a jury, a judge, all in one and from my decision there can be no appeal! then i must act as executioner--and what torture was ever so perfectly unique as the one i have devised? so i mused, lying broadly awake, with face upturned to the heavens, watching the light of the moon pouring itself out on the ocean like a shower of gold, while the water rushed gurgling softly against the sides of the brig, and broke into the laughter of white foam as we scudded along. chapter x. all the next day the wind was in our favor, and we arrived at palermo an hour before sunset. we had scarcely run into harbor when a small party of officers and gendarmes, heavily laden with pistols and carbines, came on board and showed a document authorizing them to search the brig for carmelo neri. i was somewhat anxious for the safety of my good friend the captain--but he was in nowise dismayed; he smiled and welcomed the armed emissaries of the government as though they were his dearest friends. "to give you my opinion frankly," he said to them, as he opened a flask of line chianti for their behoof, "i believe the villain carmelo is somewhere about gaeta. i would not tell you a lie--why should i? is there not a reward offered, and am not i poor? look you, i would do my best to assist you!" one of the men looked at him dubiously. "we received information," he said, in precise, business-like tones, "that neri escaped from gaeta two months since, and was aided and abetted in his escape by one andrea luziani, owner of the coasting brig 'laura,' journeying for purposes of trade between naples and palermo. you are andrea luziani, and this is the brig 'laura,'--we are right in this; is it not so?" "as if you could ever be wrong, caro!" cried the captain with undiminished gayety, clapping him on the shoulder. "nay, if st. peter should have the bad taste to shut you out of heaven, you would be cunning enough to find another and better entrance! ah, dio! i believe it! yes, you are right about my name and the name of my brig, but in the other things,"--here he shook his fingers with an expressive sign of denial--"you are wrong--wrong--all wrong!" he broke into a gay laugh. "yes, wrong--but we will not quarrel about it! have some more chianti! searching for brigands is thirsty work. fill your glasses, amici--spare not the flask--there are twenty more below stairs!" the officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow, entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent carelessness and bonhomie of his manner. "bravo, andrea!" he cried, merrily. "so! let us all be friends together! besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a passenger--no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!" but andrea was not to be so caught. on the contrary; he raised his hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm. "our lady and the saints forgive you!" he exclaimed, piously, "for thinking that i, an honest marinaro, would accept one baiocco from an accursed brigand! ill-luck would follow me ever after! nay, nay--there has been a mistake; i know nothing of carmelo neri, and i hope the saints will grant that i may never meet him!" he spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter them from searching the brig thoroughly. disappointed in their expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. fortunately they accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing suspicious about me. after a few more effusive compliments and civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure, completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had received had been somehow incorrect. as soon as they were out of sight, the merry andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and snapped his fingers defiantly. "per bacco!" he cried, ecstatically, "they should as soon make a priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest andrea luziani, to betray a man who has given me good cigars! let them run back to gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! carmelo may rest comfortably in the montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him! ah, signor!" for i had advanced to bid him farewell--"i am truly sorry to part company with you! you do not blame me for helping away a poor devil who trusts me?" "not i!" i answered him heartily. "on the contrary, i would there were more like you. addio! and with this," here i gave him the passage-money we had agreed upon, "accept my thanks. i shall not forget your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me." "but," he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, "how can i do that if the signor does not tell me his name?" i had thought of this during the past night. i knew it would be necessary to take a different name, and i had resolved on adopting that of a school-friend, a boy to whom i had been profoundly attached in my earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing in the venetian lido. so i answered andrea's question at once and without effort. "ask for the count cesare oliva," i said. "i shall return to naples shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there." the sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly. "i guessed well," he remarked, smilingly, "that the signor conte's hands were not those of a coral-fisher. oh, yes! i know a gentleman when i see him--though we sicilians say we are all gentlemen. it is a good boast, but alas! not always true! a rivederci, signor! command me when you will--i am your servant!" pressing his hand, i sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay. "a rivederci!" i called to him. "again, and yet again, a thousand thanks!" "oh! tropp' onore, signor--tropp' onore!" and thus i left him, standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless sunbeam. good-hearted, merry rogue! his ideas of right and wrong were oddly mixed--yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our candid friends--and you may be certain the great recording angel knows the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and metes out heaven's reward or punishment accordingly. my first care, when i found myself in the streets of palermo, was to purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman's wear. i explained to the tailor whose shop i entered for this purpose that i had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had for the time adopted their costume. he believed my story the more readily as i ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately, giving him the name of count cesare oliva, and the address of the best hotel in the city. he served me with obsequious humility, and allowed me the use of his private back-room, where i discarded my fisher garb for the dress of a gentleman--a ready-made suit that happened to fit me passably well. thus arrayed as became my station, i engaged rooms at the chief hotel of palermo for some weeks--weeks that were for me full of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay before me. one of my principal objects was to place the money i had with me in safe hands. i sought out the leading banker in palermo, and introducing myself under my adopted name, i stated that i had newly returned to sicily after some years' absence. he received me well, and though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth i had brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels, some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine admiration. seeing this, i pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made of them for his own wear. surprised at my generosity, he at first refused--but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks--while i was perfectly satisfied to see that i had secured his services so thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. when this business transaction was entirely completed, i devoted myself to my next consideration--which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to the late fabio romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. i had always worn a mustache--it had turned white in company with my hair. i now allowed my beard to grow--it came out white also. but in contrast with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old flashing, half-defiant look--a look, which it seemed to me, would make some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as i was before i died. yes--they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered; what should i do with these tell-tale eyes of mine? i thought, and soon decided. nothing was easier than to feign weak sight--sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern sunshine; i would wear smoke-colored glasses. i bought them as soon as the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror i tried their effect. i was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of my face. with them and my white hair and beard, i looked like a well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was a slight affection of the eyes. the next thing to alter was my voice. i had, naturally, a peculiarly soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as it is the habit of almost every italian, to accompany my words with the expressive pantomime of gesture. i took myself in training as an actor studies for a particular part. i cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke with deliberation and coldness--occasionally with a sort of sarcastic brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head during converse. this was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me, and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but i had for my model a middle-aged englishman who was staying in the same hotel as myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single instant. he was a human iceberg--perfectly respectable, with that air of decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. i copied his manners as closely as possible; i kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy--i walked with the same upright drill demeanor--and i surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. i knew i had succeeded at last, for i overheard a waiter speaking of me to his companion as "the white bear!" one other thing i did. i wrote a courteous note to the editor of the principal newspaper published in naples--a newspaper that i knew always found its way to the villa romani--and inclosing fifty francs, i requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue. this paragraph was worded somewhat as follows: "the signor conte cesare oliva, a nobleman who has been for many years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive in naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. the leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their influence." the editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what i sent him, word for word as it was written. he sent me the paper containing it "with a million compliments," but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty francs, though i am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. had i sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as a king or emperor in disguise. editors of newspapers lay claim to be honorable men; they may be so in england, but in italy most of them would do anything for money. poor devils! who can blame them, considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and ink! in fact, i am not at all certain but that a few english newspaper editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough, and if offered with due delicacy. there are surely one or two magazines, for instance, in london, that would not altogether refuse to insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand pounds down for doing it! on the last day but one of my sojourn in palermo i was reclining in an easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the shimmering waters of the gulf. it was nearly eight o'clock, and though the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching chilly night. the character i had adopted, namely that of a somewhat harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature--indeed, i should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and thoughtless abandon of my former self. i had studied the art of being churlish till i really was churlish; i had to act the chief character in a drama, and i knew my part thoroughly well. i sat quietly puffing at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular--for, as far as my plans went, i had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up to action--when i was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. i leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and i was wondering what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly: "carmelo neri, signor! carmelo neri! they have him, poverino! they have him at last!" though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter himself, i did not permit my interest to become manifest. i never forgot for a second the character i had assumed, and drawing the cigar slowly from my lips i merely said: "then they have caught a great rascal. i congratulate the government! where is the fellow?" "in the great square," returned the garcon, eagerly. "if the signor would walk round the corner he would see carmelo, bound and fettered. the saints have mercy upon him! the crowds there are thick as flies round a honeycomb! i must go thither myself--i would not miss the sight for a thousand francs!" and he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a brigand as a child going to its first fair. i put on my hat and strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. it was a picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light--both horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. they were stationed opposite the head-quarters of the carabinieri, where the chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further. between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily manacled, was the notorious neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain thunder-storm. his head was uncovered--his thick hair, long and unkempt, hung in matted locks upon his shoulders--his heavy mustachios and beard were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and forbidding features--though i could see the tiger-like glitter of his sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury and despair--and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful ferocity from under his shaggy brows. he was a huge, heavy man, broad and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him, looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible--there was no redeeming point about him--for even the apparent fortitude he assumed was mere bravado--meretricious courage--which the first week of the galleys would crush out of him as easily as one crushes the juice out of a ripe grape. he wore a nondescript costume of vari-colored linen, arranged in folds that would have been the admiration of an artist. it was gathered about him by means of a brilliant scarlet sash negligently tied. his brawny arms were bare to the shoulder--his vest was open, and displayed his strong brown throat and chest heaving with the pent-up anger and fear that raged within him. his dark grim figure was set off by a curious effect of color in the sky--a long wide band of crimson cloud, as though the sun-god had thrown down a goblet of ruby wine and left it to trickle along the smooth blue fairness of his palace floor--a deep after-glow, which burned redly on the olive-tinted eager faces of the multitude that were everywhere upturned in wonder and ill-judged admiration to the brutal black face of the notorious murderer and thief, whose name had for years been the terror of sicily. i pressed through the crowd to obtain a nearer view, and as i did so a sudden savage movement of neri's bound body caused the gendarmes to cross their swords in front of his eyes with a warning clash. the brigand laughed hoarsely. "corpo di cristo!" he muttered--"think you a man tied hand and foot can run like a deer? i am trapped--i know it! but tell him," and he indicated some person in the throng by a nod of his head "tell him to come hither--i have a message for him." the gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd about them in perplexity--they did not understand. carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as uprightly as he could in his strained and bound position, and called aloud: "luigi biscardi! capitano! oh he--you thought i could not see you! dio! i should know you in hell! come near, i have a parting word for you." at the sound of his strong harsh voice, a silence half of terror, half of awe, fell upon the chattering multitude. there was a sudden stir as the people made way for a young man to pass through their ranks--a slight, tall, rather handsome fellow, with a pale face and cold, sneering eyes. he was dressed with fastidious care and neatness in the uniform of the bersagliere--and he elbowed his way along with the easy audacity of a privileged dandy. he came close up to the brigand and spoke carelessly, with a slightly mocking smile playing round the corners of his mouth. "ebbene!" he said, "you are caught at last, carmelo! you called me--here i am. what do you want with me, rascal?" neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant like a wild beast ready to spring. "you betrayed me," he said in fierce yet smothered accents--"you followed me--you hunted me down! teresa told me all. yes--she belongs to you now--you have got your wish. go and take her--she waits for you--make her speak and tell you how she loves you--if you can!" something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian's look, evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily: "what do you mean, wretch? you have not--my god! you have not killed her?" carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh. "she has killed herself!" he cried, exultingly. "ha, ha, i thought you would wince at that! she snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it! yes--rather than see your lying white face again--rather than feel your accursed touch! find her--she lies dead and smiling up there in the mountains and her last kiss was for me--for me--you understand! now go! and may the devil curse you!" again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively--and the brigand resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned indifference. but the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed about to fall--his pale face grew paler--he moved away through the curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows not whether he be alive or dead. he had evidently received an unexpected shock--a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time healing. i approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand. "may one speak?" i asked, carelessly. the man hesitated. "for one instant, signor. but be brief." i addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone. "have you any message for one andrea luziani? i am a friend of his." he looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features. "andrea is a good soul. tell him if you will that teresa is dead. i am worse than dead. he will know that i did not kill teresa. i could not! she had the knife in her breast before i could prevent her. it is better so." "she did that rather than become the property of another man?" i queried. carmelo neri nodded in acquiescence. either my sight deceived me, or else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his wicked eyes. the gendarme made me a sign, and i withdrew. almost at the same moment the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the pavement--he sprung into his saddle and gave the word--the crowd dispersed to the right and left--the horses were put to a quick trot, and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of the brigand in their midst had disappeared. the people broke up into little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered here and there, returning to their homes and occupations--and more swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was left almost empty. i paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; i had before my mind's eye the picture of the slight fair teresa as described by the sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had set her free of all men's love and persecution. there were some women then who preferred death to infidelity? strange! very strange! common women of course they must be--such as this brigand's mistress; your daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar consoler--she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of lovers. it is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of dishonor--modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or promise. blessed age of progress! age of steady advancement when the apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue--and no one finds out the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it is such an excellent counterfeit! as i walked to and fro, i found myself continually passing the head office of the carabinieri, and, acting on a sudden impulse of curiosity, i at last entered the building, determined to ask for a few particulars concerning the brigand's capture. i was received by a handsome and intelligent-looking man, who glanced at the card with which i presented myself, and saluted me with courteous affability. "oh, yes!" he said, in answer to my inquiries, "neri has given us a great deal of trouble. but we had our suspicions that he had left gaeta, where he was for a time in hiding. a few stray bits of information gleaned here and there put us on the right track." "was he caught easily, or did he show fight?" "he gave himself up like a lamb, signor! it happened in this way. one of our men followed the woman who lived with neri, one teresa, and traced her up to a certain point, the corner of a narrow mountain pass--where she disappeared. he reported this, and thereupon we sent out an armed party. these crept at midnight two by two, till they were formed in a close ring round the place where neri was judged to be. with the first beam of morning they rushed in upon him and took him prisoner. it appears that he showed no surprise--he merely said, 'i expected you!' he was found sitting by the dead body of his mistress; she was stabbed and newly bleeding. no doubt he killed her, though he swears the contrary--lies are as easy to him as breathing." "but where were his comrades? i thought he commanded a large band?" "so he did, signor; and we caught three of the principals only a fortnight ago, but of the others no trace can be found. i suppose carmelo himself dismissed them and sent them far and wide through the country. at any rate, they are disbanded, and with these sort of fellows, where there is no union there is no danger." "and neri's sentence?" i asked. "oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible alternative." i thanked my informant, and left the office. i was glad to have learned these few particulars, for the treasure i had discovered in my own family vault was now more mine than ever. there was not the remotest chance of any one of the neri band venturing so close to naples in search of it, and i thought with a grim smile that had the brigand chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most probably have rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined to aid me in carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. all difficulties smoothed themselves before me--obstacles were taken out of my path--my way was made perfectly clear--each trifling incident was a new finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to the one desired end. god himself seemed on my side, as he is surely ever on the side of justice! let not the unfaithful think that because they say long prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church with meek faces and piously folded hands that the eternal wisdom is deceived thereby. my wife could pray--she could kneel like a lovely saint in the dim religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes upturned to the blameless, infinitely reproachful christ--and look you! each word she uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back upon herself as a curse. prayer is dangerous for liars--it is like falling willfully on an upright naked sword. used as an honorable weapon the sword defends--snatched up as the last resource of a coward it kills. chapter xi. the third week of september was drawing to its close when i returned to naples. the weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of the gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the suffering and terrified population. business was resumed as usual, pleasure had again her votaries, and society whirled round once more in its giddy waltz as though it had never left off dancing. i arrived in the city somewhat early in the day, and had time to make some preliminary arrangements for my plan of action. i secured the most splendid suite of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the whole establishment with a vast idea of my wealth and importance. i casually mentioned to the landlord that i desired to purchase a carriage and horses--that i needed a first-class valet, and a few other trifles of the like sort, and added that i relied on his good advice and recommendation as to the places where i should best obtain all that i sought. needless to say, he became my slave--never was monarch better served than i--the very waiters hustled each other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of my princely fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit from mouth to mouth--which was the result i desired to obtain. and now the evening of my first day in naples came, and i, the supposed conte cesare oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step toward my vengeance. it was one of the loveliest evenings possible, even in that lovely land--a soft breeze blew in from the sea--the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve--small, fleecy flecks of radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible flower-land. the waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam. after my dinner i went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when i was known as fabio romani. guido ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and i felt that i should find him there. the brilliant rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. i glanced covertly yet quickly round. yes! i was not mistaken--there was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another. he was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the paris "figaro." he was dressed entirely in black--a hypocritical livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome features to admiration. on the little finger of the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening light--it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance i recognized it as my own property! so!--a love-gift, signor, or an in memoriam of the dear and valued friend you have lost? i wondered--watching him in dark scorn the while--then recollecting myself, i sauntered slowly toward him, and perceiving a disengaged table next to his, i drew a chair to it and sat down. he looked at me indifferently over the top of his newspaper--but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the "figaro" immediately. i rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom i ordered coffee. i then lighted a cigar, and imitating ferrari's easy posture, smoked also. something in my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of uneasiness. "ca commence, mon ami!" i thought, but i turned my head slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view. my coffee was brought--i paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity--he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my right hand. i addressed this amiable garcon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice. "by the way, i suppose you know naples well?" "oh, si, signor!" "ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one count fabio romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?" ha! a good hit this time! though apparently not looking at him i saw ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention. the waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy. "ah, gran dio! e morto!" "dead!" i exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. "so young? impossible!" "eh! what will you, signor? it was la pesta; there was no remedy. la pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor." for a moment i leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news. then looking up, i said, regretfully: "alas! i am too late! i was a friend of his father's. i have been away for many years, and i had a great wish to meet the young romani whom i last saw as a child. are there any relations of his living--was he married?" the waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly: "oh, si, signor! the contessa romani lives up at the villa, though i believe she receives no one since her husband's death. she is young and beautiful as an angel. there is a little child too." a hasty movement on the part of ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction. he leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace i knew so well, said politely: "pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! i knew the late young count romani well--perhaps better than any man in naples. i shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him." oh, the old mellow music of his voice--how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth. for an instant i could not speak--wrath and sorrow choked my utterance. fortunately this feeling was but momentary--slowly i raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly: "i am your servant, signor. you will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman. the elder count romani was dearer to me than a brother--men have such attachments occasionally. permit me to introduce myself," and i handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. he accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise. "the conte cesare oliva!" he exclaimed. "i esteem myself most fortunate to have met you! your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware," here laughing lightly, "of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in naples. i am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence. permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!" and he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the italian temperament, and were especially so of his. a cold shudder ran through my veins. god! could i take his hand in mine? i must--if i would act my part thoroughly--for should i refuse he would think it strange--even rude--i should lose the game by one false move. with a forced smile i hesitatingly held out my hand also--it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire. i could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which i endured at that moment. but it passed, the ordeal was over, and i knew that from henceforth i should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man. it was only this first time that it galled me to the quick. ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion--he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other's acquaintance, he exclaimed: "more coffee, garcon, and a couple of glorias." then looking toward me, "you do not object to a gloria, conte? no? that is well. and here is my card," taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. "guido ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one. we shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other's health!" i bowed. the waiter vanished to execute his orders and ferrari drew his chair closer to mine. "i see you smoke," he said, gayly. "can i offer you one of my cigars? they are unusually choice. permit me," and he proffered me a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the romani arms and coronet and my own initials engraved thereon. it was mine, of course--i took it with a sensation of grim amusement--i had not seen it since the day i died! "a fine antique," i remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in my hand, "curious and valuable. a gift or an heirloom?" "it belonged to my late friend, count fabio," he answered, puffing a light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to speak. "it was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die. that and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his wife, and--" "she naturally gave you the cigar-case as a memento of your friend," i said, interrupting him. "just so. you have guessed it exactly. thanks," and he took the case from me as i returned it to him with a frank smile. "is the countess romani young?" i forced myself to inquire. "young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!" replied ferrari, with enthusiasm. "i doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman! if you were a young man, conte, i should be silent regarding her charms--but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. i assure you solemnly, though fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!" "indeed!" i said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my heart. "i only knew him when he was quite a boy. he seemed to me then of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps over-credulous, yet he promised well. his father thought so, i confess i thought so too. reports have reached me from time to time of the care with which he managed the immense fortune left to him. he gave large sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a lover of books and simple pleasures?" "oh, i grant you all that!" returned ferrari, with some impatience. "he was the most moral man in immoral naples, if you care for that sort of thing. studious--philosophic--parfait gentilhomme--proud as the devil, virtuous, unsuspecting, and--withal--a fool!" my temper rose dangerously--but i controlled it, and remembering my part in the drama i had constructed, i broke into violent, harsh laughter. "bravo!" i exclaimed. "one can easily see what a first-rate young fellow you are! you have no liking for moral men--ha, ha! excellent! i agree with you. a virtuous man and a fool are synonyms nowadays. yes--i have lived long enough to know that! and here is our coffee--behold also the glorias! i drink your health with pleasure, signor ferrari--you and i must be friends!" for one moment he seemed startled by my sudden outburst of mirth--the next, he laughed heartily himself, and as the waiter appeared with the coffee and cognac, inspired by the occasion, he made an equivocal, slightly indelicate joke concerning the personal charms of a certain antoinetta whom the garcon was supposed to favor with an eye to matrimony. the fellow grinned, in nowise offended--and pocketing fresh gratuities from both ferrari and myself, departed on new errands for other customers, apparently in high good humor with himself, antoinetta, and the world in general. resuming the interrupted conversation i said: "and this poor weak-minded romani--was his death sudden?" "remarkably so," answered ferrari, leaning back in his chair, and turning his handsome flushed face up to the sky where the stars were beginning to twinkle out one by one, "it appears from all accounts that he rose early and went out for a walk on one of those insufferably hot august mornings, and at the furthest limit of the villa grounds he came upon a fruit-seller dying of cholera. of course, with his quixotic ideas, he must needs stay and talk to the boy, and then run like a madman through the heat into naples, to find a doctor for him. instead of a physician he met a priest, and he was taking this priest to the assistance of the fruit-seller (who by the bye died in the meantime and was past all caring for) when he himself was struck down by the plague. he was carried then and there to a common inn, where in about five hours he died--all the time shrieking curses on any one who should dare to take him alive or dead inside his own house. he showed good sense in that at least--naturally he was anxious not to bring the contagion to his wife and child." "is the child a boy or a girl?" i asked, carelessly. "a girl. a mere baby--an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very like her father." my poor little stella. every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to love her, now spoke of the child. she was, as far as he knew, fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother cared little for her, and, i saw plainly that she was, or soon would be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household. but i made no remark--i sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds--then i asked: "how was the count buried? your narrative interests me greatly." "oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and i believe, was able to administer the last sacraments. at any rate, he had him laid with all proper respect in his family vault--i myself was present at the funeral." i started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself. "you were present--you--you--" and my voice almost failed me. ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry. "of course! you are astonished at that? but perhaps you do not understand. i was the count's very closest friend, closer than a brother, i may say. it was natural, even necessary, that i should attend his body to its last resting place." by this time i had recovered myself. "i see--i see!" i muttered, hastily. "pray excuse me--my age renders me nervous of disease in any form, and i should have thought the fear of contagion might have weighed with you." "with me!" and he laughed lightly. "i was never ill in my life, and i have no dread whatever of cholera. i suppose i ran some risk, though i never thought about it at the time--but the priest--one of the benedictine order--died the very next day." "shocking!" i murmured over my coffee-cup. "very shocking. and you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?" "none in the least. to tell you the truth, i am armed against contagious illnesses, by a conviction i have that i am not doomed to die of any disease. a prophecy"--and here a cloud crossed his features--"an odd prophecy was made about me when i was born, which, whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of plague." "indeed!" i said, with interest, for this was news to me. "and may one ask what this prophecy is?" "oh, certainly. it is to the effect that i shall die a violent death by the hand of a once familiar friend. it was always an absurd statement--an old nurse's tale--but it is now more absurd than ever, considering that the only friend of the kind i ever had or am likely to have is dead and buried--namely, fabio romani." and he sighed slightly. i raised my head and looked at him steadily. chapter xii. the sheltering darkness of the spectacles i wore prevented him from noticing the searching scrutiny of my fixed gaze. his face was shadowed by a faint tinge of melancholy; his eyes were thoughtful and almost sad. "you loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?" i said. he roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and smiled. "loved him? no! certainly not--nothing so strong as that! i liked him fairly--he bought several pictures of me--a poor artist has always some sort of regard for the man who buys his work. yes, i liked him well enough--till he married." "ha! i suppose his wife came between you?" he flushed slightly, and drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste. "yes," he replied, briefly, "she came between us. a man is never quite the same after marriage. but we have been sitting a long time here--shall we walk?" he was evidently anxious to change the subject. i rose slowly as though my joints were stiff with age, and drew out my watch, a finely jeweled one, to see the time. it was past nine o'clock. "perhaps," i said, addressing him, "you will accompany me as far as my hotel. i am compelled to retire early as a rule--i suffer much from a chronic complaint of the eyes as you perceive," here touching my spectacles, "and i cannot endure much artificial light. we can talk further on our way. will you give me a chance of seeing your pictures? i shall esteem myself happy to be one of your patrons." "a thousand thanks!" he answered, gayly. "i will show you my poor attempts with pleasure. should you find anything among them to gratify your taste, i shall of course be honored. but, thank heaven! i am not as greedy of patronage as i used to be--in fact i intended resigning the profession altogether in about six months or so." "indeed! are you coming into a fortune?" i asked, carelessly. "well--not exactly," he answered, lightly. "i am going to marry one--that is almost the same thing, is it not?" "precisely! i congratulate you!" i said, in a studiously indifferent and slightly bored tone, though my heart pulsed fiercely with the torrent of wrath pent up within it. i understood his meaning well. in six months he proposed marrying my wife. six months was the shortest possible interval that could be observed, according to social etiquette, between the death of one husband and the wedding of another, and even that was so short as to be barely decent. six months--yet in that space of time much might happen--things undreamed of and undesired--slow tortures carefully measured out, punishment sudden and heavy! wrapped in these sombre musings i walked beside him in profound silence. the moon shone brilliantly; groups of girls danced on the shore with their lovers, to the sound of a flute and mandoline--far off across the bay the sound of sweet and plaintive singing floated from some boat in the distance, to our ears--the evening breathed of beauty, peace and love. but i--my fingers quivered with restrained longing to be at the throat of the graceful liar who sauntered so easily and confidently beside me. ah! heaven, if he only knew! if he could have realized the truth, would his face have worn quite so careless a smile--would his manner have been quite so free and dauntless? stealthily i glanced at him; he was humming a tune softly under his breath, but feeling instinctively, i suppose, that my eyes were upon him, he interrupted the melody and turned to me with the question: "you have traveled far and seen much, conte!" "i have." "and in what country have you found the most beautiful women!" "pardon me, young sir," i answered, coldly, "the business of life has separated me almost entirely from feminine society. i have devoted myself exclusively to the amassing of wealth, understanding thoroughly that gold is the key to all things, even to woman's love; if i desired that latter commodity, which i do not. i fear that i scarcely know a fair face from a plain one--i never was attracted by women, and now at my age, with my settled habits, i am not likely to alter my opinion concerning them--and i frankly confess those opinions are the reverse of favorable." ferrari laughed. "you remind me of fabio!" he said. "he used to talk in that strain before he was married--though he was young and had none of the experiences which may have made you cynical, conte! but he altered his ideas very rapidly--and no wonder!" "is his wife so very lovely then?" i asked. "very! delicately, daintily beautiful. but no doubt you will see her for yourself--as a friend of her late husband's father, you will call upon her, will you not?" "why should i?" i said, gruffly--"i have no wish to meet her! besides, an inconsolable widow seldom cares to receive visitors--i shall not intrude upon her sorrows!" never was there a better move than this show of utter indifference i affected. the less i appeared to care about seeing the countess romani, the more anxious ferrari was to introduce me--(introduce me!--to my wife!)--and he set to work preparing his own doom with assiduous ardor. "oh, but you must see her!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "she will receive you, i am sure, as a special guest. your age and your former acquaintance with her late husband's family will win from her the utmost courtesy, believe me! besides, she is not really inconsolable--" he paused suddenly. we had arrived at the entrance of my hotel. i looked at him steadily. "not really inconsolable?" i repeated, in a tone of inquiry. ferrari broke into a forced laugh, "why no!" he said, "what would you? she is young and light-hearted--perfectly lovely and in the fullness of youth and health. one cannot expect her to weep long, especially for a man she did not care for." i ascended the hotel steps. "pray come in!" i said, with an inviting movement of my hand. "you must take a glass of wine before you leave. and so--she did not care for him, you say?" encouraged by my friendly invitation and manner, ferrari became more at his ease than ever, and hooking his arm through mine as we crossed the broad passage of the hotel together, he replied in a confidential tone: "my dear conte, how can a woman love a man who is forced upon her by her father for the sake of the money he gives her? as i told you before, my late friend was utterly insensible to the beauty of his wife--he was cold as a stone, and preferred his books. then naturally she had no love for him!" by this time we had reached my apartments, and as i threw open the door, i saw that ferrari was taking in with a critical eye the costly fittings and luxurious furniture. in answer to this last remark, i said with a chilly smile: "and as _i_ told you before, my dear signor ferarri, i know nothing whatever about women, and care less than nothing for their loves or hatreds! i have always thought of them more or less as playful kittens, who purr when they are stroked the right way, and scream and scratch when their tails are trodden on. try this montepulciano!" he accepted the glass i proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air of a connoisseur. "exquisite!" he murmured, sipping it lazily. "you are lodged en prince here, conte! i envy you!" "you need not," i answered. "you have youth and health, and--as you have hinted to me--love; all these things are better than wealth, so people say. at any rate, youth and health are good things--love i have no belief in. as for me, i am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and ease beyond anything. i have had many trials--i now take my rest in my own fashion." "a very excellent and sensible fashion!" smiled ferrari, leaning his head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he had thrown himself. "do you know, conte, now i look at you well, i think you must have been very handsome when you were young! you have a superb figure." i bowed stiffly. "you flatter me, signor! i believe i never was specially hideous--but looks in a man always rank second to strength, and of strength i have plenty yet remaining." "i do not doubt it," he returned, still regarding me attentively with an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness. "it is an odd coincidence, you will say, but i find a most extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to that of my late friend romani." i poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it. "really?" i answered. "i am glad that i remind you of him--if the reminder is agreeable! but all tall men are much alike so far as figure goes, providing they are well made." ferrari's brow was contracted in a musing frown and he answered not. he still looked at me, and i returned his look without embarrassment. finally he roused himself, smiled, and finished drinking his glass of montepulciano. then he rose to go. "you will permit me to mention your name to the countess romani, i hope?" he said, cordially. "i am certain she will receive you, should you desire it." i feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of impatience. "the fact is," i said, at last, "i very much dislike talking to women. they are always illogical, and their frivolity wearies me. but you have been so friendly that i will give you a message for the countess--if you have no objection to deliver it. i should be sorry to trouble you unnecessarily--and you perhaps will not have an opportunity of seeing her for some days?" he colored slightly and moved uneasily. then with a kind of effort, he replied: "on the contrary, i am going to see her this very evening. i assure you it will be a pleasure to me to convey to her any greeting you may desire to send." "oh, it is no greeting," i continued, calmly, noting the various signs of embarrassment in his manner with a careful eye. "it is a mere message, which, however, may enable you to understand why i was anxious to see the young man who is dead. in my very early manhood the elder count romani did me an inestimable service. i never forgot his kindness--my memory is extraordinarily tenacious of both benefits and injuries--and i have always desired to repay it in some suitable manner. i have with me a few jewels of almost priceless value--i have myself collected them, and i reserved them as a present to the son of my old friend, simply as a trifling souvenir or expression of gratitude for past favors received from his family. his sudden death has deprived me of the pleasure of fulfilling this intention--but as the jewels are quite useless to me, i am perfectly willing to hand them over to the countess romani, should she care to have them. they would have been hers had her husband lived--they should be hers now. if you, signor, will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the matter, i shall be much indebted to you." "i shall be delighted to obey you," replied ferrari, courteously, rising at the same time to take his leave. "i am proud to be the bearer of so pleasing an errand. beautiful women love jewels, and who shall blame them? bright eyes and diamonds go well together! a rivederci, signor conte! i trust we shall meet often." "i have no doubt we shall," i answered, quietly. he shook hands cordially--i responded to his farewell salutations with the brief coldness which was now my habitual manner, and we parted. from the window of my saloon i could see him sauntering easily down the hotel steps and from thence along the street. how i cursed him as he stepped jauntily on--how i hated his debonair grace and easy manner! i watched the even poise of his handsome head and shoulders, i noted the assured tread, the air of conscious vanity--the whole demeanor of the man bespoke his perfect self-satisfaction and his absolute confidence in the brightness of the future that awaited him when that stipulated six months of pretended mourning for my untimely death should have expired. once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused--looking back--he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his forehead and hair. the light of the moon fell full on his features and showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense dark-blue background of the evening sky. i gazed at him with a sort of grim fascination--the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat. he was in my power--he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap i had set for him. he lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy. he had said and done nothing to deter me from my settled plans. had he shown the least tenderness of recollection for me as fabio romani, his friend and benefactor--had he hallowed my memory by one generous word--had he expressed one regret for my loss--i might have hesitated, i might have somewhat changed my course of action so that punishment should have fallen more lightly on him than on her. for i knew well enough that she, my wife, was the worst sinner of the two. had she chosen to respect herself, not all the forbidden love in the world could have touched her honor. therefore, the least sign of compunction or affection from ferrari for me, his supposed dead friend, would have turned the scale in his favor, and in spite of his treachery, remembering how she must have encouraged him, i would at least have spared him torture. but no sign had been given, no word had been spoken, there was no need for hesitation or pity, and i was glad of it! all this i thought as i watched him standing bareheaded in the moonlight, on his way to--whom? to my wife, of course. i knew that well enough. he was going to console her widow's tears--to soothe her aching heart--a good samaritan in very earnest! he moved, he passed slowly out of my sight. i waited till i had seen the last glimpse of his retreating figure, and then i left the window satisfied with my day's work. vengeance had begun. chapter xiii. quite early in the next day ferrari called to see me. i was at breakfast--he apologized for disturbing me at the meal. "but," he explained, frankly, "the countess romani laid such urgent commands upon me that i was compelled to obey. we men are the slaves of women!" "not always," i said, dryly, as i motioned him to take a seat--"there are exceptions--myself for instance. will you have some coffee?" "thanks, i have already breakfasted. pray do not let me be in your way, my errand is soon done. the countess wishes me to say--" "you saw her last night?" i interrupted him. he flushed slightly. "yes--that is--for a few minutes only. i gave her your message. she thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by a visit. she is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her recent bereavement--but to you, so old a friend of her husband's family, a hearty welcome will be accorded." i bowed stiffly. "i am extremely flattered!" i said, in a somewhat sarcastical tone, "it is seldom i receive so tempting an invitation! i regret that i cannot accept it--at least, not at present. make my compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of words you may think best fitted to please her ears." he looked surprised and puzzled. "do you really mean," he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents, "that you will not visit her--that you refuse her request?" i smiled. "i really mean, my dear signor ferrari, that, being always accustomed to have my own way, i can make no exception in favor of ladies, however fascinating they may be. i have business in naples--it claims my first and best attention. when it is transacted i may possibly try a few frivolities for a change--at present i am unfit for the society of the fair sex--an old battered traveler as you see, brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying. but i promise you i will practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when i can spare time to call upon her. in the meanwhile i trust to you to make her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance." ferrari's puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile--finally he laughed aloud. "upon my word!" he exclaimed, gayly, "you are really a remarkable man, conte! you are extremely cynical! i am almost inclined to believe that you positively hate women." "oh, by no means! nothing so strong as hatred," i said, coolly, as i peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning's meal. "hatred is a strong passion--to hate well one must first have loved. no, no--i do not find women worth hating--i am simply indifferent to them. they seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man's existence--graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing." "yet many accept such burdens gayly!" interrupted ferrari, with a smile. i glanced at him keenly. "men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions," i replied; "they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their way. led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a woman's beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit--and when possessed, what is it worth? here is its emblem"--and i held up the stone of the peach i had just eaten--"the fruit is devoured--what remains? a stone with a bitter kernel." ferrari shrugged his shoulders. "i cannot agree with you, count," he said; "but i will not argue with you. from your point of view you may be right--but when one is young, and life stretches before you like a fair pleasure-ground, love and the smile of woman are like sunlight falling on flowers! you too must have felt this--in spite of what you say, there must have been a time in your life when you also loved!" "oh, i have had my fancies, of course!" i answered, with an indifferent laugh. "the woman i fancied turned out to be a saint--i was not worthy of her--at least, so i was told. at any rate, i was so convinced of her virtue and my own unworthiness--that--i left her." he looked surprised. "an odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it not?" "very odd--very unusual--but a sufficient one for me. pray let us talk of something more interesting--your pictures, for instance. when may i see them?" "when you please," he answered, readily--"though i fear they are scarcely worth a visit. i have not worked much lately. i really doubt whether i have any that will merit your notice." "you underrate your powers, signor," i said with formal politeness. "allow me to call at your studio this afternoon. i have a few minutes to spare between three and four o'clock, if that time will suit you." "it will suit me admirably," he said, with a look of gratification; "but i fear you will be disappointed. i assure you i am no artist." i smiled. i knew that well enough. but i made no reply to his remark--i said, "regarding the matter of the jewels for the countess romani--would you care to see them?" "i should indeed," he answered; "they are unique specimens, i think?" "i believe so," i answered, and going to an escritoire in the corner of the room, i unlocked it and took out a massive carved oaken jewel-chest of square shape, which i had had made in palermo. it contained a necklace of large rubies and diamonds, with bracelets to match, and pins of their hair--also a sapphire ring--a cross of fine rose-brilliants, and the pearl pendant i had first found in the vault. all the gems, with the exception of this pendant, had been reset by a skillful jeweler in palermo, who had acted under my superintendence--and ferrari uttered an exclamation of astonishment and admiration as he lifted the glittering toys out one by one and noted the size and brilliancy of the precious stones. "they are trifles," i said, carelessly--"but they may please a woman's taste--and they amount to a certain fixed value. you would do me a great service if you consented to take them to the contessa romani for me--tell her to accept them as heralds of my forthcoming visit. i am sure you will know how to persuade her to take what would unquestionably have been hers had her husband lived. they are really her property--she must not refuse to receive what is her own." ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly. "you--will visit her--she may rely on your coming for a certainty, i hope?" i smiled. "you seem very anxious about it. may i ask why?" "i think," he replied at once, "that it would embarrass the countess very much if you gave her no opportunity to thank you for so munificent and splendid a gift--and unless she knew she could do so, i am certain she would not accept it." "make yourself quite easy," i answered. "she shall thank me to her heart's content. i give you my word that within a few days i will call upon the lady--in fact you said you would introduce me--i accept your offer!" he seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially. "then in that case i will gladly take the jewels to her," he exclaimed. "and i may say, count, that had you searched the whole world over, you could not have found one whose beauty was more fitted to show them off to advantage. i assure you her loveliness is of a most exquisite character!" "no doubt!" i said, dryly. "i take your word for it. i am no judge of a fair face or form. and now, my good friend, do not think me churlish if i request you leave me in solitude for the present. between three and four o'clock i shall be at your studio." he rose at once to take his leave. i placed the oaken box of jewels in the leathern case which had been made to contain it, strapped and locked it, and handed it to him together with its key. he was profuse in his compliments and thanks--almost obsequious, in truth--and i discovered another defect in his character--a defect which, as his friend in former days, i had guessed nothing of. i saw that very little encouragement would make him a toady--a fawning servitor on the wealthy--and in our old time of friendship i had believed him to be far above all such meanness, but rather of a manly, independent nature that scorned hypocrisy. thus we are deluded even by our nearest and dearest--and is it well or ill for us, i wonder, when we are at last undeceived? is not the destruction of illusion worse than illusion itself? i thought so, as my quondam friend clasped my hand in farewell that morning. what would i not have given to believe in him as i once did! i held open the door of my room as he passed out, carrying the box of jewels for my wife, and as i bade him a brief adieu, the well-worn story of tristram and king mark came to my mind. he, guido, like tristram, would in a short space clasp the gemmed necklace round the throat of one as fair and false as the fabled iseulte, and i--should i figure as the wronged king? how does the english laureate put it in his idyl on the subject? "'mark's way,' said mark, and clove him through the brain." too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! the cornish king should have known how to torture his betrayer! i knew--and i meditated deeply on every point of my design, as i sat alone for an hour after ferrari had left me. i had many things to do--i had resolved on making myself a personage of importance in naples, and i wrote several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result i had in view. that day, too, i engaged a valet--a silent and discreet tuscan named vincenzo flamma. he was an admirably trained servant--he never asked questions--was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant and implicit obedience--in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far better manners than many who lay claim to that title. he entered upon his duties at once, and never did i know him to neglect the most trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort. in making arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the time appointed, i made my way to ferrari's studio. i knew it of old--i had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the address was written. it was a queer, quaintly built little place, situated at the top of an ascending road--its windows commanded an extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery. many and many a happy hour had i passed there before my marriage reading some favorite book or watching ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and figures, most of which i good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed. the little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening pang of regret for the past, as i pulled the bell and heard the little tinkling sound to which i was so well accustomed. ferrari himself opened the door to me with eager rapidity--he looked excited and radiant. "come in, come in!" he cried with effusive cordiality. "you will find everything in confusion, but pray excuse it. it is some time since i had any visitors. mind the steps, conte!--the place is rather dark just here--every one stumbles at this particular corner." so talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked. glancing round it, i saw at once the evidences of neglect and disorder--he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception. on the table stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance--i felt instinctively that my wife had put them there. i noticed that ferrari had begun nothing new--all the finished and unfinished studies i saw i recognized directly. i seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my betrayer with a calmly critical eye. he was what the english would call "got up for effect." though in black, he had donned a velvet coat instead of the cloth one he had worn in the morning--he had a single white japonica in his buttonhole--his face was pale and his eyes unusually brilliant. he looked his best--i admitted it, and could readily understand how an idle, pleasure-seeking feminine animal might be easily attracted by the purely physical beauty of his form and features. i spoke a part of my thoughts aloud. "you are not only an artist by profession, signor ferrari--you are one also in appearance." he flushed slightly and smiled. "you are very amiable to say so," he replied, his pleased vanity displaying itself at once in the expression of his face. "but i am well aware that you flatter me. by the way, before i forget it, i must tell you that i fulfilled your commission." "to the countess romani?" "exactly. i cannot describe to you her astonishment and delight at the splendor and brilliancy of those jewels you sent her. it was really pretty to watch her innocent satisfaction." i laughed. "marguerite and the jewel song in 'faust,' i suppose, with new scenery and effects?" i asked, with a slight sneer. he bit his lip and looked annoyed. but he answered, quietly: "i see you must have your joke, conte; but remember that if you place the countess in the position of marguerite, you, as the giver of the jewels, naturally play the part of mephistopheles." "and you will be faust, of course!" i said, gayly. "why, we might mount the opera with a few supernumeraries and astonish naples by our performance! what say you? but let us come to business. i like the picture you have on the easel there--may i see it more closely?" he drew it nearer; it was a showy landscape with the light of the sunset upon it. it was badly done, but i praised it warmly, and purchased it for five hundred francs. four other sketches of a similar nature were then produced. i bought these also. by the time we got through these matters, ferrari was in the best of humors. he offered me some excellent wine and partook of it himself; he talked incessantly, and diverted me extremely, though my inward amusement was not caused by the witty brilliancy of his conversation. no, i was only excited to a sense of savage humor by the novelty of the position in which we two men stood. therefore i listened to him attentively, applauded his anecdotes--all of which i had heard before--admired his jokes, and fooled his egotistical soul till he had no shred of self-respect remaining. he laid his nature bare before me--and i knew what it was at last--a mixture of selfishness, avarice, sensuality, and heartlessness, tempered now and then by a flash of good-nature and sympathetic attraction which were the mere outcomes of youth and physical health--no more. this was the man i had loved--this fellow who told coarse stories only worthy of a common pot-house, and who reveled in a wit of a high and questionable flavor; this conceited, empty-headed, muscular piece of humanity was the same being for whom i had cherished so chivalrous and loyal a tenderness! our conversation was broken in upon at last by the sound of approaching wheels. a carriage was heard ascending the road--it came nearer--it stopped at the door. i set down the glass of wine i had just raised to my lips, and looked at ferrari steadily. "you expect other visitors?" i inquired. he seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated. "well--i am not sure--but--" the bell rang. with a word of apology ferrari hurried away to answer it. i sprung from my chair--i knew--i felt who was coming. i steadied my nerves by a strong effort. i controlled the rapid beating of my heart; and fixing my dark glasses more closely over my eyes, i drew myself up erect and waited calmly. i heard ferrari ascending the stairs--a light step accompanied his heavier footfall--he spoke to his companion in whispers. another instant--and he flung the door of the studio wide open with the haste and reverence due for the entrance of a queen. there was a soft rustle of silk--a delicate breath of perfume on the air--and then--i stood face to face with my wife! chapter xiv. how dazzlingly lovely she was! i gazed at her with the same bewildered fascination that had stupefied my reason and judgment when i beheld her for the first time. the black robes she wore, the long crape veil thrown back from her clustering hair and mignonne face, all the somber shadows of her mourning garb only served to heighten and display her beauty to greater advantage. a fair widow truly! i, her lately deceased husband, freely admitted the magnetic power of her charms! she paused for an instant on the threshold, a winning smile on her lips; she looked at me, hesitated, and finally spoke in courteous accents: "i think i cannot be mistaken! do i address the noble conte cesare oliva?" i tried to speak, but could not. my mouth was dry and parched with excitement, my throat swelled and ached with the pent-up wrath and despair of my emotions. i answered her question silently by a formal bow. she at once advanced, extending both her hands with the coaxing grace of manner i had so often admired. "i am the countess romani," she said, still smiling. "i heard from signor ferrari that you purposed visiting his studio this afternoon, and i could not resist the temptation of coming to express my personal acknowledgments for the almost regal gift you sent me. the jewels are really magnificent. permit me to offer you my sincere thanks!" i caught her outstretched hands and wrung them hard--so hard that the rings she wore must have dug into her flesh and hurt her, though she was too well-bred to utter any exclamation. i had fully recovered myself, and was prepared to act out my part. "on the contrary, madame," i said in a strong harsh voice, "the thanks must come entirely from me for the honor you have conferred upon me by accepting trifles so insignificant--especially at a time when the cold brilliancy of mere diamonds must jar upon the sensitive feelings of your recent widowhood. believe me, i sympathize deeply with your bereavement. had your husband lived, the jewels would have been his gift to you, and how much more acceptable they would then have appeared in your eyes! i am proud to think you have condescended so far as to receive them from so unworthy a hand as mine." as i spoke her face paled--she seemed startled, and regarded me earnestly. sheltered behind my smoked spectacles, i met the gaze of her large dark eyes without embarrassment. slowly she withdrew her slight fingers from my clasp. i placed an easy chair for her, she sunk softly into it with her old air of indolent ease, the ease of a spoiled empress or sultan's favorite, while she still continued to look up at me thoughtfully. ferrari, meanwhile, busied himself in bringing out more wine, he also produced a dish of fruit and some sweet cakes, and while occupied in these duties as our host he began to laugh. "ha, ha! you are caught!" he exclaimed to me gayly. "you must know we planned this together, madame and i, just to take you by surprise. there was no knowing when you would be persuaded to visit the contessa, and she could not rest till she had thanked you, so we arranged this meeting. could anything be better? come, conte, confess that you are charmed!" "of course i am!" i answered with a slight touch of satire in my tone. "who would not be charmed in the presence of such youth and beauty! and i am also flattered--for i know what exceptional favor the contessa romani extends toward me in allowing me to make her acquaintance at a time which must naturally be for her a secluded season of sorrow." at these words my wife's face suddenly assumed an expression of wistful sadness and appealing gentleness. "ah, poor unfortunate fabio," she sighed. "how terrible it seems that he is not here to greet you! how gladly he would have welcomed any friend of his father's--he adored his father, poor fellow! i cannot realize that he is dead. it was too sudden, too dreadful! i do not think i shall ever recover the shock of his loss!" and her eyes actually filled with tears; though the fact did not surprise me in the least, for many women can weep at will. very little practice is necessary--and we men are such fools, we never know how it is done; we take all the pretty feigned piteousness for real grief, and torture ourselves to find methods of consolation for the feminine sorrows which have no root save in vanity and selfishness. i glanced quickly from my wife to ferrari: he coughed, and appeared embarrassed--he was not so good an actor as she was an actress. studying them both, i know not which feeling gained the mastery in my mind--contempt or disgust. "console yourself, madame," i said, coldly. "time should be quick to heal the wounds of one so young and beautiful as you are! personally speaking, i much regret your husband's death, but i would entreat you not to give way to grief, which, however sincere, must unhappily be useless. your life lies before you--and may happy days and as fair a future await you as you deserve!" she smiled, her tear-drops vanished like morning dew disappearing in the heat. "i thank you for your good wishes, conte," she said "but it rests with you to commence my happy days by honoring me with a visit. you will come, will you not? my house and all that it contains are at your service!" i hesitated. ferrari looked amused. "madame is not aware of your dislike to the society of ladies, conte," he said, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. i glanced at him coldly, and addressed my answer to my wife. "signor ferrari is perfectly right," i said, bending over her, and speaking in a low tone; "i am often ungallant enough to avoid the society of mere women, but, alas! i have no armor of defense against the smile of an angel." and i bowed with a deep and courtly reverence. her face brightened--she adored her own loveliness, and the desire of conquest awoke in her immediately. she took a glass of wine from my hand with a languid grace, and fixed her glorious eyes full on me with a smile. "that is a very pretty speech," she said, sweetly, "and it means, of course, that you will come to-morrow. angels exact obedience! gui--, i mean signor ferrari, you will accompany the conte and show him the way to the villa?" ferrari bent his head with some stiffness. he looked slightly sullen. "i am glad to see," he observed, with some petulance, "that your persuasions have carried more conviction to the conte oliva than mine. to me he was apparently inflexible." she laughed gayly. "of course! it is only a woman who can always win her own way--am i not right, conte?" and she glanced up at me with an arch expression of mingled mirth and malice. what a love of mischief she had! she saw that guido was piqued, and she took intense delight in teasing him still further. "i cannot tell, madame," i answered her. "i know so little of your charming sex that i need to be instructed. but i instinctively feel that you must be right, whatever you say. your eyes would convert an infidel!" again she looked at me with one of those wonderfully brilliant, seductive, arrowy glances--then she rose to take her leave. "an angel's visit truly," i said, lightly, "sweet, but brief!" "we shall meet to-morrow," she replied, smiling. "i consider i have your promise; you must not fail me! come as early as you like in the afternoon, then you will see my little girl stella. she is very like poor fabio. till to-morrow, adieu!" she extended her hand. i raised it to my lips. she smiled as she withdrew it, and looking at me, or rather at the glasses i wore, she inquired: "you suffer with your eyes?" "ah, madame, a terrible infirmity! i cannot endure the light. but i should not complain--it is a weakness common to age." "you do not seem to be old," she said, thoughtfully. with a woman's quick eye she had noted, i suppose, the unwrinkled smoothness of my skin, which no disguise could alter. but i exclaimed with affected surprise: "not old! with these white hairs!" "many young men have them," she said. "at any rate, they often accompany middle age, or what is called the prime of life. and really, in your case, they are very becoming!" and with a courteous gesture of farewell she moved to leave the room. both ferrari and myself hastened to escort her downstairs to her carriage, which stood in waiting at the door--the very carriage and pair of chestnut ponies which i myself had given her as a birthday present. ferrari offered to assist her in mounting the step of the vehicle; she put his arm aside with a light jesting word and accepted mine instead. i helped her in, and arranged her embroidered wraps about her feet, and she nodded gayly to us both as we stood bareheaded in the afternoon sunlight watching her departure. the horses started at a brisk canter, and in a couple of minutes the dainty equipage was out of sight. when nothing more of it could be seen than the cloud of dust stirred up by its rolling wheels, i turned to look at my companion. his face was stern, and his brows were drawn together in a frown. stung already! i thought. already the little asp of jealousy commenced its bitter work! the trifling favor his light-o'-love and my wife had extended to me in choosing my arm instead of his as a momentary support had evidently been sufficient to pique his pride. god! what blind bats men are! with all their high capabilities and immortal destinies, with all the world before them to conquer, they can sink unnerved and beaten down to impotent weakness before the slighting word or insolent gesture of a frivolous feminine creature, whose best devotions are paid to the mirror that reflects her in the most becoming light! how easy would be my vengeance, i mused, as i watched ferrari. i touched him on the shoulder; he started from his uncomfortable reverie and forced a smile. i held out a cigar-case. "what are you dreaming of?" i asked him, laughingly. "hebe as she waited on the gods, or venus as she rose in bare beauty from the waves? either, neither, or both? i assure you a comfortable smoke is as pleasant in its way as the smile of a woman." he took a cigar and lighted it, but made no answer. "you are dull, my friend," i continued, gayly, hooking my arm through his and pacing him up and down on the turf in front of his studio. "wit, they say, should be sharpened by the glance of a bright eye; how comes it that the edge of your converse seems blunted? perhaps your feelings are too deep for words? if so, i do not wonder at it, for the lady is extremely lovely." he glanced quickly at me. "did i not say so?" he exclaimed. "of all creatures under heaven she is surely the most perfect! even you, conte, with your cynical ideas about women, even you were quite subdued and influenced by her; i could see it!" i puffed slowly at my cigar and pretended to meditate. "was i?" i said at last, with an air of well-acted surprise. "really subdued and influenced? i do not think so. but i admit i have never seen a woman so entirely beautiful." he stopped in his walk, loosened his arm from mine, and regarded me fixedly. "i told you so," he said, deliberately. "you must remember that i told you so. and now perhaps i ought to warn you." "warn me!" i exclaimed, in feigned alarm. "of what? against whom? surely not the contessa romani, to whom you were so anxious to introduce me? she has no illness, no infectious disorder? she is not dangerous to life or limb, is she?" ferrari laughed at the anxiety i displayed for my own bodily safety--an anxiety which i managed to render almost comic--but he looked somewhat relieved too. "oh, no," he said, "i meant nothing of that kind. i only think it fair to tell you that she has very seductive manners, and she may pay you little attentions which would flatter any man who was not aware that they are only a part of her childlike, pretty ways; in short, they might lead him erroneously to suppose himself the object of her particular preference, and--" i broke into a violent fit of laughter, and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "your warning is quite unnecessary, my good young friend," i said. "come now, do i look a likely man to attract the attention of an adored and capricious beauty? besides, at my age the idea is monstrous! i could figure as her father, as yours, if you like, but in the capacity of a lover--impossible!" he eyed me attentively "she said you did not seem old," he murmured, half to himself and half to me. "oh, i grant you she made me that little compliment, certainly," i answered, amused at the suspicions that evidently tortured his mind; "and i accepted it as it was meant--in kindness. i am well aware what a battered and unsightly wreck of a man i must appear in her eyes when contrasted with you, sir antinous!" he flushed warmly. then, with a half-apologetic air, he said: "well, you must forgive me if i have seemed overscrupulous. the contessa is like a--a sister to me; in fact, my late friend fabio encouraged a fraternal affection between us, and now he is gone i feel it more than ever my duty to protect her, as it were, from herself. she is so young and light-hearted and thoughtless that--but you understand me, do you not?" i bowed. i understood him perfectly. he wanted no more poachers on the land he himself had pilfered. quite right, from his point of view! but i was the rightful owner of the land after all, and i naturally had a different opinion of the matter. however, i made no remark, and feigned to be rather bored by the turn the conversation was taking. seeing this, ferrari exerted himself to be agreeable; he became a gay and entertaining companion once more, and after he had fixed the hour for our visit to the villa romani the next afternoon, our talk turned upon various matters connected with naples and its inhabitants and their mode of life. i hazarded a few remarks on the general immorality and loose principles that prevailed among the people, just to draw my companion out and sound his character more thoroughly--though i thought i knew his opinions well. "pooh, my dear conte," he exclaimed, with a light laugh, as he threw away the end of his cigar, and watched it as it burned dully like a little red lamp among the green grass where it had fallen, "what is immorality after all? merely a matter of opinion. take the hackneyed virtue of conjugal fidelity. when followed out to the better end what is the good of it--where does it lead? why should a man be tied to one woman when he has love enough for twenty? the pretty slender girl whom he chose as a partner in his impulsive youth may become a fat, coarse, red-faced female horror by the time he has attained to the full vigor of manhood--and yet, as long as she lives, the law insists that the full tide of passion shall flow always in one direction--always to the same dull, level, unprofitable shore! the law is absurd, but it exists; and the natural consequence is that we break it. society pretends to be horrified when we do--yes, i know; but it is all pretense. and the thing is no worse in naples than it is in london, the capital of the moral british race, only here we are perfectly frank, and make no effort to hide our little sins, while there, they cover them up carefully and make believe to be virtuous. it is the veriest humbug--the parable of pharisee and publican over again." "not quite," i observed, "for the publican was repentant, and naples is not." "why should she be?" demanded ferrari, gayly; "what, in the name of heaven, is the good of being penitent about anything? will it mend matters? who is to be pacified or pleased by our contrition? god? my dear conte, there are very few of us nowadays who believe in a deity. creation is a mere caprice of the natural elements. the best thing we can do is to enjoy ourselves while we live; we have a very short time of it, and when we die there is an end of all things so far as we are concerned." "that is your creed?" i asked. "that is my creed, certainly. it was solomon's in his heart of hearts. 'eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' it is the creed of naples, and of nearly all italy. of course the vulgar still cling to exploded theories of superstitious belief, but the educated classes are far beyond the old-world notions." "i believe you," i answered, composedly. i had no wish to argue with him; i only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that i might be convinced of his utter worthlessness. "according to modern civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it suits us. the only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid public scandal." "just so!" agreed ferrari; "and that can always be easily managed. take a woman's reputation--nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before she is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free. she can have a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her husband need never be the wiser. he has his amours, of course--why should she not have hers also? only some women are clumsy, they are over-sensitive and betray themselves too easily; then the injured husband (carefully concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything out and there is a devil of a row--a moral row, which is the worst kind of row. but a really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if she likes." contemptible ruffian! i thought, glancing at his handsome face and figure with scarcely veiled contempt. with all his advantages of education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core--as low in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social law has ever existed or ever will exist. but i merely observed: "it is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and its ways. i admire your perception! from your remarks i judge that you have no sympathy with marital wrongs?" "not the least," he replied, dryly; "they are too common and too ludicrous. the 'wronged husband,' as he considers himself in such cases, always cuts such an absurd figure." "always?" i inquired, with apparent curiosity. "well, generally speaking, he does. how can he remedy the matter? he can only challenge his wife's lover. a duel is fought in which neither of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the lady's affections amicably." "veramente!" i exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his detestable flippancy; "that is the fashionable mode of taking vengeance?" "absolutely the one respectable way of doing it," he replied; "it is only the canaille who draw heart's blood in earnest." only the canaille! i looked at him fixedly. his smiling eyes met mine with a frank and fearless candor. evidently he was not ashamed of his opinions, he rather gloried in them. as he stood there with the warm sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful and splendid manhood; an apollo in exterior--in mind a silenus. my soul sickened at the sight of him. i felt that the sooner this strong treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor less in the world at any rate. the thought of my dread but just purpose passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind--a tremor shook my nerves. my face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for ferrari exclaimed: "you are fatigued, conte? you are ill! pray take my arm!" he extended it as he spoke. i put it gently but firmly aside. "it is nothing," i said, coldly; "a mere faintness which often overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness." here i glanced at my watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly. "if you will excuse me," i continued, "i will now take leave of you. regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending them." "it is no trouble--" began ferrari. "pardon me," i interrupted him; "you must allow me to arrange the matter in my own way. i am somewhat self-willed, as you know." he bowed and smiled--the smile of a courtier and sycophant--a smile i hated. he eagerly proposed to accompany me back to my hotel, but i declined this offer somewhat peremptorily, though at the same time thanking him for his courtesy. the truth was i had had almost too much of his society; the strain on my nerves began to tell; i craved to be alone. i felt that if i were much longer with him i should be tempted to spring at him and throttle the life out of him. as it was, i bade him adieu with friendly though constrained politeness; he was profuse in his acknowledgments of the favor i had done him by purchasing his pictures. i waived all thanks aside, assuring him that my satisfaction in the matter far exceeded his, and that i was proud to be the possessor of such valuable proofs of his genius. he swallowed my flattery as eagerly as a fish swallows bait, and we parted on excellent terms. he watched me from his door as i walked down the hilly road with the slow and careful step of an elderly man; once out of his sight, however, i quickened my pace, for the tempest of conflicting sensations within me made it difficult for me to maintain even the appearance of composure. on entering my apartment at the hotel the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilt osier basket, filled with fine fruit and flowers, placed conspicuously on the center-table. i summoned my valet. "who sent this?" i demanded. "madame the contessa romani," replied vincenzo with discreet gravity. "there is a card attached, if the eccelenza will be pleased to look." i did look. it was my wife's visiting-card, and on it was written in her own delicate penmanship-- "to remind the conte of his promised visit to-morrow." a sudden anger possessed me. i crumpled up the dainty glossy bit of pasteboard and flung it aside. the mingled odors of the fruit and flowers offended my senses. "i care nothing for these trifles," i said, addressing vincenzo almost impatiently. "take them to the little daughter of the hotel-keeper; she is a child, she will appreciate them. take them away at once." obediently vincenzo lifted the basket and bore it out of the room. i was relieved when its fragrance and color had vanished. i, to receive as a gift, the product of my own garden! half vexed, half sore at heart, i threw myself into an easychair--anon i laughed aloud! so! madame commences the game early, i thought. already paying these marked attentions to a man she knows nothing of beyond that he is reported to be fabulously wealthy. gold, gold forever! what will it not do! it will bring the proud to their knees, it will force the obstinate to servile compliance, it will conquer aversion and prejudice. the world is a slave to its yellow glitter, and the love of woman, that perishable article of commerce, is ever at its command. would you obtain a kiss from a pair of ripe-red lips that seem the very abode of honeyed sweetness? pay for it then with a lustrous diamond; the larger the gem the longer the kiss! the more diamonds you give, the more caresses you will get. the jeunesse doree who ruin themselves and their ancestral homes for the sake of the newest and prettiest female puppet on the stage know this well enough. i smiled bitterly as i thought of the languid witching look my wife had given me when she said, "you do not seem to be old!" i knew the meaning of her eyes; i had not studied their liquid lights and shadows so long for nothing. my road to revenge was a straight and perfectly smooth line--almost too smooth. i could have wished for some difficulty, some obstruction; but there was none--absolutely none. the traitors walked deliberately into the trap set for them. over and over again i asked myself quietly and in cold blood--was there any reason why i should have pity on them? had they shown one redeeming point in their characters? was there any nobleness, any honesty, any real sterling good quality in either of them to justify my consideration? and always the answer came, no! hollow to the heart's core, hypocrites both, liars both--even the guilty passion they cherished for one another had no real earnestness in it save the pursuit of present pleasure; for she, nina, in that fatal interview in the avenue where i had been a tortured listener, had hinted at the possibility of tiring of her lover, and he had frankly declared to me that very day that it was absurd to suppose a man could be true to one woman all his life. in brief, they deserved their approaching fate. such men as guido and such women as my wife, are, i know, common enough in all classes of society, but they are not the less pernicious animals, meriting extermination as much, if not more, than the less harmful beasts of prey. the poor beasts at any rate tell no lies, and after death their skins are of some value; but who shall measure the mischief done by a false tongue--and of what use is the corpse of a liar save to infect the air with pestilence? i used to wonder at the superiority of men over the rest of the animal creation, but i see now that it is chiefly gained by excess of selfish cunning. the bulky, good-natured, ignorant lion who has only one honest way of defending himself, namely with tooth and claw, is no match for the jumping two-legged little rascal who hides himself behind a bush and fires a gun aimed direct at the bigger brute's heart. yet the lion's mode of battle is the braver of the two, and the cannons, torpedoes and other implements of modern warfare are proofs of man's cowardice and cruelty as much as they are of his diabolical ingenuity. calmly comparing the ordinary lives of men and beasts--judging them by their abstract virtues merely--i am inclined to think the beasts the more respectable of the two! chapter xv. "welcome to villa romani!" the words fell strangely on my ears. was i dreaming, or was i actually standing on the smooth green lawn of my own garden, mechanically saluting my own wife, who, smiling sweetly, uttered this cordial greeting? for a moment or two my brain became confused; the familiar veranda with its clustering roses and jasmine swayed unsteadily before my eyes; the stately house, the home of my childhood, the scene of my past happiness, rocked in the air as though it were about to fall. a choking sensation affected my throat. even the sternest men shed tears sometimes. such tears too! wrung like drops of blood from the heart. and i--i could have wept thus. oh, the dear old home! and how fair and yet how sad it seemed to my anguished gaze! it should have been in ruins surely--broken and cast down in the dust like its master's peace and honor. its master, did i say? who was its master? involuntarily i glanced at ferrari, who stood beside me. not he--not he; by heaven he should never be master! but where was my authority? i came to the place as a stranger and an alien. the starving beggar who knows not where to lay his head has no emptier or more desolate heart than i had as i looked wistfully on the home which was mine before i died! i noticed some slight changes here and there; for instance, my deep easy-chair that had always occupied one particular corner of the veranda was gone; a little tame bird that i had loved, whose cage used to hang up among the white roses on the wall, was also gone. my old butler, the servant who admitted ferrari and myself within the gates, had an expression of weariness and injury on his aged features which he had not worn in my time, and which i was sorry to see. and my dog, the noble black scotch colly, what had become of him, i wondered? he had been presented to me by a young highlander who had passed one winter with me in rome, and who, on returning to his native mountains, had sent me the dog, a perfect specimen of its kind, as a souvenir of our friendly intercourse. poor wyvis! i thought. had they made away with him? formerly he had always been visible about the house or garden; his favorite place was on the lowest veranda step, where he loved to bask in the heat of the sun. and now he was nowhere visible. i was mutely indignant at his disappearance, but i kept strict watch over my feelings, and remembered in time the part i had to play. "welcome to villa romani!" so said my wife. then, remarking my silence as i looked about me, she added with a pretty coaxing air, "i am afraid after all you are sorry you have come to see me!" i smiled. it served my purpose now to be as gallant and agreeable as i could; therefore i answered: "sorry, madame! if i were, then should i be the most ungrateful of all men! was dante sorry, think you, when he was permitted to behold paradise?" she blushed; her eyes drooped softly under their long curling lashes. ferrari frowned impatiently--but was silent. she led the way into the house--into the lofty cool drawing-room, whose wide windows opened out to the garden. here all was the same as ever with the exception of one thing--a marble bust of myself as a boy had been removed. the grand piano was open, the mandoline lay on a side-table, looking as though it had been recently used; there were fresh flowers and ferns in all the tall venetian glass vases. i seated myself and remarked on the beauty of the house and its surroundings. "i remember it very well," i added, quietly. "you remember it!" exclaimed ferrari, quickly, as though surprised. "certainly. i omitted to tell you, my friend, that i used to visit this spot often when a boy. the elder conte romani and myself played about these grounds together. the scene is quite familiar to me." nina listened with an appearance of interest. "did you ever see my late husband?" she asked. "once," i answered her, gravely. "he was a mere child at the time, and, as far as i could discern, a very promising one. his father seemed greatly attached to him. i knew his mother also." "indeed," she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and fixing her eyes upon me; "what was she like?" i paused a moment before replying. could i speak of that unstained sacred life of wifehood and motherhood to this polluted though lovely creature? "she was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty," i answered at last. "there, all is said. her sole aim seemed to be to forget herself in making others happy, and to surround her home with an atmosphere of goodness and virtue. she died young." ferrari glanced at me with an evil sneer in his eyes. "that was fortunate," he said. "she had no time to tire of her husband, else--who knows?" my blood rose rapidly to an astonishing heat, but i controlled myself. "i do not understand you," i said, with marked frigidity. "the lady i speak of lived and died under the old regime of noblesse oblige. i am not so well versed in modern social forms of morality as yourself." nina hastily interposed. "oh, my dear conte," she said, laughingly, "pay no attention to signor ferrari! he is rash sometimes, and says very foolish things, but he really does not mean them. it is only his way! my poor dear husband used to be quite vexed with him sometimes, though he was so fond of him. but, conte, as you know so much about the family, i am sure you will like to see my little stella. shall i send for her, or are you bored by children?" "on the contrary, madame, i am fond of them," i answered, with forced composure, though my heart throbbed with mingled delight and agony at the thought of seeing my little one again. "and the child of my old friend's son must needs have a double interest for me." my wife rang the bell, and gave orders to the maid who answered it to send her little girl to her at once. ferrari meanwhile engaged me in conversation, and strove, i could see, by entire deference to my opinions, to make up for any offense his previous remark might have given. a few moments passed--and then the handle of the drawing-room door was timidly turned by an evidently faltering and unpracticed hand. nina called out impatiently--"come in, baby! do not be afraid--come in!" with that the door slowly opened and my little daughter entered. though i had been so short a time absent from her it was easy to see the child had changed very much. her face looked pinched and woe-begone, its expression was one of fear and distrust. the laughter had faded out of her young eyes, and was replaced by a serious look of pained resignation that was pitiful to see in one of her tender years. her mouth drooped plaintively at the corners--her whole demeanor had an appealing anxiety in it that spoke plainly to my soul and enlightened me as to the way she had evidently been forgotten and neglected. she approached us hesitatingly, but stopped half-way and looked doubtfully at ferrari. he met her alarmed gaze with a mocking smile. "come along, stella!" he said. "you need not be frightened! i will not scold you unless you are naughty. silly child! you look as if i were the giant in the fairy tale, going to eat you up for dinner. come and speak to this gentleman--he knew your papa." at this word her eyes brightened, her small steps grew more assured and steady--she advanced and put her tiny hand in mine. the touch of the soft, uncertain little fingers almost unmanned me. i drew her toward me and lifted her on my knee. under pretense of kissing her i hid my face for a second or two in her clustering fair curls, while i forced back the womanish tears that involuntarily filled my eyes. my poor little darling! i wonder now how i maintained my set composure before the innocent thoughtfulness of her gravely questioning gaze! i had fancied she might possibly be scared by the black spectacles i wore--children are frightened by such things sometimes--but she was not. no; she sat on my knee with an air of perfect satisfaction, though she looked at me so earnestly as almost to disturb my self-possession. nina and ferrari watched her with some amusement, but she paid no heed to them--she persisted in staring at me. suddenly a slow sweet smile--the tranquil smile of a contented baby, dawned all over her face; she extended her little arms, and, of her own accord, put up her lips to kiss me! half startled at this manifestation of affection, i hurriedly caught her to my heart and returned her caress, then i looked furtively at my wife and guido. had they any suspicion? no! why should they have any? had not ferrari himself seen me buried? reassured by this thought i addressed myself to stella, making my voice as gratingly harsh as i could, for i dreaded the child's quick instinct. "you are a very charming little lady!" i said, playfully. "and so your name is stella? that is because you are a little star, i suppose?" she became meditative. "papa said i was," she answered, softly and shyly. "papa spoiled you!" interposed nina, pressing a filmy black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes. "poor papa! you were not so naughty to him as you are to me." the child's lip quivered, but she was silent. "oh, fy!" i murmured, half chidingly. "are you ever naughty? surely not! all little stars are good--they never cry--they are always bright and calm." still she remained mute--a sigh, deep enough for an older sufferer, heaved her tiny breast. she leaned her head against my arm and raised her eyes appealingly. "have you seen my papa?" she asked, timidly. "will he come back soon?" for a moment i did not answer her. ferrari took it upon himself to reply roughly. "don't talk nonsense, baby! you know your papa has gone away--you were too naughty for him, and he will never come back again. he has gone to a place where there are no tiresome little girls to tease him." thoughtless and cruel words! i at once understood the secret grief that weighed on the child's mind. whenever she was fretful or petulant, they evidently impressed it upon her that her father had left her because of her naughtiness. she had taken this deeply to heart; no doubt she had brooded upon it in her own vague childish fashion, and had puzzled her little brain as to what she could possibly have done to displease her father so greatly that he had actually gone away never to return. whatever her thoughts were, she did not on this occasion give vent to them by tears or words. she only turned her eyes on ferrari with a look of intense pride and scorn, strange to see in so little a creature--a true romani look, such as i had often noticed in my father's eyes, and such as i knew must be frequently visible in my own. ferrari saw it, and burst out laughing loudly. "there!" he exclaimed. "like that she exactly resembles her father! it is positively ludicrous! fabio, all over! she only wants one thing to make the portrait perfect." and approaching her, he snatched one of her long curls and endeavored to twist it over her mouth in the form of a mustache. the child struggled angrily, and hid her face against my coat. the more she tried to defend herself the greater the malice with which ferrari tormented her. her mother did not interfere--she only laughed. i held the little thing closely sheltered in my embrace, and steadying down the quiver of indignation in my voice, i said with quiet firmness: "fair play, signor! fair play! strength becomes mere bullying when it is employed against absolute weakness." ferrari laughed again, but this time uneasily, and ceasing his monkeyish pranks, walked to the window. smoothing stella's tumbled hair, i added with a sarcastic smile: "this little donzella, will have her revenge when she grows up. recollecting how one man teased her in childhood, she, in return, will consider herself justified in teasing all men. do you not agree with me, madame?" i said, turning to my wife, who gave me a sweetly coquettish look as she answered: "well, really, conte, i do not know! for with the remembrance of one man who teased her, must come also the thought of another who was kind to her--yourself--she will find it difficult to decide the juste milieu." a subtle compliment was meant to be conveyed in these words. i acknowledged it by a silent gesture of admiration, which she quickly understood and accepted. was ever a man in the position of being delicately flattered by his own wife before? i think not! generally married persons are like candid friends--fond of telling each other very unpleasant truths, and altogether avoiding the least soupcon of flattery. though i was not so much flattered as amused--considering the position of affairs. just then a servant threw open the door and announced dinner. i set my child very gently down from my knee and whisperingly told her that i would come and see her soon again. she smiled trustfully, and then in obedience to her mother's imperative gesture, slipped quietly out of the room. as soon as she had gone i praised her beauty warmly, for she was really a lovely little thing--but i could see my admiration of her was not very acceptable to either my wife or her lover. we all went in to dinner--i, as guest, having the privilege of escorting my fair and spotless spouse! on our reaching the dining-room nina said-- "you are such an old friend of the family, conte, that perhaps you will not mind sitting at the head of the table?" "tropp' onore, signora!" i answered, bowing gallantly, as i at once resumed my rightful place at my own table, ferrari placing himself on my right hand, nina on my left. the butler, my father's servant and mine, stood as of old behind my chair, and i noticed that each time he supplied me with wine he eyed me with a certain timid curiosity--but i knew i had a singular and conspicuous appearance, which easily accounted for his inquisitiveness. opposite to where i sat, hung my father's portrait--the character i personated permitted me to look at it fixedly and give full vent to the deep sigh which in very earnest broke from my heart. the eyes of the picture seemed to gaze into mine with a sorrowful compassion--almost i fancied the firm-set lips trembled and moved to echo my sigh. "is that a good likeness?" ferrari asked, suddenly. i started, and recollecting myself, answered: "excellent! so true a resemblance that it arouses a long train of memories in my mind--memories both bitter and sweet. ah! what a proud fellow he was!" "fabio was also very proud," chimed in my wife's sweet voice. "very cold and haughty." little liar! how dared she utter this libel on my memory! haughty, i might have been to others, but never to her--and coldness was no part of my nature. would that it were! would that i had been a pillar of ice, incapable of thawing in the sunlight of her witching smile! had she forgotten what a slave i was to her? what a poor, adoring, passionate fool i became under the influence of her hypocritical caresses! i thought this to myself, but i answered aloud: "indeed! i am surprised to hear that. the romani hauteur had ever to my mind something genial and yielding about it--i know my friend was always most gentle to his dependents." the butler here coughed apologetically behind his hand--an old trick of his, and one which signified his intense desire to speak. ferrari laughed, as he held out his glass for more wine. "here is old giacomo," he said, nodding to him lightly. "he remembers both the romanis--ask him his opinion of fabio--he worshiped his master." i turned to my servant, and with a benignant air addressed him: "your face is not familiar to me, my friend," i said. "perhaps you were not here when i visited the elder count romani?" "no, eccellenza," replied giacomo, rubbing his withered hands nervously together, and speaking with a sort of suppressed eagerness, "i came into my lord's service only a year before the countess died--i mean the mother of the young count." "ah! then i missed making your acquaintance," i said, kindly, pitying the poor old fellow, as i noticed how his lips trembled, and how altogether broken he looked. "you knew the last count from childhood, then?" "i did, eccellenza!" and his bleared eyes roved over me with a sort of alarmed inquiry. "you loved him well?" i said, composedly, observing him with embarrassment. "eccellenza, i never wish to serve a better master. he was goodness itself--a fine, handsome, generous lad--the saints have his soul in their keeping! though sometimes i cannot believe he is dead--my old heart almost broke when i heard it. i have never been the same since--my lady will tell you so--she is often displeased with me." and he looked wistfully at her; there was a note of pleading in his hesitating accents. my wife's delicate brows drew together in a frown, a frown that i had once thought came from mere petulance, but which i was now inclined to accept as a sign of temper. "yes, indeed, giacomo," she said, in hard tones, altogether unlike her usual musical voice. "you are growing so forgetful that it is positively annoying. you know i have often to tell you the same thing several times. one command ought to be sufficient for you." giacomo passed his hand over his forehead in a troubled way, sighed, and was silent. then, as if suddenly recollecting his duty, he refilled my glass, and shrinking aside, resumed his former position behind my chair. the conversation now turned on desultory and indifferent matters. i knew my wife was an excellent talker, but on that particular evening i think she surpassed herself. she had resolved to fascinate me, that i saw at once, and she spared no pains to succeed in her ambition. graceful sallies, witty bon-mots tipped with the pungent sparkle of satire, gay stories well and briskly told, all came easily from her lips, so that though i knew her so well, she almost surprised me by her variety and fluency. yet this gift of good conversation in a woman is apt to mislead the judgment of those who listen, for it is seldom the result of thought, and still more seldom is it a proof of intellectual capacity. a woman talks as a brook babbles; pleasantly, but without depth. her information is generally of the most surface kind--she skims the cream off each item of news, and serves it up to you in her own fashion, caring little whether it be correct or the reverse. and the more vivaciously she talks, the more likely she is to be dangerously insincere and cold-hearted, for the very sharpness of her wit is apt to spoil the more delicate perceptions of her nature. show me a brilliant woman noted for turning an epigram or pointing a satire, and i will show you a creature whose life is a masquerade, full of vanity, sensuality and pride. the man who marries such a one must be content to take the second place in his household, and play the character of the henpecked husband with what meekness he best may. answer me, ye long suffering spouses of "society women" how much would you give to win back your freedom and self-respect? to be able to hold your head up unabashed before your own servants? to feel that you can actually give an order without its being instantly countermanded? ah, my poor friends! millions will not purchase you such joy; as long as your fascinating fair ones are like caesar's wife, "above suspicion" (and they are generally prudent managers), so long must you dance in their chains like the good-natured clumsy bears that you are, only giving vent to a growl now and then; a growl which at best only excites ridicule. my wife was of the true world worldly; never had i seen her real character so plainly as now, when she exerted herself to entertain and charm me. i had thought her spirituelle, ethereal, angelic! never was there less of an angel than she! while she talked, i was quick to observe the changes on ferrari's countenance. he became more silent and sullen as her brightness and cordiality increased. i would not appear aware of the growing stiffness in his demeanor; i continued to draw him into the conversation, forcing him to give opinions on various subjects connected with the art of which he was professedly a follower. he was very reluctant to speak at all; and when compelled to do so, his remarks were curt and almost snappish, so much so that my wife made a laughing comment on his behavior. "you are positively ill-tempered, guido!" she exclaimed, then remembering she had addressed him by his christian name, she turned to me and added--"i always call him guido, en famille; you know he is just like a brother to me." he looked at her and his eyes flashed dangerously, but he was mute. nina was evidently pleased to see him in such a vexed mood; she delighted to pique his pride, and as he steadily gazed at her in a sort of reproachful wonder, she laughed joyously. then rising from the table, she made us a coquettish courtesy. "i will leave you two gentlemen to finish your wine together," she said, "i know all men love to talk a little scandal, and they must be alone to enjoy it. afterward, will you join me in the veranda? you will find coffee ready." i hastened to open the door for her as she passed out smiling; then, returning to the table, i poured out more wine for myself and ferrari, who sat gloomily eying his own reflection in the broad polished rim of a silver fruit-dish that stood near him. giacomo, the butler, had long ago left the room; we were entirely alone. i thought over my plans for a moment or two; the game was as interesting as a problem in chess. with the deliberation of a prudent player i made my next move. "a lovely woman!" i murmured, meditatively, sipping my wine, "and intelligent also. i admire your taste, signor!" he started violently. "what--what do you mean?" he demanded, half fiercely. i stroked my mustache and smiled at him benevolently. "ah, young blood! young blood!" i sighed, shaking my head, "it will have its way! my good sir, why be ashamed of your feelings? i heartily sympathize with you; if the lady does not appreciate the affection of so ardent and gallant an admirer, then she is foolish indeed! it is not every woman who has such a chance of happiness." "you think--you imagine that--that--i--" "that you are in love with her?" i said, composedly. "ma--certamente! and why not? it is as it should be. even the late conte could wish no fairer fate for his beautiful widow than that she should become the wife of his chosen friend. permit me to drink your health! success to your love!" and i drained my glass as i finished speaking. unfortunate fool! he was completely disarmed; his suspicions of me melted away like mist before the morning light. his face cleared--he seized my hand and pressed it warmly. "forgive me, conte," he said, with remorseful fervor; "i fear i have been rude and unsociable. your kind words have put me right again. you will think me a jealous madman, but i really fancied that you were beginning to feel an attraction for her yourself, and actually--(pardon me, i entreat of you!) actually i was making up my mind to--to kill you!" i laughed quietly. "veramente! how very amiable of you! it was a good intention, but you know what place is paved with similar designs?" "ah, conte, it is like your generosity to take my confession so lightly; but i assure you, for the last hour i have been absolutely wretched!" "after the fashion of all lovers, i suppose," i answered "torturing yourself without necessity! well, well, it is very amusing! my young friend, when you come to my time of life, you will prefer the chink of gold to the laughter and kisses of women. how often must i repeat to you that i am a man absolutely indifferent to the tender passion? believe it or not, it is true." he drank off his wine at one gulp and spoke with some excitement. "then i will frankly confide in you. i do love the contessa. love! it is too weak a word to describe what i feel. the touch of her hand thrills me, her very voice seems to shake my soul, her eyes burn through me! ah! you cannot know--you could not understand the joy, the pain--" "calm yourself," i said, in a cold tone, watching my victim as his pent-up emotion betrayed itself, "the great thing is to keep the head cool when the blood burns. you think she loves you?" "think! gran dio! she has--" here he paused and his face flushed deeply--"nay! i have no right to say anything on that score. i know she never cared for her husband." "i know that too!" i answered, steadily. "the most casual observer cannot fail to notice it." "well, and no wonder!" he exclaimed, warmly. "he was such an undemonstrative fool! what business had such a fellow as that to marry so exquisite a creature!" my heart leaped with a sudden impulse of fury, but i controlled my voice and answered calmly: "requiescat in pace! he is dead--let him rest. whatever his faults, his wife of course was true to him while he lived; she considered him worthy of fidelity--is it not so?" he lowered his eyes as he replied in an indistinct tone: "oh, certainly!" "and you--you were a most loyal and faithful friend to him, in spite of the tempting bright eyes of his lady?" again he answered huskily, "why, of course!" but the shapely hand that rested on the table so near to mine trembled. "well, then," i continued, quietly, "the love you bear now to his fair widow is, i imagine, precisely what he would approve. being, as you say, perfectly pure and blameless, what can i wish otherwise than this--may it meet with the reward it deserves!" while i spoke he moved uneasily in his chair, and his eyes roved to my father's picture with restless annoyance. i suppose he saw in it the likeness to his dead friend. after a moment or two of silence he turned to me with a forced smile-- "and so you really entertain no admiration for the contessa?" "oh, pardon me, i do entertain a very strong admiration for her, but not of the kind you seem to suspect. if it will please you, i can guarantee that i shall never make love to the lady unless--" "unless what?" he asked, eagerly. "unless she happens to make love to me. in which case it would be ungallant not to reciprocate!" and i laughed harshly. he stared at me in blank surprise. "she make love to you!" he exclaimed, "you jest. she would never do such a thing." "of course not!" i answered, rising and clapping him heavily on the shoulder. "women never court men, it is quite unheard of; a reverse of the order of nature! you are perfectly safe, my friend; you will certainly win the recompense you so richly merit. come, let us go and drink coffee with the fair one." and arm-in-arm we sauntered out to the veranda in the most friendly way possible. ferrari was completely restored to good humor, and nina, i thought, was rather relieved to see it. she was evidently afraid of ferrari--a good point for me to remember. she smiled a welcome to us as we approached, and began to pour out the fragrant coffee. it was a glorious evening; the moon was already high in the heavens, and the nightingales' voices echoed softly from the distant woods. as i seated myself in a low chair that was placed invitingly near that of my hostess, my ears were startled by a long melancholy howl, which changed every now and then to an impatient whine. "what is that?" i asked, though the question was needless, for i knew the sound. "oh, it is that tiresome dog wyvis," answered nina, in a vexed tone. "he belonged to fabio. he makes the evening quite miserable with his moaning." "where is he?" "well, after my husband's death he became so troublesome, roaming all over the house and wailing; and then he would insist on sleeping in stella's room close to her bedside. he really worried me both day and night, so i was compelled to chain him up." poor wyvis! he was sorely punished for his fidelity. "i am very fond of dogs," i said, slowly, "and they generally take to me with extraordinary devotion. may i see this one of yours?" "oh, certainly! guido, will you go and unfasten him?" guido did not move; he leaned easily back in his chair sipping his coffee. "many thanks," he answered, with a half laugh; "perhaps you forget that last time i did so he nearly tore me to pieces. if you do not object, i would rather giacomo undertook the task." "after such an account of the animal's conduct, perhaps the conte will not care to see him. it is true enough," turning to me as she spoke, "wyvis has taken a great dislike to signor ferrari--and yet he is a good-natured dog, and plays with my little girl all day if she goes to him. do you feel inclined to see him? yes?" and, as i bowed in the affirmative, she rang a little bell twice, and the butler appeared. "giacomo," she continued, "unloose wyvis and send him here." giacomo gave me another of those timid questioning glances, and departed to execute his order. in another five minutes, the howling had suddenly ceased, a long, lithe, black, shadowy creature came leaping wildly across the moonlighted lawn--wyvis was racing at full speed. he paid no heed to his mistress or ferrari; he rushed straight to me with a yelp of joy. his huge tail wagged incessantly, he panted thirstily with excitement, he frisked round and round my chair, he abased himself and kissed my feet and hands, he rubbed his stately head fondly against my knee. his frantic demonstrations of delight were watched by my wife and ferrari with utter astonishment. i observed their surprise, and said lightly: "i told you how it would be! it is nothing remarkable, i assure you. all dogs treat me in the same way." and i laid my hand on the animal's neck with a commanding pressure; he lay down at once, only now and then raising his large wistful brown eyes to my face as though he wondered what had changed it so greatly. but no disguise could deceive his intelligence--the faithful creature knew his master. meantime i thought nina looked pale; certainly the little jeweled white hand nearest to me shook slightly. "are you afraid of this noble animal, madame?" i asked, watching her closely. she laughed, a little forcedly. "oh, no! but wyvis is usually so shy with strangers, and i never saw him greet any one so rapturously except my late husband. it is really very odd!" ferrari, by his looks, agreed with her, and appeared to be uneasily considering the circumstance. "strange to say," he remarked, "wyvis has for once forgotten me. he never fails to give me a passing snarl." hearing his voice, the dog did indeed commence growling discontentedly; but a touch from me silenced him. the animal's declared enmity toward ferrari surprised me--it was quite a new thing, as before my burial his behavior to him had been perfectly friendly. "i have had a great deal to do with dogs in my time," i said, speaking in a deliberately composed voice. "i have found their instinct marvelous; they generally seem to recognize at once the persons who are fond of their society. this wyvis of yours, contessa, has no doubt discovered that i have had many friends among his brethren, so that there is nothing strange in his making so much of me." the air of studied indifference with which i spoke, and the fact of my taking the exuberant delight of wyvis as a matter of course, gradually reassured the plainly disturbed feelings of my two betrayers, for after a little pause the incident was passed over, and our conversation went on with pleasant and satisfactory smoothness. before my departure that evening, however, i offered to chain up the dog--"as, if i do this," i added, "i guarantee he will not disturb your night's rest by his howling." this suggestion met with approval, and ferrari walked with me to show me where the kennel stood. i chained wyvis, and stroked him tenderly; he appeared to understand, and he accepted his fate with perfect resignation, lying down upon his bed of straw without a sign of opposition, save for one imploring look out of his intelligent eyes as i turned away and left him. on making my adieus to nina, i firmly refused ferrari's offered companionship in the walk back to my hotel. "i am fond of a solitary moonlight stroll," i said. "permit me to have my own way in the matter." after some friendly argument they yielded to my wishes. i bade them both a civil "good-night," bending low over my wife's hand and kissing it, coldly enough, god knows, and yet the action was sufficient to make her flush and sparkle with pleasure. then i left them, ferrari himself escorting me to the villa gates, and watching me pass out on the open road. as long as he stood there, i walked with a slow and meditative pace toward the city, but the instant i heard the gate clang heavily as it closed, i hurried back with a cautious and noiseless step. avoiding the great entrance, i slipped round to the western side of the grounds, where there was a close thicket of laurel that extended almost up to the veranda i had just left. entering this and bending the boughs softly aside as i pushed my way through, i gradually reached a position from whence i could see the veranda plainly, and also hear anything that passed. guido was sitting on the low chair i had just vacated, leaning his head back against my wife's breast; he had reached up one arm so that it encircled her neck, and drew her head down toward his. in this half embrace they rested absolutely silent for some moments. suddenly ferrari spoke: "you are very cruel, nina! you actually made me think you admired that rich old conte." she laughed. "so i do! he would be really handsome if he did not wear those ugly spectacles. and his jewels are lovely. i wish he would give me some more!" "and supposing he were to do so, would you care for him, nina?" he demanded, jealously. "surely not. besides, you have no idea how conceited he is. he says he will never make love to a woman unless she first makes love to him; what do you think of that?" she laughed again, more merrily than before. "think! why, that he is very original--charmingly so! are you coming in, guido?" he rose, and standing erect, almost lifted her from her chair and folded her in his arms. "yes, i am coming in," he answered; "and i will have a hundred kisses for every look and smile you bestowed on the conte! you little coquette! you would flirt with your grandfather!" she rested against him with apparent tenderness, one hand playing with the flower in his buttonhole, and then she said, with a slight accent of fear in her voice-- "tell me, guido, do you not think he is a little like--like fabio? is there not a something in his manner that seems familiar?" "i confess i have fancied so once or twice," he returned, musingly; "there is rather a disagreeable resemblance. but what of that? many men are almost counterparts of each other. but i tell you what i think. i am almost positive he is some long-lost relation of the family--fabio's uncle for all we know, who does not wish to declare his actual relationship. he is a good old fellow enough, i believe, and is certainly rich as croesus; he will be a valuable friend to us both. come, sposina mia, it is time to go to rest." and they disappeared within the house, and shut the windows after them. i immediately left my hiding-place, and resumed my way toward naples. i was satisfied they had no suspicion of the truth. after all, it was absurd of me to fancy they might have, for people in general do not imagine it possible for a buried man to come back to life again. the game was in my own hands, and i now resolved to play it out with as little delay as possible. chapter xvi. time flew swiftly on--a month, six weeks, passed, and during that short space i had established myself in naples as a great personage--great, because of my wealth and the style in which i lived. no one in all the numerous families of distinction that eagerly sought my acquaintance cared whether i had intellect or intrinsic personal worth; it sufficed to them that i kept a carriage and pair, an elegant and costly equipage, softly lined with satin and drawn by two arabian mares as black as polished ebony. the value of my friendship was measured by the luxuriousness of my box at the opera, and by the dainty fittings of my yacht, a swift trim vessel furnished with every luxury, and having on board a band of stringed instruments which discoursed sweet music when the moon emptied her horn of silver radiance on the rippling water. in a little while i knew everybody who was worth knowing in naples; everywhere my name was talked of, my doings were chronicled in the fashionable newspapers; stories of my lavish generosity were repeated from mouth to mouth, and the most highly colored reports of my immense revenues were whispered with a kind of breathless awe at every cafe and street corner. tradesmen waylaid my reticent valet, vincenzo, and gave him douceurs in the hope he would obtain my custom for them--"tips" which he pocketed in his usual reserved and discreet manner, but which he was always honest enough to tell me of afterward. he would most faithfully give me the name and address of this or that particular tempter of his fidelity, always adding--"as to whether the rascal sells good things or bad our lady only knows, but truly he gave me thirty francs to secure your excellency's good-will. though for all that i would not recommend him if your excellency knows of an honester man!" among other distinctions which my wealth forced upon me, were the lavish attentions of match-making mothers. the black spectacles which i always wore, were not repulsive to these diplomatic dames--on the contrary, some of them assured me they were most becoming, so anxious were they to secure me as a son-in-law. fair girls in their teens, blushing and ingenuous, were artfully introduced to me--or, i should say, thrust forward like slaves in a market for my inspection--though, to do them justice, they were remarkably shrewd and sharp-witted for their tender years. young as they were, they were keenly alive to the importance of making a good match--and no doubt the pretty innocents laid many dainty schemes in their own minds for liberty and enjoyment when one or the other of them should become the countess oliva and fool the old black-spectacled husband to her heart's content. needless to say their plans were not destined to be fulfilled, though i rather enjoyed studying the many devices they employed to fascinate me. what pretty ogling glances i received!--what whispered admiration of my "beautiful white hair! so distingue"--what tricks of manner, alternating from grave to gay, from rippling mirth to witching languor! many an evening i sat at ease on board my yacht, watching with a satirical inward amusement, one, perhaps two or three of these fair schemers ransacking their youthful brains for new methods to entrap the old millionaire, as they thought me, into the matrimonial net. i used to see their eyes--sparkling with light in the sunshine--grow liquid and dreamy in the mellow radiance of the october moon, and turn upon me with a vague wistfulness most lovely to behold, and--most admirably feigned! i could lay my hand on a bare round white arm and not be repulsed--i could hold little clinging fingers in my own as long as i liked without giving offense such are some of the privileges of wealth! in all the parties of pleasure i formed, and these were many--my wife and ferrari were included as a matter of course. at first nina demurred, with some plaintive excuse concerning her "recent terrible bereavement," but i easily persuaded her out of this. i even told some ladies i knew to visit her and add their entreaties to mine, as i said, with the benignant air of an elderly man, that it was not good for one so young to waste her time and injure her health by useless grieving. she saw the force of this, i must admit, with admirable readiness, and speedily yielded to the united invitations she received, though always with a well-acted reluctance, and saying that she did so merely "because the count oliva was such an old friend of the family and knew my poor dear husband as a child." on ferrari i heaped all manner of benefits. certain debts of his contracted at play i paid privately to surprise him--his gratitude was extreme. i humored him in many of his small extravagances--i played with his follies as an angler plays the fish at the end of his line, and i succeeded in winning his confidence. not that i ever could surprise him into a confession of his guilty amour--but he kept me well informed as to what he was pleased to call "the progress of his attachment," and supplied me with many small details which, while they fired my blood and brain to wrath, steadied me more surely in my plan of vengeance. little did he dream in whom he was trusting!--little did he know into whose hands he was playing! sometimes a kind of awful astonishment would come over me as i listened to his trivial talk, and heard him make plans for a future that was never to be. he seemed so certain of his happiness--so absolutely sure that nothing could or would intervene to mar it. traitor as he was he was unable to foresee punishment--materialist to the heart's core, he had no knowledge of the divine law of compensation. now and then a dangerous impulse stirred me--a desire to say to him point-blank: "you are a condemned criminal--a doomed man on the brink of the grave. leave this light converse and frivolous jesting--and, while there is time, prepare for death!" but i bit my lips and kept stern silence. often, too, i felt disposed to seize him by the throat, and, declaring my identity, accuse him of his treachery to his face, but i always remembered and controlled myself. one point in his character i knew well--i had known it of old--this was his excessive love of good wine. i aided and abetted him in this weakness, and whenever he visited me i took care that he should have his choice of the finest vintages. often after a convivial evening spent in my apartments with a few other young men of his class and caliber, he reeled out of my presence, his deeply flushed face and thick voice bearing plain testimony as to his condition. on these occasions i used to consider with a sort of fierce humor how nina would receive him--for though she saw no offense in the one kind of vice she herself practiced, she had a particular horror of vulgarity in any form, and drunkenness was one of those low failings she specially abhorred. "go to your lady-love, mon beau silenus!" i would think, as i watched him leaving my hotel with a couple of his boon companions, staggering and laughing loudly as he went, or singing the last questionable street-song of the neapolitan bas-peuple. "you are in a would-be riotous and savage mood--her finer animal instincts will revolt from you, as a lithe gazelle would fly from the hideous gambols of a rhinoceros. she is already afraid of you--in a little while she will look upon you with loathing and disgust--tant pis pour vous, tant mieux pour moi!" i had of course attained the position of ami intime at the villa romani. i was welcome there at any hour--i could examine and read my own books in my own library at leisure (what a privilege was mine); i could saunter freely through the beautiful gardens accompanied by wyvis, who attended me as a matter of course; in short, the house was almost at my disposal, though i never passed a night under its roof. i carefully kept up my character as a prematurely elderly man, slightly invalided by a long and ardous career in far-off foreign lands, and i was particularly prudent in my behavior toward my wife before ferrari. never did i permit the least word or action on my part that could arouse his jealousy or suspicion. i treated her with a sort of parental kindness and reserve, but she--trust a woman for intrigue!--she was quick to perceive my reasons for so doing. directly ferrari's back was turned she would look at me with a glance of coquettish intelligence, and smile--a little mocking, half-petulant smile--or she would utter some disparaging remark about him, combining with it a covert compliment to me. it was not for me to betray her secrets--i saw no occasion to tell ferrari that nearly every morning she sent her maid to my hotel with fruit and flowers and inquiries after my health--nor was my valet vincenzo the man to say that he carried gifts and similar messages from me to her. but at the commencement of november things were so far advanced that i was in the unusual position of being secretly courted by my own wife!--i reciprocating her attentions with equal secrecy! the fact of my being often in the company of other ladies piqued her vanity--she knew that i was considered a desirable parti--and--she resolved to win me. in this case i also resolved--to be won! a grim courtship truly--between a dead man and his own widow! ferrari never suspected what was going on; he had spoken of me as "that poor fool fabio, he was too easily duped;" yet never was there one more "easily duped" than himself, or to whom the epithet "poor fool" more thoroughly applied. as i said before, he was sure--too sure of his own good fortune. i wished to excite his distrust and enmity sometimes, but this i found i could not do. he trusted me--yes! as much as in the old days i had trusted him. therefore, the catastrophe for him must be sudden as well as fatal--perhaps, after all, it was better so. during my frequent visits to the villa i saw much of my child stella. she became passionately attached to me--poor little thing!--her love was a mere natural instinct, had she but known it. often, too, her nurse, assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me. this was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when i took her on my knee and told her a fairy story--her favorite one being that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her to find him again. i was at first somewhat afraid of old assunta--she had been my nurse--was it possible that she would not recognize me? the first time i met her in my new character i almost held my breath in a sort of suspense--but the good old woman was nearly blind, and i think she could scarce make out my lineaments. she was of an entirely different nature to giacomo the butler--she thoroughly believed her master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to say, giacomo did not. the old man had a fanatical notion that his "young lord" could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy. assunta, on the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured earnestness: "it was to be expected, eccellenza--he was too good for us, and the saints took him. of course our lady wanted him--she always picks out the best among us. the poor giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak and childish, and he loved the master too well--better," and here her voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, "yes, better actually than st. joseph himself! and of course one is punished for such a thing. i always knew my master would die young--he was too gentle as a baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long." and she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary, and mutter many an ave for the repose of my soul. much as i wished it, i could never get her to talk about her mistress--it was the one subject on which she was invariably silent. on one occasion when i spoke with apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny--sighed--but said nothing. i was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to stella, and the child returned her affection with interest--though as the november days came on apace my little one looked far from strong. she paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and solemn, and she was very easily wearied. i called assunta's attention to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the countess, but that "madam" had taken no notice of the child's weakly condition. afterward i mentioned the matter myself to nina, who merely smiled gratefully up in my face and answered: "really, my dear conte, you are too good! there is nothing the matter with stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons, perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. how kind you are to think of her! but, i assure you, she is quite well." i did not feel so sure of this, yet i was obliged to conceal my anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have been in keeping with my assumed character. it was a little past the middle of november, when a circumstance occurred that gave impetus to my plans, and hurried them to full fruition. the days were growing chilly and sad even in naples--yachting excursions were over, and i was beginning to organize a few dinners and balls for the approaching winter season, when one afternoon ferrari entered my room unannounced and threw himself into the nearest chair with an impatient exclamation, and a vexed expression of countenance. "what is the matter?" i asked, carelessly, as i caught a furtive glance of his eyes. "anything financial? pray draw upon me! i will be a most accommodating banker!" he smiled uneasily though gratefully. "thanks, conte--but it is nothing of that sort--it is--gran dio! what an unlucky wretch i am!" "i hope," and here i put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, "i hope the pretty contessa has not played you false? she has refused to marry you?" he laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter. "oh, as far as that goes there is no danger! she dares not play me false." "dares not! that is rather a strong expression, my friend!" and i stroked my beard and looked at him steadily. he himself seemed to think he had spoken too openly and hastily--for he reddened as he said with a little embarrassment: "well, i did not mean that exactly--of course she is perfectly free to do as she likes--but she cannot, i think, refuse me after showing me so much encouragement." i waved my hand with an airy gesture of amicable agreement. "certainly not," i said, "unless she be an arrant coquette and therefore a worthless woman, and you, who know so well her intrinsic goodness and purity, have no reason to fear. but, if not love or money, what is it that troubles you? it must be serious, to judge from your face." he played absently with a ring i had given him, turning it round and round upon his finger many times before replying. "well, the fact is," he said at last, "i am compelled to go away--to leave naples for a time." my heart gave an expectant throb of satisfaction. going away!--leaving naples!--turning away from the field of battle and allowing me to gain the victory! fortune surely favored me. but i answered with feigned concern: "going away! surely you cannot mean it. why?--what for? and where?" "an uncle of mine is dying in rome," he answered, crossly. "he has made me his heir, and i am bound for the sake of decency to attend his last moments. rather protracted last moments they threaten to be too, but the lawyers say i had better be present, as the old man may take it into his head to disinherit me at the final gasp. i suppose i shall not be absent long--a fortnight at most--and in the meanwhile--" here he hesitated and looked at me anxiously. "continue, caro mio, continue!" i said with some impatience. "if i can do anything in your absence, you have only to command me." he rose from his chair, and approaching the window where i sat in a half-reclining position, he drew a small chair opposite mine, and sitting down, laid one hand confidingly on my wrist. "you can do much!" he replied, earnestly, "and i feel that i can thoroughly depend upon you. watch over her! she will have no other protector, and she is so beautiful and careless! you can guard her--your age, your rank and position, the fact of your being an old friend of the family--all these things warrant your censorship and vigilance over her, and you can prevent any other man from intruding himself upon her notice--" "if he does," i exclaimed, starting up from my seat with a mock tragic air, "i will not rest till his body serves my sword as a sheath!" and i laughed loudly, clapping him on the shoulder as i spoke. the words were the very same he had himself uttered when i had witnessed his interview with my wife in the avenue. he seemed to find something familiar in the phrase, for he looked confused and puzzled. seeing this, i hastened to turn the current of his reflections. stopping abruptly in my mirth, i assumed a serious gravity of demeanor, and said: "nay, nay! i see the subject is too sacred to be jested with--pardon my levity! i assure you, my good ferrari, i will watch over the lady with the jealous scrutiny of a brother--an elderly brother too, and therefore one more likely to be a model of propriety. though i frankly admit it is a task i am not specially fitted for, and one that is rather distasteful to me, still, i would do much to please you, and enable you to leave naples with an easy mind. i promise you"--here i took his hand and shook it warmly--"that i will be worthy of your trust and true to it, with exactly the same fine loyalty and fidelity you yourself so nobly showed to your dead friend fabio! history cannot furnish me with a better example!" he started as if he had been stung, and every drop of blood receded from his face, leaving it almost livid. he turned his eyes in a kind of wondering doubt upon me, but i counterfeited an air of such good faith and frankness, that he checked some hasty utterance that rose to his lips, and mastering himself by a strong effort, said, briefly: "i thank you! i know i can rely upon your honor." "you can!" i answered, decisively--"as positively as you rely upon your own!" again he winced, as though whipped smartly by an invisible lash. releasing his hand, i asked, in a tone of affected regret, "and when must you leave us, carino?" "most unhappily, at once," he answered "i start by the early train to-morrow morning." "well, i am glad i knew of this in time," i said, glancing at my writing-table, which was strewn with unsent invitation cards, and estimates from decorators and ball furnishers. "i shall not think of starting any more gayeties till you return." he looked gratefully at me "really? it is very kind of you, but i should be sorry to interfere with any of your plans--" "say no more about it, amico," i interrupted him lightly. "everything can wait till you come back. besides, i am sure you will prefer to think of madama as living in some sort of seclusion during your enforced absence--" "i should not like her to be dull!" he eagerly exclaimed. "oh, no!" i said, with a slight smile at his folly, as if she--nina--would permit herself to be dull! "i will take care of that. little distractions, such as a drive now and then, or a very quiet, select musical evening! i understand--leave it all to me! but the dances, dinners, and other diversions shall wait till your return." a delighted look flashed into his eyes. he was greatly flattered and pleased. "you are uncommonly good to me, conte!" he said, earnestly. "i can never thank you sufficiently." "i shall demand a proof of your gratitude some day," i answered. "and now, had you not better be packing your portmanteau? to-morrow will soon be here. i will come and see you off in the morning." receiving this assurance as another testimony of my friendship, he left me. i saw him no more that day; it was easy to guess where he was! with my wife, of course!--no doubt binding her, by all the most sacred vows he could think of or invent, to be true to him--as true as she had been false to me. in fancy i could see him clasping her in his arms, and kissing her many times in his passionate fervor, imploring her to think of him faithfully, night and day, till he should again return to the joy of her caresses! i smiled coldly, as this glowing picture came before my imagination. ay, guido! kiss her and fondle her now to your heart's content--it is for the last time! never again will that witching glance be turned to you in either fear or favor--never again will that fair body nestle in your jealous embrace--never again will your kisses burn on that curved sweet mouth; never, never again! your day is done--the last brief moments of your sin's enjoyment have come--make the most of them!--no one shall interfere! drink the last drop of sweet wine--my hand shall not dash the cup from your lips on this, the final night of your amour! traitor, liar, and hypocrite! make haste to be happy for the short time that yet remains to you--shut the door close, lest the pure pale stars behold your love ecstasies! but let the perfumed lamps shed their softest artificial luster on all that radiant beauty which tempted your sensual soul to ruin, and of which you are now permitted to take your last look! let there be music too--the music of her voice, which murmurs in your ear such entrancing falsehoods! "she will be true," she says. you must believe her, guido, as i did--and, believing her thus, part from her as lingeringly and tenderly as you will--part from her--forever! chapter xvii. next morning i kept my appointment and met ferrari at the railway station. he looked pale and haggard, though he brightened a little on seeing me. he was curiously irritable and fussy with the porters concerning his luggage, and argued with them about some petty trifles as obstinately and pertinaciously as a deaf old woman. his nerves were evidently jarred and unstrung, and it was a relief when he at last got into his coupe. he carried a yellow paper-covered volume in his hand. i asked him if it contained any amusing reading. "i really do not know," he answered, indifferently, "i have only just bought it. it is by victor hugo." and he held up the title-page for me to see. "le dernier jour d'un condamne," i read aloud with careful slowness. "ah, indeed! you do well to read that. it is a very fine study!" the train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the carriage window and beckoned me to approach more closely. "remember!" he whispered, "i trust you to take care of her!" "never fear!" i answered, "i will do my best to replace you!" he smiled a pale uneasy smile, and pressed my hand. these were our last words, for with a warning shriek the train moved off, and in another minute had rushed out of sight. i was alone--alone with perfect freedom of action--i could do as i pleased with my wife now! i could even kill her if i chose--no one would interfere. i could visit her that evening and declare myself to her--could accuse her of her infidelity and stab her to the heart! any italian jury would find "extenuating circumstances" for me. but why? why should i lay myself open to a charge of murder, even for a just cause? no! my original design was perfect, and i must keep to it and work it out with patience, though patience was difficult. while i thus meditated, walking from the station homeward, i was startled by the unexpected appearance of my valet, who came upon me quite suddenly. he was out of breath with running, and he carried a note for me marked "immediate." it was from my wife, and ran briefly thus: "please come at once. stella is very ill, and asks for you." "who brought this?" i demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to vincenzo to keep beside me. "the old man, eccellenza--giacomo. he was weeping and in great trouble--he said the little donzella had the fever in her throat--it is the diphtheria he means, i think. she was taken ill in the middle of the night, but the nurse thought it was nothing serious. this morning she has been getting worse, and is in danger." "a doctor has been sent for, of course?" "yes, eccellenza. so giacomo said. but--" "but what?" i asked, quickly. "nothing, eccellenza! only the old man said the doctor had come too late." my heart sunk heavily, and a sob rose in my throat. i stopped in my rapid walk and bade vincenzo call a carriage, one of the ordinary vehicles that are everywhere standing about for hire in the principal thoroughfares of naples. i sprung into this and told the driver to take me as quickly as possible to the villa romani, and adding to vincenzo that i should not return to the hotel all day, i was soon rattling along the uphill road. on my arrival at the villa i found the gates open, as though in expectation of my visit, and as i approached the entrance door of the house, giacomo himself met me. "how is the child?" i asked him eagerly. he made no reply, but shook his head gravely, and pointed to a kindly looking man who was at that moment descending the stairs--a man whom i instantly recognized as a celebrated english doctor resident in the neighborhood. to him i repeated my inquiry--he beckoned me into a side room and closed the door. "the fact is," he said, simply, "it is a case of gross neglect. the child has evidently been in a weakly condition for some time past, and therefore is an easy prey to any disease that may be lurking about. she was naturally strong--i can see that--and had i been called in when the symptoms first developed themselves, i could have cured her. the nurse tells me she dared not enter the mother's room to disturb her after midnight, otherwise she would have called her to see the child--it is unfortunate, for now i can do nothing." i listened like one in a dream. not even old assunta dared to enter her mistress's room after midnight--no! not though the child might be seriously ill and suffering. i knew the reason well--too well! and so while ferrari had taken his fill of rapturous embraces and lingering farewells, my little one had been allowed to struggle in pain and fever without her mother's care or comfort. not that such consolation would have been much at its best, but i was fool enough to wish there had been this one faint spark of womanhood left in her upon whom i had wasted all the first and only love of my life. the doctor watched me as i remained silent, and after a pause he spoke again. "the child has earnestly asked to see you," he said, "and i persuaded the countess to send for you, though she was very reluctant to do so, as she said you might catch the disease. of course there is always a risk--" "i am no coward, monsieur," i interrupted him, "though many of us italians prove but miserable panic-stricken wretches in time of plague--the more especially when compared with the intrepidity and pluck of englishmen. still there are exceptions--" the doctor smiled courteously and bowed. "then i have no more to say, except that it would be well for you to see my little patient at once. i am compelled to be absent for half an hour, but at the expiration of that time i will return." "stay!" i said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. "is there any hope?" he eyed me gravely. "i fear not." "can nothing be done?" "nothing--except to keep her as quiet and warm as possible. i have left some medicine with the nurse which will alleviate the pain. i shall be able to judge of her better when i return; the illness will have then reached its crisis." in a couple of minutes more he had left the house, and a young maid-servant showed me to the nursery. "where is the contessa?" i asked in a whisper, as i trod softly up the stairs. "the contessa?" said the girl, opening her eyes in astonishment. "in her own bedroom, eccellenza--madama would not think of leaving it; because of the danger of infection." i smothered a rough oath that rose involuntarily to my lips. another proof of the woman's utter heartlessness, i thought! "has she not seen her child?" "since the illness? oh, no, eccellenza!" very gently and on tiptoe i entered the nursery. the blinds were partially drawn as the strong light worried the child, and by the little white bed sat assunta, her brown face pale and almost rigid with anxiety. at my approach she raised her eyes to mine, muttering softly: "it is always so. our lady will have the best of all, first the father, then the child; it is right and just--only the bad are left." "papa!" moaned a little voice feebly, and stella sat up among her tumbled pillows, with wide-opened wild eyes, feverish cheeks, and parted lips through which the breath came in quick, uneasy gasps. shocked at the marks of intense suffering in her face, i put my arms tenderly round her--she smiled faintly and tried to kiss me. i pressed the poor parched little mouth and murmured, soothingly: "stella must be patient and quiet--stella must lie down, the pain will be better so; there! that is right!" as the child sunk back on her bed obediently, still keeping her gaze fixed upon me. i knelt at the bedside, and watched her yearningly--while assunta moistened her lips, and did all she could to ease the pain endured so meekly by the poor little thing whose breathing grew quicker and fainter with every tick of the clock. "you are my papa, are you not?" she asked, a deeper flush crossing her forehead and cheeks. i made no answer--i only kissed the small hot hand i held. assunta shook her head. "ah, poverinetta! the time is near--she sees her father. and why not? he loved her well--he would come to fetch her for certain if the saints would let him." and she fell on her knees and began to tell over her rosary with great devotion. meanwhile stella threw one little arm round my neck--her eyes were half shut--she spoke and breathed with increasing difficulty. "my throat aches so, papa!" she said, pitifully. "can you not make it better?" "i wish i could, my darling!" i murmured. "i would bear all the pain for you if it were possible!" she was silent a minute. then she said: "what a long time you have been away! and now i am too ill to play with you!" then a faint smile crossed her features. "see poor to-to!" she exclaimed, feebly, as her eyes fell on a battered old doll in the spangled dress of a carnival clown that lay at the foot of her bed. "poor dear old to-to! he will think i do not love him any more, because my throat hurts me. give him to me, papa!" and as i obeyed her request she encircled the doll with one arm, while she still clung to me with the other, and added: "to-to remembers you, papa; you know you brought him from rome, and he is fond of you, too--but not as fond as i am!" and her dark eyes glittered feverishly. suddenly her glance fell on assunta, whose gray head was buried in her hands as she knelt. "assunta!" the old woman looked up. "bambinetta!" she answered, and her aged voice trembled. "why are you crying?" inquired stella with an air of plaintive surprise. "are you not glad to see papa?" her words were interrupted by a sharp spasm of pain which convulsed her whole body--she gasped for breath--she was nearly suffocated. assunta and i raised her up gently and supported her against her pillows; the agony passed slowly, but left her little face white and rigid, while large drops of sweat gathered on her brow. i endeavored to soothe her. "darling, you must not talk," i whispered, imploringly; "try to be very still--then the poor throat will not ache so much." she looked at me wistfully. after a minute or two she said, gently: "kiss me, then, and i will be quite good." i kissed her fondly, and she closed her eyes. ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed and she did not stir. at the end of that time the doctor entered. he glanced at her, gave me a warning look, and remained standing quietly at the foot of the bed. suddenly the child woke, and smiled divinely on all three of us. "are you in pain, my dear?" i softly asked. "no!" she answered in a tiny voice, so faint and far away that we held our breath to listen to it; "i am quite well now. assunta must dress me in my white frock again now papa is here. i knew he would come back!" and she turned her eyes upon me with a look of bright intelligence. "her brain wanders," said the doctor, in a low, pitying voice; "it will soon be over." stella did not hear him; she turned and nestled in my arms, asking in a sort of babbling whisper: "you did not go away because i was naughty, did you, papa?" "no darling!" i answered, hiding my face in her curls. "why do you have those ugly black things on?" she asked, in the feeblest and most plaintive tone imaginable, so weak that i myself could scarcely hear it; "has somebody hurt your eyes? let me see your eyes!" i hesitated. dare i humor her in her fancy? i glanced up. the doctor's head again was turned away, assunta was on her knees, her face buried in the bed-clothes, praying to her saints; quick as thought i slipped my spectacles slightly down, and looked over them full at my little one. she uttered a soft cry of delight--"papa! papa!" and stretched out her arms, then a strong and terrible shudder shook her little frame. the doctor came closer--i replaced my glasses without my action being noticed, and we both bent anxiously over the suffering child. her face paled and grew livid--she made another effort to speak--her beautiful eyes rolled upward and became fixed--she sighed--and sunk back on my shoulder--dying--dead! my poor little one! a hard sob stifled itself in my throat--i clasped the small lifeless body close in my embrace, and my tears fell hot and fast. there was a long silence in the room--a deep, an awe-struck, reverent silence, while the angel of death, noiselessly entering and departing, gathered my little white rose for his immortal garden of flowers. chapter xviii. after some little time the doctor's genial voice, slightly tremulous from kindly emotion, roused me from my grief-stricken attitude. "monsieur, permit me to persuade you to come away. poor little child! she is free from pain now. her fancy that you were her father was a fortunate delusion for her. it made her last moments happy. pray come with me--i can see this has been a shock to your feelings." reverently i laid the fragile corpse back on the yet warm pillows. with a fond touch i stroked the flaxen head; i closed the dark, upturned, and glazing eyes--i kissed the waxen cheeks and lips, and folded the tiny hands in an attitude of prayer. there was a grave smile on the young dead face--a smile of superior wisdom and sweetness, majestic in its simplicity. assunta rose from her knees and laid her crucifix on the little breast--the tears were running down her worn and withered countenance. as she strove to wipe them away with her apron, she said tremblingly:-- "it must be told to madama." a frown came on the doctor's face. he was evidently a true britisher, decisive in his opinions, and frank enough to declare them openly. "yes," he said, curtly, "madama, as you call her, should have been here." "the little angel did not once ask for her," murmured assunta. "true!" he answered. and again there was silence. we stood round the small bed, looking at the empty casket that had held the lost jewel--the flawless pearl of innocent childhood that had gone, according to a graceful superstition, to ornament the festal robes of the madonna as she walked in all her majesty through heaven. a profound grief was at my heart--mingled with a sense of mysterious and awful satisfaction. i felt, not as though i had lost my child, but had rather gained her to be more entirely mine than ever. she seemed nearer to me dead than she had been when living. who could say what her future might have been? she would have grown to womanhood--what then? what is the usual fate that falls to even the best woman? sorrow, pain, and petty worry, unsatisfied longings, incompleted aims, the disappointment of an imperfect and fettered life--for say what you will to the contrary, woman's inferiority to man, her physical weakness, her inability to accomplish any great thing for the welfare of the world in which she lives, will always make her more or less an object of pity. if good, she needs all the tenderness, support, and chivalrous guidance of her master, man--if bad, she merits what she receives, his pitiless disdain and measureless contempt. from all dangers and griefs of the kind my stella had escaped--for her, sorrow no longer existed. i was glad of it, i thought, as i watched assunta shutting the blinds close, as a signal to outsiders that death was in the house. at a sign from the doctor i followed him out of the room--on the stairs he turned round abruptly, and asked: "will you tell the countess?" "i would rather be excused," i replied, decisively. "i am not at all in the humor for a scene." "you think she will make a scene?" he said with an astonished uplifting of his eyebrows. "i dare say you are right though! she is an excellent actress." by this time we had reached the foot of the stairs. "she is very beautiful," i answered evasively. "oh, very! no doubt of that!" and here a strange frown contracted the doctor's brow. "for my own taste, i prefer an ugly woman to such beauty." and with these words he left me, disappearing down the passage which led to "madama's" boudoir. left alone, i paced up and down the drawing-room, gazing abstractedly on its costly fittings, its many luxurious knickknacks and elegancies--most of which i had given to my wife during the first few months of our marriage. by and by i heard the sound of violent hysterical sobbing, accompanied by the noise of hurrying footsteps and the rapid whisking about of female garments. in a few moments the doctor entered with an expression of sardonic amusement on his face. "yes!" he said in reply to my look of inquiry, "hysterics, lace handkerchiefs, eau-de-cologne, and attempts at fainting. all very well done! i have assured the lady there is no fear of contagion, as under my orders everything will be thoroughly disinfected. i shall go now. oh, by the way, the countess requests that you will wait here a few minutes--she has a message for you--she will not detain you long. i should recommend you to get back to your hotel as soon as you can, and take some good wine. a rivederci! anything i can do for you pray command me!" and with a cordial shake of the hand he left me, and i heard the street door close behind him. again i paced wearily up and down, wrapped in sorrowful musings. i did not hear a stealthy tread on the carpet behind me, so that when i turned round abruptly, i was startled to find myself face to face with old giacomo, who held out a note to me on a silver salver, and who meanwhile peered at me with his eager eyes in so inquisitive a manner that i felt almost uneasy. "and so the little angel is dead!" he murmured in a thin, quavering voice. "dead! ay, that is a pity, a pity! but my master is not dead--no, no! i am not such an old fool as to believe that." i paid no heed to his rambling talk, but read the message nina had sent to me through him. "i am broken-hearted!" so ran the delicately penciled lines. "will you kindly telegraph my dreadful loss to signor ferrari? i shall be much obliged to you." i looked up from the perfumed missive and down at the old butler's wrinkled visage; he was a short man and much bent, and something in the downward glance i gave him evidently caught and riveted his attention, for he clasped his hands together and muttered something i could not hear. "tell your mistress," i said, speaking slowly and harshly, "that i will do as she wishes. that i am entirely at her service. do you understand?" "yes, yes! i understand!" faltered giacomo, nervously, "my master never thought me foolish--i could always understand him--" "do you know, my friend," i observed, in a purposely cold and cutting tone, "that i have heard somewhat too much about your master? the subject is tiresome to me! were your master alive, he would say you were in your dotage! take my message to the countess at once." the old man's face paled and his lips quivered--he made an attempt to draw up his shrunken figure with a sort of dignity as he answered "eccellenza, my master would never speak to me so--never, never!" then his countenance fell, and he muttered, softly--"though it is just--i am a fool--i am mistaken--quite mistaken--there is no resemblance!" after a little pause he added, humbly, "i will take your message, eccellenza." and stooping more than ever, he shambled out of the room. my heart smote me as he disappeared; i had spoken very harshly to the poor old fellow--but i instinctively felt that it was necessary to do so. his close and ceaseless examination of me--his timidity when he approached me--the strange tremors he experienced when i addressed him, were so many warnings to me to be on my guard with this devoted domestic. were he, by some unforeseen chance, to recognize me, my plans would all be spoiled. i took my hat and left the house. as i crossed the upper terrace, i saw a small round object lying in the grass--it was stella's ball that she used to throw for wyvis to catch and bring to her. i picked up the poor plaything tenderly and put it in my pocket--and glancing up once more at the darkened nursery windows, i waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last sleep. then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, i hurried away. on my road to the hotel i stopped at the telegraph-office and dispatched the news of stella's death to guido ferrari in rome. he would be surprised, i thought, but certainly not grieved--the poor child had always been in his way. would he come back to naples to console the now childless widow? not he!--he would know well that she stood in very small need of consolation--and that she took stella's death as she had taken mine--as a blessing, and not a bereavement. on reaching my own rooms, i gave orders to vincenzo that i was not at home to any one who might call--and i passed the rest of the day in absolute solitude. i had much to think of. the last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped asunder--the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood and deception, no longer existed. was i glad or sorry for this? i asked myself the question a hundred times, and i admitted the truth, though i trembled to realize it. i was glad--yes--glad! glad that my own child was dead! you call this inhuman perhaps? why? she was bound to have been miserable; she was now happy! the tragedy of her parents' lives could be enacted without imbittering and darkening her young days, she was out of it all, and i rejoiced to know it. for i was absolutely relentless; had my little stella lived, not even for her sake would i have relaxed in one detail of my vengeance--nothing seemed to me so paramount as the necessity for restoring my own self-respect and damaged honor. in england i know these things are managed by the divorce court. lawyers are paid exorbitant fees, and the names of the guilty and innocent are dragged through the revolting slums of the low london press. it may be an excellent method--but it does not tend to elevate a man in his own eyes, and it certainly does not do much to restore his lost dignity. it has one advantage--it enables the criminal parties to have their way without further interference--the wronged husband is set free--left out in the cold--and laughed at by those who wronged him. an admirable arrangement no doubt--but one that would not suit me. chacun a son gout! it would be curious to know in matters of this kind whether divorced persons are really satisfied when they have got their divorce--whether the amount of red tape and parchment expended in their interest has done them good and really relieved their feelings. whether, for instance, the betrayed husband is glad to have got rid of his unfaithful wife by throwing her (with the full authority and permission of the law) into his rival's arms? i almost doubt it! i heard of a strange case in england once. a man, moving in good society, having more than suspicions of his wife's fidelity, divorced her--the law pronounced her guilty. some years afterward, he being free, met her again, fell in love with her for the second time and remarried her. she was (naturally!) delighted at his making such a fool of himself--for henceforth, whatever she chose to do, he could not reasonably complain without running the risk of being laughed at. so now the number and variety of her lovers is notorious in the particular social circle where she moves--while he, poor wretch, is perforce tongue-tied, and dare not consider himself wronged. there is no more pitiable object in the world than such a man--secretly derided and jeered at by his fellows, he occupies an almost worse position than that of a galley slave, while in his own esteem he has sunk so low that he dare not, even in secret, try to fathom the depth to which he has fallen. some may assert that to be divorced is a social stigma. it used to be so perhaps, but society has grown very lenient nowadays. divorced women hold their own in the best and most brilliant circles, and what is strange is that they are very generally petted and pitied. "poor thing!" says society, putting up its eyeglass to scan admiringly the beautiful heroine of the latest aristocratic scandal--"she had such a brute of a husband! no wonder she liked that dear lord so-and-so! very wrong of her, of course, but she is so young! she was married at sixteen--quite a child!--could not have known her own mind!" the husband alluded to might have been the best and most chivalrous of men--anything but a "brute"--yet he always figures as such somehow, and gets no sympathy. and, by the way, it is rather a notable fact that all the beautiful, famous, or notorious women were "married at sixteen." how is this managed? i can account for it in southern climates, where girls are full-grown at sixteen and old at thirty--but i cannot understand its being the case in england, where a "miss" of sixteen is a most objectionable and awkward ingenue, without any of the "charms wherewith to charm," and whose conversation is always vapid and silly to the point of absolute exhaustion on the part of those who are forced to listen to it. these sixteen-year-old marriages are, however, the only explanation frisky english matrons can give for having such alarmingly prolific families of tall sons and daughters, and it is a happy and convenient excuse--one that provides a satisfactory reason for the excessive painting of their faces and dyeing of their hair. being young (as they so nobly assert), they wish to look even younger. a la bonne heure! if men cannot see through the delicate fiction, they have only themselves to blame. as for me, i believe in the old, old, apparently foolish legend of adam and eve's sin and the curse which followed it--the curse on man is inevitably carried out to this day. god said: "because" (mark that because!) "thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife" (or thy woman, whoever she be), "and hast eaten of the tree of which i commanded thee, saying, thou shalt not eat of it" (the tree or fruit being the evil suggested first to man by woman), "cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life!" true enough! the curse is upon all who trust woman too far--the sorrow upon all who are beguiled by her witching flatteries. of what avail her poor excuse in the ancient story--"the serpent beguiled me and i did eat!" had she never listened she could not have been beguiled. the weakness, the treachery, was in herself, and is there still. through everything the bitterness of it runs. the woman tempts--the man yields--and the gate of eden--the eden of a clear conscience and an untrammeled soul, is shut upon them. forever and ever the divine denunciation re-echoes like muttering thunder through the clouds of passing generations; forever and ever we unconsciously carry it out in our own lives to its full extent till the heart grows sick and the brain weary, and we long for the end of it all, which is death--death, that mysterious silence and darkness at which we sometimes shudder, wondering vaguely--can it be worse than life? chapter xix. more than ten days had passed since stella's death. her mother had asked me to see to the arrangements for the child's funeral, declaring herself too ill to attend to anything. i was glad enough to accede to her request, for i was thus able to avoid the romani vault as a place of interment. i could not bear to think of the little cherished body being laid to molder in that terrific place where i had endured such frantic horrors. therefore, informing all whom it concerned that i acted under the countess's orders, i chose a pretty spot in the open ground of the cemetery, close to the tree where i had heard the nightingale singing in my hour of supreme misery and suffering. here my little one was laid tenderly to rest in warm mother-earth, and i had sweet violets and primroses planted thickly all about the place, while on the simple white marble cross that marked the spot i had the words engraved-- "una stella svanita," [footnote: a vanished star] adding the names of her parents and the date of her birth and death. since all this had been done i had visited my wife several times. she was always at home to me, though of course, for decency's sake, in consequence of the child's death, she denied herself to everybody else. she looked lovelier than ever; the air of delicate languor she assumed suited her as perfectly as its fragile whiteness suits a hot-house lily. she knew the power of her own beauty most thoroughly, and employed it in arduous efforts to fascinate me. but i had changed my tactics; i paid very little heed to her, and never went to see her unless she asked me very pressingly to do so. all compliments and attentions from me to her had ceased. she courted me, and i accepted her courtship in unresponsive silence. i played the part of a taciturn and reserved man, who preferred reading some ancient and abstruse treatise on metaphysics to even the charms of her society--and often, when she urgently desired my company, i would sit in her drawing-room, turning over the leaves of a book and feigning to be absorbed in it, while she, from her velvet fauteuil, would look at me with a pretty pensiveness made up half of respect, half of gentle admiration--a capitally acted facial expression, by the bye, and one that would do credit to sarah bernhardt. we had both heard from guido ferrari; his letter to my wife i of course did not see; she had, however, told me he was "much shocked and distressed to hear of stella's death." the epistle he addressed to me had a different tale to tell. in it he wrote--"you can understand, my dear conte, that i am not much grieved to hear of the death of fabio's child. had she lived, i confess her presence would have been a perpetual reminder to me of things i prefer to forget. she never liked me--she might have been a great source of trouble and inconvenience; so, on the whole, i am glad she is out of the way." further on in the letter he informed me: "my uncle is at death's door, but though that door stands wide open for him, he cannot make up his mind to go in. his hesitation will not be allowed to last, so the doctors tell me--at any rate i fervently hope i shall not be kept waiting too long, otherwise i shall return to naples and sacrifice my heritage, for i am restless and unhappy away from nina, though i know she is safely guarded by your protecting care." i read this particular paragraph to my wife, watching her closely as i slowly enunciated the words contained in it. she listened, and a vivid blush crimsoned her cheeks--a blush of indignation--and her brows contracted in the vexed frown i knew so well. her lips parted in a half-sweet, half-chilly smile as she said, quietly: "i owe you my thanks, conte, for showing me to what extent signor ferrari's impertinence may reach. i am surprised at his writing to you in such a manner! the fact is, my late husband's attachment for him was so extreme that he now presumes upon a supposed right that he has over me--he fancies i am really his sister, and that he can tyrannize, as brothers sometimes do! i really regret i have been so patient with him--i have allowed him too much liberty." true enough! i thought and smiled bitterly. i was now in the heat of the game--the moves must be played quickly--there was no more time for hesitation or reflection. "i think, madam," i said, deliberately, as i folded guido's letter and replaced it in my pocket-book, "signor ferrari ardently aspires to be something more than a brother to you at no very distant date." oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women! no wonder they make such excellent puppets on the theatrical stage--acting is their natural existence, sham their breath of life! this creature showed no sign of embarrassment--she raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent surprise--then she gave a little low laugh of disdain. "indeed!" she said. "then i fear signor ferrari is doomed to have his aspirations disappointed! my dear conte," and here she rose and swept softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, "do you really mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height that--really it is too absurd!--that he hopes to marry me?" and sinking into a chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry. lost in amazement at the duplicity of the woman, i answered, briefly: "i believe so! he intimated as much to me." she smiled scornfully. "i am too much honored! and did you, conte, think for a moment that such an arrangement would meet with my approval?" i was silent. my brain was confused--i found it difficult to meet with and confront such treachery as this. what! had she no conscience? were all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? were they all blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a sponge! almost i pitied guido! his fate, in her hands, was evidently to be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should i be surprised? why should i pity? had i not calculated it all? and was it not part of my vengeance? "tell me!" pursued my wife's dulcet voice, breaking in upon my reflections, "did you really imagine signor ferrari's suit might meet with favor at my hands?" i must speak--the comedy had to be played out. so i answered, bluntly: "madam, i certainly did think so. it seemed a natural conclusion to draw from the course of events. he is young, undeniably handsome, and on his uncle's death will be fairly wealthy--what more could you desire? besides, he was your husband's friend--" "and for that reason i would never marry him!" she interrupted me with a decided gesture. "even if i liked him sufficiently, which i do not" (oh, miserable traitress), "i would not run the risk of what the world would say of such a marriage." "how, madam? pardon me if i fail to comprehend you." "do you not see, conte?" she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one that begged to be believed, "if i were to marry one that was known to have been my husband's most intimate friend, society is so wicked--people would be sure to say that there had been something between us before my husband's death--i know they would, and i could not endure such slander!" "murder will out" they say! here was guilt partially declaring itself. a perfectly innocent woman could not foresee so readily the condemnation of society. not having the knowledge of evil she would be unable to calculate the consequences. the overprudish woman betrays herself; the fine lady who virtuously shudders at the sight of a nude statue or picture, announces at once to all whom it may concern that there is something far coarser in the suggestions of her own mind than the work of art she condemns. absolute purity has no fear of social slander; it knows its own value, and that it must conquer in the end. my wife--alas! that i should call her so--was innately vicious and false; yet how particular she was in her efforts to secure the blind world's good opinion! poor old world! how exquisitely it is fooled, and how good-naturedly it accepts its fooling! but i had to answer the fair liar, whose net of graceful deceptions was now spread to entrap me, therefore i said with an effort of courtesy: "no one would dare to slander you, contessa, in my presence." she bowed and smiled prettily. "but," i went on, "if it is true that you have no liking for signor ferrari--" "it is true!" she exclaimed with sudden emphasis. "he is rough and ill-mannered; i have seen him the worse for wine, sometimes he is insufferable! i am afraid of him!" i glanced at her quietly. her face had paled, and her hands, which were busied with some silken embroidery, trembled a little. "in that case," i continued, slowly, "though i am sorry for ferrari, poor fellow! he will be immensely disappointed! i confess i am glad in other respects, because--" "because what?" she demanded, eagerly. "why," i answered, feigning a little embarrassment, "because there will be more chance for other men who may seek to possess the hand of the accomplished and beautiful contessa romani." she shook her fair head slightly. a transient expression of disappointment passed over her features. "the 'other men' you speak of, conte, are not likely to indulge in such an ambition," she said, with a faint sigh; "more especially," and her eyes flashed indignantly, "since signor ferrari thinks it his duty to mount guard over me. i suppose he wishes to keep me for himself--a most impertinent and foolish notion! there is only one thing to do--i shall leave naples before he returns." "why?" i asked. she flushed deeply. "i wish to avoid him," she said, after a little pause; "i tell you frankly, he has lately given me much cause for annoyance. i will not be persecuted by his attentions; and as i before said to you, i am often afraid of him. under your protection i know i am quite safe, but i cannot always enjoy that--" the moment had come. i advanced a step or two. "why not?" i said. "it rests entirely with yourself." she started and half rose from her chair--her work dropped from her hands. "what do you mean, conte?" she faltered, half timidly, yet anxiously; "i do not understand!" "i mean what i say," i continued in cool hard tones, and stooping, i picked up her work and restored it to her; "but pray do not excite yourself! you say you cannot always enjoy my protection; it seems to me that you can--by becoming my wife." "conte!" she stammered. i held up my hand as a sign to her to be silent. "i am perfectly aware," i went on in business-like accents--"of the disparity in years that exists between us. i have neither youth, health, or good looks to recommend me to you. trouble and bitter disappointment have made me what i am. but i have wealth which is almost inexhaustible--i have position and influence--and beside these things"--and here i looked at her steadily, "i have an ardent desire to do justice to your admirable qualities, and to give you all you deserve. if you think you could be happy with me, speak frankly--i cannot offer you the passionate adoration of a young man--my blood is cold and my pulse is slow--but what i can do, i will!" having spoken thus, i was silent--gazing at her intently. she paled and flushed alternately, and seemed for a moment lost in thought--then a sudden smile of triumph curved her mouth--she raised her large lovely eyes to mine, with a look of melting and wistful tenderness. she laid her needle-work gently down, and came close up to me--her fragrant breath fell warm on my cheek--her strange gaze fascinated me, and a sort of tremor shook my nerves. "you mean," she said, with a tender pathos in her voice--"that you are willing to marry me, but that you do not really love me?" and almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder--her musical accents were low and thrilling--she sighed faintly. i was silent--battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart, to cover her lips with kisses--to startle her with the passion of my embraces! but i forced the mad impulse down and stood mute. she watched me--slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it with a caressing touch through my hair. "no--you do not really love me," she whispered--"but i will tell you the truth--_i_ love you!" and she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she uttered the lie. i knew it was a lie--but i seized the hand whose caresses stung me, and held it hard, as i answered: "you love me? no, no--i cannot believe it--it is impossible!" she laughed softly. "it is true though," she said, emphatically, "the very first time i saw you i knew i should love you! i never even liked my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite different in others--and superior to him in every way. believe it or not as you like, you are the only man in all the world i have ever loved!" and she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride and virtue. half stupefied at her manner, i asked: "then you will be my wife?" "i will!" she answered--"and tell me--your name is cesare, is it not?" "yes," i said, mechanically. "then, cesare" she murmured, tenderly, "i will make you love me very much!" and with a quick lithe movement of her supple figure, she nestled softly against me, and turned up her radiant glowing face. "kiss me!" she said, and waited. as one in a whirling dream, i stooped and kissed those false sweet lips! i would have more readily placed my mouth upon that of a poisonous serpent! yet that kiss roused a sort of fury in me. i slipped my arms round her half-reclining figure, drew her gently backward to the couch she had left, and sat down beside her, still embracing her. "you really love me?" i asked almost fiercely. "yes!" "and i am the first man whom you have really cared for?" "you are!" "you never liked ferrari?" "never!" "did he ever kiss you as i have done?" "not once!" god! how the lies poured forth! a very cascade of them! and they were all told with such an air of truth! i marveled at the ease and rapidity with which they glided off this fair woman's tongue, feeling somewhat the same sense of stupid astonishment a rustic exhibits when he sees for the first time a conjurer drawing yards and yards of many-colored ribbon out of his mouth. i took up the little hand on which the wedding-ring _i_ had placed there was still worn, and quietly slipped upon the slim finger a circlet of magnificent rose-brilliants. i had long carried this trinket about with me in expectation of the moment that had now come. she started from my arms with an exclamation of delight. "oh, cesare! how lovely! how good you are to me!" and leaning toward me, she kissed me, then resting against my shoulder, she held up her hand to admire the flash of the diamonds in the light. suddenly she said, with some anxiety in her tone: "you will not tell guido? not yet?" "no," i answered; "i certainly will not tell him till he returns. otherwise he would leave rome at once, and we do not want him back just immediately, do we?" and i toyed with her rippling gold tresses half mechanically, while i wondered within myself at the rapid success of my scheme. she, in the meantime grew pensive and abstracted, and for a few moments we were both silent. if she had known! i thought, if she could have imagined that she was encircled by the arm of her own husband, the man whom she had duped and wronged, the poor fool she had mocked at and despised, whose life had been an obstruction in her path, whose death she had been glad of! would she have smiled so sweetly? would she have kissed me then? * * * * * she remained leaning against me in a reposeful attitude for some moments, ever and anon turning the ring i had given her round and round upon her finger. by and by she looked up. "will you do me one favor?" she asked, coaxingly; "such a little thing--a trifle! but it would give me such pleasure!" "what is it?" i asked; "it is you to command and i to obey!" "well, to take off those dark glasses just for a minute! i want to see your eyes." i rose from the sofa quickly, and answered her with some coldness. "ask anything you like but that, mia bella. the least light on my eyes gives me the most acute pain--pain that irritates my nerves for hours afterward. be satisfied with me as i am for the present, though i promise you your wish shall be gratified--" "when?" she interrupted me eagerly. i stooped and kissed her hand. "on the evening of our marriage day," i answered. she blushed and turned away her head coquettishly. "ah! that is so long to wait!" she said, half pettishly. "not very long, i hope," i observed, with meaning emphasis. "we are now in november. may i ask you to make my suspense brief? to allow me to fix our wedding for the second month of the new year?" "but my recent widowhood!--stella's death!"--she objected faintly, pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes. "in february your husband will have been dead nearly six months," i said, decisively; "it is quite a sufficient period of mourning for one so young as yourself. and the loss of your child so increases the loneliness of your situation, that it is natural, even necessary, that you should secure a protector as soon as possible. society will not censure you, you may be sure--besides, _i_ shall know how to silence any gossip that savors of impertinence." a smile of conscious triumph parted her lips. "it shall be as you wish," she said, demurely; "if you, who are known in naples as one who is perfectly indifferent to women like now to figure as an impatient lover, i shall not object!" and she gave me a quick glance of mischievous amusement from under the languid lids of her dreamy dark eyes. i saw it, but answered, stiffly: "you are aware, contessa, and i am also aware that i am not a 'lover' according to the accepted type, but that i am impatient i readily admit." "and why?" she asked. "because," i replied, speaking slowly and emphatically; "i desire you to be mine and mine only, to have you absolutely in my possession, and to feel that no one can come between us, or interfere with my wishes concerning you." she laughed gayly. "a la bonne heure! you are a lover without knowing it! your dignity will not allow you to believe that you are actually in love with me, but in spite of yourself you are--you know you are!" i stood before her in almost somber silence. at last i said: "if you say so, contessa, then it must be so. i have had no experience in affairs of the heart, as they are called, and i find it difficult to give a name to the feelings which possess me; i am only conscious of a very strong wish to become the absolute master of your destiny." and involuntarily i clinched my hand as i spoke. she did not observe the action, but she answered the words with a graceful bend of the head and a smile. "i could not have a better fortune," she said, "for i am sure my destiny will be all brightness and beauty with you to control and guide it!" "it will be what you desire," i half muttered; then with an abrupt change of manner i said: "i will wish you goodnight, contessa. it grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early." she rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look. "you are really a great sufferer then?" she inquired tenderly. "i am sorry! but perhaps careful nursing will quite restore you. i shall be so proud if i can help you to secure better health." "rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me," i answered, "still i warn you, cara mia, that in accepting me as your husband you take a broken-down man, one whose whims are legion and whose chronic state of invalidism may in time prove to be a burden on your young life. are you sure your decision is a wise one?" "quite sure!" she replied firmly. "do i not love you! and you will not always be ailing--you look so strong." "i am strong to a certain extent," i said, unconsciously straightening myself as i stood. "i have plenty of muscle as far as that goes, but my nervous system is completely disorganized. i--why, what is the matter? are you ill?" for she had turned deathly pale, and her eyes look startled and terrified. thinking she would faint, i extended my arms to save her from falling, but she put them aside with an alarmed yet appealing gesture. "it is nothing," she murmured feebly, "a sudden giddiness--i thought--no matter what! tell me, are you not related to the romani family? when you drew yourself up just now you were so like--like fabio! i fancied," and she shuddered, "that i saw his ghost!" i supported her to a chair near the window, which i threw open for air, though the evening was cold. "you are fatigued and overexcited," i said calmly, "your nature is too imaginative. no; i am not related to the romanis, though possibly i may have some of their mannerisms. many men are alike in these things. but you must not give way to such fancies. rest perfectly quiet, you will soon recover." and pouring out a glass of water i handed it to her. she sipped it slowly, leaning back in the fauteuil where i had placed her, and in silence we both looked out on the november night. there was a moon, but she was veiled by driving clouds, which ever and anon swept asunder to show her gleaming pallidly white, like the restless spirit of a deceived and murdered lady. a rising wind moaned dismally among the fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that stood on the lawn like a huge spectral mourner draped in black, apparently waiting for a forest funeral. now and then a few big drops of rain fell--sudden tears wrung as though by force from the black heart of the sky. my wife shivered. "shut the window!" she said, glancing back at me where i stood behind her chair. "i am much better now. i was very silly. i do not know what came over me, but for the moment i felt afraid--horribly afraid!--of you!" "that was not complimentary to your future husband," i remarked, quietly, as i closed and fastened the window in obedience to her request. "should i not insist upon an apology?" she laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants. "it is not yet too late," i resumed, "if on second thoughts you would rather not marry me, you have only to say so. i shall accept my fate with equanimity, and shall not blame you." at this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly on my arm. "surely you are not offended?" she said. "i was not really afraid of you, you know--it was a stupid fancy--i cannot explain it. but i am quite well now, and i am only too happy. why, i would not lose your love for all the world--you must believe me!" and she touched my hand caressingly with her lips. i withdrew it gently, and stroked her hair with an almost parental tenderness; then i said quietly: "if so, we are agreed, and all is well. let me advise you to take a long night's rest: your nerves are weak and somewhat shaken. you wish me to keep our engagement secret?" she thought for a moment, then answered musingly: "for the present perhaps it would be best. though," and she laughed, "it would be delightful to see all the other women jealous and envious of my good fortune! still, if the news were told to any of our friends--who knows?--it might accidentally reach guido, and--" "i understand! you may rely upon my discretion. good-night, contessa!" "you may call me nina," she murmured, softly. "nina, then," i said, with some effort, as i lightly kissed her. "good-night!--may your dreams be of me!" she responded to this with a gratified smile, and as i left the room she waved her hand in a parting salute. my diamonds flashed on it like a small circlet of fire; the light shed through the rose-colored lamps that hung from the painted ceiling fell full on her exquisite loveliness, softening it into ethereal radiance and delicacy, and when i strode forth from the house into the night air heavy with the threatening gloom of coming tempest, the picture of that fair face and form flitted before me like a mirage--the glitter of her hair flashed on my vision like little snakes of fire--her lithe hands seemed to beckon me--her lips had left a scorching heat on mine. distracted with the thoughts that tortured me, i walked on and on for hours. the storm broke at last; the rain poured in torrents, but heedless of wind and weather, i wandered on like a forsaken fugitive. i seemed to be the only human being left alive in a world of wrath and darkness. the rush and roar of the blast, the angry noise of waves breaking hurriedly on the shore, the swirling showers that fell on my defenseless head--all these things were unfelt, unheard by me. there are times in a man's life when mere physical feeling grows numb under the pressure of intense mental agony--when the indignant soul, smarting with the experience of some vile injustice, forgets for a little its narrow and poor house of clay. some such mood was upon me then, i suppose, for in the very act of walking i was almost unconscious of movement. an awful solitude seemed to encompass me--a silence of my own creating. i fancied that even the angry elements avoided me as i passed; that there was nothing, nothing in all the wide universe but myself and a dark brooding horror called vengeance. all suddenly, the mists of my mind cleared; i moved no longer in a deaf, blind stupor. a flash of lightning danced vividly before my eyes, followed by a crashing peal of thunder. i saw to what end of a wild journey i had come! those heavy gates--that undefined stretch of land--those ghostly glimmers of motionless white like spectral mile-stones emerging from the gloom--i knew it all too well--it was the cemetery! i looked through the iron palisades with the feverish interest of one who watches the stage curtain rise on the last scene of a tragedy. the lightning sprung once more across the sky, and showed me for a brief second the distant marble outline of the romani vault. there the drama began--where would it end? slowly, slowly there flitted into my thoughts the face of my lost child--the young, serious face as it had looked when the calm, preternaturally wise smile of death had rested upon it; and then a curious feeling of pity possessed me--pity that her little body should be lying stiffly out there, not in the vault, but under the wet sod, in such a relentless storm of rain. i wanted to take her up from that cold couch--to carry her to some home where there should be light and heat and laughter--to warm her to life again within my arms; and as my brain played with these foolish fancies, slow hot tears forced themselves into my eyes and scalded my cheeks as they fell. these tears relieved me--gradually the tightly strung tension of my nerves relaxed, and i recovered my usual composure by degrees. turning deliberately away from the beckoning grave-stones, i walked back to the city through the thick of the storm, this time with an assured step and a knowledge of where i was going. i did not reach my hotel till past midnight, but this was not late for naples, and the curiosity of the fat french hall-porter was not so much excited by the lateness of my arrival as by the disorder of my apparel. "ah, heaven!" he cried; "that monsieur the distinguished should have been in such a storm all unprotected! why did not monsieur send for his carriage?" i cut short his exclamations by dropping five francs into his ever-ready hand, assuring him that i had thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of a walk in bad weather, whereat he smiled and congratulated me as much as he had just commiserated me. on reaching my own rooms, my valet vincenzo stared at my dripping and disheveled condition, but was discreetly mute. he quickly assisted me to change my wet clothes for a warm dressing-gown, and then brought a glass of mulled port wine, but performed these duties with such an air of unbroken gravity that i was inwardly amused while i admired the fellow's reticence. when i was about to retire for the night, i tossed him a napoleon. he eyed it musingly and inquiringly; then he asked: "your excellency desires to purchase something?" "your silence, my friend, that is all!" i replied, with a laugh. "understand me, vincenzo, you will serve yourself and me best by obeying implicitly, and asking no questions. fortunate is the servant who, accustomed to see his master drunk every night, swears to all outsiders that he has never served so sober and discreet a gentleman! that is your character, vincenzo--keep to it, and we shall not quarrel." he smiled gravely, and pocketed my piece of gold without a word--like a true tuscan as he was. the sentimental servant, whose fine feelings will not allow him to accept an extra "tip," is, you may be sure, a humbug. i never believed in such a one. labor can always command its price, and what so laborious in this age as to be honest? what so difficult as to keep silence on other people's affairs? such herculean tasks deserve payment! a valet who is generously bribed, in addition to his wages, can be relied on; if underpaid, all heaven and earth will not persuade him to hold his tongue. left alone at last in my sleeping chamber, i remained for some time before actually going to bed. i took off the black spectacles which served me so well, and looked at myself in the mirror with some curiosity. i never permitted vincenzo to enter my bedroom at night, or before i was dressed in the morning, lest he should surprise me without these appendages which were my chief disguise, for in such a case i fancy even his studied composure would have given way. for, disburdened of my smoke-colored glasses, i appeared what i was, young and vigorous in spite of my white beard and hair. my face, which had been worn and haggard at first, had filled up and was healthily colored; while my eyes, the spokesmen of my thoughts, were bright with the clearness and fire of constitutional strength and physical well-being. i wondered, as i stared moodily at my own reflection, how it was that i did not look ill. the mental suffering i continually underwent, mingled though it was with a certain gloomy satisfaction, should surely have left more indelible traces on my countenance. yet it has been proved that it is not always the hollow-eyed, sallow and despairing-looking persons who are really in sharp trouble--these are more often bilious or dyspeptic, and know no more serious grief than the incapacity to gratify their appetites for the high-flavored delicacies of the table. a man may be endowed with superb physique, and a constitution that is in perfect working order--his face and outward appearance may denote the most harmonious action of the life principle within him--and yet his nerves may be so finely strung that he may be capable of suffering acuter agony in his mind than if his body were to be hacked slowly to pieces by jagged knives, and it will leave no mark on his features while youth still has hold on his flesh and blood. so it was with me; and i wondered what she--nina--would say, could she behold me, unmasked as it were, in the solitude of my own room. this thought roused another in my mind--another at which i smiled grimly. i was an engaged man! engaged to marry my own wife; betrothed for the second time to the same woman! what a difference between this and my first courtship of her! then, who so great a fool as i--who so adoring, passionate and devoted! now, who so darkly instructed, who so cold, so absolutely pitiless! the climax to my revenge was nearly reached. i looked through the coming days as one looks through a telescope out to sea, and i could watch the end approaching like a phantom ship--neither slow nor fast, but steadily and silently. i was able to calculate each event in its due order, and i knew there was no fear of failure in the final result. nature itself--the sun, moon and stars, the sweeping circle of the seasons--all seem to aid in the cause of rightful justice. man's duplicity may succeed in withholding a truth for a time, but in the end it must win its way. once resolve, and then determine to carry out that resolve, and it is astonishing to note with what marvelous ease everything makes way for you, provided there be no innate weakness in yourself which causes you to hesitate. i had formerly been weak, i knew, very weak--else i had never been fooled by wife and friend; but now, now my strength was as the strength of a demon working within me. my hand had already closed with an iron grip on two false unworthy lives, and had i not sworn "never to relax, never to relent" till my vengeance was accomplished? i had! heaven and earth had borne witness to my vow, and now held me to its stern fulfillment. chapter xx. winter, or what the neapolitans accept as winter, came on apace. for some time past the air had been full of that mild chill and vaporous murkiness, which, not cold enough to be bracing, sensibly lowered the system and depressed the spirits. the careless and jovial temperament of the people, however, was never much affected by the change of seasons--they drank more hot coffee than usual, and kept their feet warm by dancing from midnight up to the small hours of the morning. the cholera was a thing of the past--the cleansing of the city, the sanitary precautions, which had been so much talked about and recommended in order to prevent another outbreak in the coming year, were all forgotten and neglected, and the laughing populace tripped lightly over the graves of its dead hundreds as though they were odorous banks of flowers. "oggi! oggi!" is their cry--to-day, to-day! never mind what happened yesterday, or what will happen to-morrow--leave that to i signori santi and la signora madonna! and after all there is a grain of reason in their folly, for many of the bitterest miseries of man grow out of a fatal habit of looking back or looking forward, and of never living actually in the full-faced present. then, too, carnival was approaching; carnival, which, though denuded of many of its best and brightest features, still reels through the streets of naples with something of the picturesque madness that in old times used to accompany its prototype, the feast of bacchus. i was reminded of this coming festivity on the morning of the st of december, when i noted some unusual attempts on the part of vincenzo to control his countenance, that often, in spite of his efforts, broadened into a sunny smile as though some humorous thought had flitted across his mind. he betrayed himself at last by asking me demurely whether i purposed taking any part in the carnival? i smiled and shook my head. vincenzo looked dubious, but finally summoned up courage to say: "will the eccellenza permit--" "you to make a fool of yourself?" i interrupted, "by all means! take your own time, enjoy the fun as much as you please; i promise you i will ask no account of your actions." he was much gratified, and attended to me with even more punctiliousness than usual. as he prepared my breakfast i asked him: "by the way, when does the carnival begin?" "on the th," he answered, with a slight air of surprise. "surely the eccellenza knows." "yes, yes," i said, impatiently. "i know, but i had forgotten. i am not young enough to keep the dates of these follies in my memory. what letters have you there?" he handed me a small tray full of different shaped missives, some from fair ladies who "desired the honor of my company," others from tradesmen, "praying the honor of my custom," all from male and female toadies as usual, i thought contemptuously, as i turned them over, when my glance was suddenly arrested by one special envelope, square in form and heavily bordered with black, on which the postmark "roma" stood out distinctly. "at last!" i thought, and breathed heavily. i turned to my valet, who was giving the final polish to my breakfast cup and saucer: "you may leave the room, vincenzo," i said, briefly. he bowed, the door opened and shut noiselessly--he was gone. slowly i broke the seal of that fateful letter; a letter from guido ferrari, a warrant self-signed, for his own execution! "my best friend," so it ran, "you will guess by the 'black flag' on my envelope the good news i have to give you. my uncle is dead at last, thank god! and i am left his sole heir unconditionally. i am free, and shall of course return to naples immediately, that is, as soon as some trifling law business has been got through with the executors. i believe i can arrange my return for the d or th instant, but will telegraph to you the exact day, and, if possible, the exact hour. will you oblige me by not announcing this to the countess, as i wish to take her by surprise. poor girl! she will have often felt lonely, i am sure, and i want to see the first beautiful look of rapture and astonishment in her eyes! you can understand this, can you not, amico, or does it seem to you a folly? at any rate, i should consider it very churlish were i to keep you in ignorance of my coming home, and i know you will humor me in my desire that the news should be withheld from nina. how delighted she will be, and what a joyous carnival we will have this winter! i do not think i ever felt more light of heart; perhaps it is because i am so much heavier in pocket. i am glad of the money, as it places me on a more equal footing with her, and though all her letters to me have been full of the utmost tenderness, still i feel she will think even better of me, now i am in a position somewhat nearer to her own. as for you, my good conte, on my return i shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest the rather large debt i owe to you--thus my honor will be satisfied, and you, i am sure, will have a better opinion of "yours to command, "guido ferrari." this was the letter, and i read it over and over again. some of the words burned themselves into my memory as though they were living flame. "all her letters to me have been full of the utmost tenderness!" oh, miserable-dupe! fooled, fooled to the acme of folly even as i had been! she, the arch-traitress, to prevent his entertaining the slightest possible suspicion or jealousy of her actions during his absence, had written him, no doubt, epistles sweet as honey brimming over with endearing epithets and vows of constancy, even while she knew she had accepted me as her husband--me--good god! what a devil's dance of death it was! "on my return i shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest the rather large debt i owe you" (rather large indeed, guido, so large that you have no idea of its extent!), "thus my honor will be satisfied" (and so will mine in part), "and you, i am sure, will have a better opinion of yours to command." perhaps i shall, guido--mine to command as you are--perhaps when all my commands are fulfilled to the bitter end, i may think more kindly of you. but not till then! in the meantime--i thought earnestly for a few minutes, and then sitting down, i penned the following note. "caro amico! delighted to hear of your good fortune, and still more enchanted to know you will soon enliven us all with your presence! i admire your little plan of surprising the countess, and will respect your wishes in the matter. but you, on your part, must do me a trifling favor: we have been very dull since you left, and i purpose to start the gayeties afresh by giving a dinner on the th (christmas eve), in honor of your return--an epicurean repast for gentlemen only. therefore, i ask you to oblige me by fixing your return for that day, and on arrival at naples, come straight to me at this hotel, that i may have the satisfaction of being the first to welcome you as you deserve. telegraph your answer and the hour of your train; and my carriage shall meet you at the station. the dinner-hour can be fixed to suit your convenience of course; what say you to eight o'clock? after dinner you can betake yourself to the villa romani when you please--your enjoyment of the lady's surprise and rapture will be the more keen for having been slightly delayed. trusting you will not refuse to gratify an old man's whim, i am, "yours for the time being, "cesare oliva." this epistle finished and written in the crabbed disguised penmanship it was part of my business to effect, i folded, sealed and addressed it, and summoning vincenzo, bade him post it immediately. as soon as he had gone on this errand, i sat down to my as yet untasted breakfast and made some effort to eat as usual. but my thoughts were too active for appetite--i counted on my fingers the days--there were four, only four, between me and--what? one thing was certain--i must see my wife, or rather i should say my betrothed--i must see her that very day. i then began to consider how my courtship had progressed since that evening when she had declared she loved me. i had seen her frequently, though not daily--her behavior had been by turns affectionate, adoring, timid, gracious and once or twice passionately loving, though the latter impulse in her i had always coldly checked. for though i could bear a great deal, any outburst of sham sentiment on her part sickened and filled me with such utter loathing that often when she was more than usually tender i dreaded lest my pent-up wrath should break loose and impel me to kill her swiftly and suddenly as one crushes the head of a poisonous adder--an all-too-merciful death for such as she. i preferred to woo her by gifts alone--and her hands were always ready to take whatever i or others chose to offer her. from a rare jewel to a common flower she never refused anything--her strongest passions were vanity and avarice. sparkling gems from the pilfered store of carmelo neri--trinkets which i had especially designed for her--lace, rich embroideries, bouquets of hot-house blossoms, gilded boxes of costly sweets--nothing came amiss to her--she accepted all with a certain covetous glee which she was at no pains to hide from me--nay, she made it rather evident that she expected such things as her right. and after all, what did it matter to me--i thought--of what value was anything i possessed save to assist me in carrying out the punishment i had destined for her? i studied her nature with critical coldness--i saw its inbred vice artfully concealed beneath the affectation of virtue--every day she sunk lower in my eyes, and i wondered vaguely how i could ever have loved so coarse and common a thing! lovely she certainly was--lovely too are many of the wretched outcasts who sell themselves in the streets for gold, and who in spite of their criminal trade are less vile than such a woman as the one i had wedded. mere beauty of face and form can be bought as easily as one buys a flower--but the loyal heart, the pure soul, the lofty intelligence which can make of woman an angel--these are unpurchasable ware, and seldom fall to the lot of man. for beauty, though so perishable, is a snare to us all--it maddens our blood in spite of ourselves--we men are made so. how was it that i--even i, who now loathed the creature i had once loved--could not look upon her physical loveliness without a foolish thrill of passion awaking within me--passion that had something of the murderous in it--admiration that was almost brutal--feelings which i could not control though i despised myself for them while they lasted! there is a weak point in the strongest of us, and wicked women know well where we are most vulnerable. one dainty pin-prick well-aimed--and all the barriers of caution and reserve are broken down--we are ready to fling away our souls for a smile or a kiss. surely at the last day when we are judged--and may be condemned--we can make our last excuse to the creator in the words of the first misguided man: "the woman whom thou gavest to be with me--she tempted me, and i did eat!" i lost no time that day in going to the villa romani. i drove there in my carriage, taking with me the usual love-offering in the shape of a large gilded osier-basket full of white violets. their delicious odor reminded me of that may morning when stella was born--and then quickly there flashed into my mind the words spoken by guido ferrari at the time. how mysterious they had seemed to me then--how clear their meaning now! on arriving at the villa i found my fiance in her own boudoir, attired in morning deshabille, if a trailing robe of white cashmere trimmed with mechlin lace and swan's-down can be considered deshabille. her rich hair hung loosely on her shoulders, and she was seated in a velvet easy-chair before a small sparkling wood fire, reading. her attitude was one of luxurious ease and grace, but she sprung up as soon as her maid announced me, and came forward with her usual charming air of welcome, in which there was something imperial, as of a sovereign who receives a subject. i presented the flowers i had brought, with a few words of studied and formal compliment, uttered for the benefit of the servant who lingered in the room--then i added in a lower tone: "i have news of importance--can i speak to you privately?" she smiled assent, and motioning me by a graceful gesture of her hand to take a seat, she at once dismissed her maid. as soon as the door had closed behind the girl i spoke at once and to the point, scarcely waiting till my wife resumed her easy-chair before the fire. "i have had a letter from signor ferrari." she started slightly, but said nothing, she merely bowed her head and raised her delicately arched eyebrows with a look of inquiry as of one who should say, "indeed! in what way does this concern me?" i watched her narrowly, and then continued, "he is coming back in two or three days--he says he is sure," and here i smiled, "that you will be delighted to see him." this time she half rose from her seat, her lips moved as though she would speak, but she remained silent, and sinking back again among her violet velvet cushions, she grew very pale. "if," i went on, "you have any reason to think that he may make himself disagreeable to you when he knows of your engagement to me, out of disappointed ambition, conceit, or self-interest (for of course you never encouraged him), i should advise you to go on a visit to some friends for a few days, till his irritation shall have somewhat passed. what say you to such a plan?" she appeared to meditate for a few moments--then raising her lovely eyes with a wistful and submissive look, she replied: "it shall be as you wish, cesare! signor ferrari is certainly rash and hot-tempered, he might be presumptuous enough to--but you do not think of yourself in the matter! surely you also are in danger of being insulted by him when he knows all?" "i shall be on my guard!" i said, quietly. "besides, i can easily pardon any outburst of temper on his part--it will be perfectly natural, i think! to lose all hope of ever winning such a love as yours must needs be a sore trial to one of his hot blood and fiery impulses. poor fellow!" and i sighed and shook my head with benevolent gentleness. "by the way, he tells me he has had letters from you?" i put this question carelessly, but it took her by surprise. she caught her breath hard and looked at me sharply, with an alarmed expression. seeing that my face was perfectly impassive, she recovered her composure instantly, and answered: "oh, yes! i have been compelled to write to him once or twice on matters of business connected with my late husband's affairs. most unfortunately, fabio made him one of the trustees of his fortune in case of his death--it is exceedingly awkward for me that he should occupy that position--it appears to give him some authority over my actions. in reality he has none. he has no doubt exaggerated the number of times i have written to him? it would be like his impertinence to do so." though this last remark was addressed to me almost as a question, i let it pass without response. i reverted to my original theme. "what think you, then?" i said. "will you remain here or will you absent yourself for a few days?" she rose from her chair and approaching me, knelt down at my side, clasping her two little hands round my arm. "with your permission," she returned, softly, "i will go to the convent where i was educated. it is some eight or ten miles distant from here, and i think" (here she counterfeited the most wonderful expression of ingenuous sweetness and piety)--"i think i should like to make a 'retreat'--that is, devote some time solely to the duties of religion before i enter upon a second marriage. the dear nuns would be so glad to see me--and i am sure you will not object? it will be a good preparation for my future." i seized her caressing hands and held them hard, while i looked upon her kneeling there like the white-robed figure of a praying saint. "it will indeed!" i said in a harsh voice. "the best of all possible preparations! we none of us know what may happen--we cannot tell whether life or death awaits us--it is wise to prepare for either by words of penitence and devotion! i admire this beautiful spirit in you, carina! go to the convent by all means! i shall find you there and will visit you when the wrath and bitterness of our friend ferrari have been smoothed into silence and resignation. yes--go to the convent, among the good and pious nuns--and when you pray for yourself, pray for the peace of your dead husband's soul--and--for me! such prayers, unselfish and earnest, uttered by pure lips like yours, fly swiftly to heaven! and as for young guido--have no fear--i promise you he shall offend you no more!" "ah, you do not know him!" she murmured, lightly kissing my hands that still held hers; "i fear he will give you a great deal of trouble." "i shall at any rate know how to silence him," i said, releasing her as i spoke, and watching her as she rose from her kneeling position and stood before me, supple and delicate as a white iris swaying in the wind. "you never gave him reason to hope--therefore he has no cause of complaint." "true!" she replied, readily, with an untroubled smile. "but i am such a nervous creature! i am always imagining evils that never happen. and now, cesare, when do you wish me to go to the convent?" i shrugged my shoulders with an air of indifference. "your submission to my will, mia bella" i said, coldly, "is altogether charming, and flatters me much, but i am not your master--not yet! pray choose your own time, and suit your departure to your own pleasure." "then," she replied, with an air of decision, "i will go today. the sooner the better--for some instinct tells me that guido will play us a trick and return before we expect him. yes--i will go to-day." i rose to take my leave. "then you will require leisure to make your preparations," i said, with ceremonious politeness. "i assure you i approve your resolve. if you inform the superioress of the convent that i am your betrothed husband, i suppose i shall be permitted to see you when i call?" "oh, certainly!" she replied. "the dear nuns will do anything for me. their order is one of perpetual adoration, and their rules are very strict, but they do not apply them to their old pupils, and i am one of their great favorites." "naturally!" i observed. "and will you also join in the service of perpetual adoration?" "oh, yes!" "it needs an untainted soul like yours," i said, with a satirical smile, which she did not see, "to pray before the unveiled host without being conscience-smitten! i envy you your privilege. _i_ could not do it--but you are probably nearer to the angels than we know. and so you will pray for me?" she raised her eyes with devout gentleness. "i will indeed!" "i thank you!"--and i choked back the bitter contempt and disgust i had for her hypocrisy as i spoke--"i thank you heartily--most heartily! addio!" she came or rather floated to my side, her white garments trailing about her and the gold of her hair glittering in the mingled glow of the firelight and the wintery sunbeams that shone through the window. she looked up--a witch-like languor lay in her eyes--her red lips pouted. "not one kiss before you go?" she said. chapter xxi. for a moment i lost my self-possession. i scarcely remember now what i did. i know i clasped her almost roughly in my arms--i know that i kissed her passionately on lips, throat and brow--and that in the fervor of my embraces, the thought of what manner of vile thing she was came swiftly upon me, causing me to release her with such suddenness that she caught at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. her breath came and went in little quick gasps of excitement, her face was flushed--she looked astonished, yet certainly not displeased. no, she was not angry, but i was--thoroughly annoyed--bitterly vexed with myself, for being such a fool. "forgive me," i muttered. "i forgot--i--" a little smile stole round the corners of her mouth. "you are fully pardoned!" she said, in a low voice, "you need not apologize." her smile deepened; suddenly she broke into a rippling laugh, sweet and silvery as a bell--a laugh that went through me like a knife. was it not the self-same laughter that had pierced my brain the night i witnessed her amorous interview with guido in the avenue? had not the cruel mockery of it nearly driven me mad? i could not endure it--i sprung to her side--she ceased laughing and looked at me in wide-eyed wonderment. "listen!" i said, in an impatient, almost fierce tone. "do not laugh like that! it jars my nerves--it--hurts me! i will tell you why. once--long ago--in my youth--i loved a woman. she was not like you--no--for she was false! false to the very heart's core--false in every word she uttered. you understand me? she resembled you in nothing--nothing! but she used to laugh at me--she trampled on my life and spoiled it--she broke my heart! it is all past now, i never think of her, only your laughter reminded me--there!" and i took her hands and kissed them. "i have told you the story of my early folly--forget it and forgive me! it is time you prepared for your journey, is it not? if i can be of service to you, command me--you know where to send for me. good-bye! and the peace of a pure conscience be with you!" and i laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering curls of gold. she thought this gesture was one of blessing. _i_ thought--god only knows what i thought--yet surely if curses can be so bestowed, my curse crowned her at that moment! i dared not trust myself longer in her presence, and without another word or look i left her and hurried from the house. i knew she was startled and at the same time gratified to think she could thus have moved me to any display of emotion--but i would not even turn my head to catch her parting glance. i could not--i was sick of myself and of her. i was literally torn asunder between love and hatred--love born basely of material feeling alone--hatred, the offspring of a deeply injured spirit for whose wrong there could scarce be found sufficient remedy. once out of the influence of her bewildering beauty, my mind grew calmer--and the drive back to the hotel in my carriage through the sweet dullness of the december air quieted the feverish excitement of my blood and restored me to myself. it was a most lovely day--bright and fresh, with the savor of the sea in the wind. the waters of the bay were of a steel-like blue shading into deep olive-green, and a soft haze lingered about the shores of amalfi like a veil of gray, shot through with silver and gold. down the streets went women in picturesque garb carrying on their heads baskets full to the brim of purple violets that scented the air as they passed--children ragged and dirty ran along, pushing the luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their beautiful wild antelope eyes, and, holding up bunches of roses and narcissi with smiles as brilliant as the very sunshine, implored the passengers to buy "for the sake of the little gesu who was soon coming!" bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of san tommaso, whose festival it was, and the city had that aspect of gala gayety about it, which is in truth common enough to all continental towns, but which seems strange to the solemn londoner who sees so much apparently reasonless merriment for the first time. he, accustomed to have his reluctant laughter pumped out of him by an occasional visit to the theater where he can witness the "original," english translation of a french farce, cannot understand why these foolish neapolitans should laugh and sing and shout in the manner they do, merely because they are glad to be alive. and after much dubious consideration, he decides within himself that they are all rascals--the scum of the earth--and that he and he only is the true representative of man at his best--the model of civilized respectability. and a mournful spectacle he thus seems to the eyes of us "base" foreigners--in our hearts we are sorry for him and believe that if he could manage to shake off the fetters of his insular customs and prejudices, he might almost succeed in enjoying life as much as we do! as i drove along i saw a small crowd at one of the street corners--a gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an "improvisatore" or wandering poet--a plump-looking fellow who had all the rhymes of italy at his fingers' ends, and who could make a poem on any subject or an acrostic on any name, with perfect facility. i stopped my carriage to listen to his extemporized verses, many of which were really admirable, and tossed him three francs. he threw them up in the air, one after the other, and caught them, as they fell, in his mouth, appearing to have swallowed them all--then with an inimitable grimace, he pulled off his tattered cap and said: "ancora affamato, excellenza!" (i am still hungry!) amid the renewed laughter of his easily amused audience. a merry poet he was and without conceit--and his good humor merited the extra silver pieces i gave him, which caused him, to wish me--"buon appetito e un sorriso della madonna!"--(a good appetite to you and a smile of the madonna!) imagine the lord laureate of england standing at the corner of regent street swallowing half-pence for his rhymes! yet some of the quaint conceits strung together by such a fellow as this improvisatore might furnish material for many of the so called "poets" whose names are mysteriously honored in britain. further on i came upon a group of red-capped coral fishers assembled round a portable stove whereon roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy sides and emitted savory odors. the men were singing gayly to the thrumming of an old guitar, and the song they sung was familiar to me. stay! where had i heard it?--let me listen! "sciore limone le voglio far mori de passione zompa llari llira!" [footnote: neapolitan dialect.] ha! i remembered now. when i had crawled out of the vault through the brigand's hole of entrance--when my heart had bounded with glad anticipations never to be realized--when i had believed in the worth of love and friendship--when i had seen the morning sun glittering on the sea, and had thought--poor fool!--that his long beams were like so many golden flags of joy hung up in heaven to symbolize the happiness of my release from death and my restoration to liberty--then--then i had heard a sailor's voice in the distance singing that "ritornello," and i had fondly imagined its impassioned lines were all for me! hateful music--most bitter sweetness! i could have put my hands up to my ears to shut out the sound of it now that i thought of the time when i had heard it last! for then i had possessed a heart--a throbbing, passionate, sensitive thing--alive to every emotion of tenderness and affection--now that heart was dead and cold as a stone. only its corpse went with me everywhere, weighing me down with itself to the strange grave it occupied, a grave wherein were also buried so many dear delusions--such plaintive regrets, such pleading memories, that surely it was no wonder their small ghosts arose and haunted me, saying, "wilt thou not weep for this lost sweetness?" "wilt thou not relent before such a remembrance?" or "hast thou no desire for that past delight?" but to all such inward temptations my soul was deaf and inexorable; justice--stern, immutable justice was what i sought and what i meant to have. may be you find it hard to understand the possibility of scheming and carrying out so prolonged a vengeance as mine? if you that read these pages are english, i know it will seem to you well-nigh incomprehensible. the temperate blood of the northerner, combined with his open, unsuspicious nature, has, i admit, the advantage over us in matters of personal injury. an englishman, so i hear, is incapable of nourishing a long and deadly resentment, even against an unfaithful wife--he is too indifferent, he thinks it not worth his while. but we neapolitans, we can carry a "vendetta" through a life-time--ay, through generation after generation! this is bad, you say--immoral, unchristian. no doubt! we are more than half pagans at heart; we are as our country and our traditions have made us. it will need another visitation of christ before we shall learn how to forgive those that despitefully use us. such a doctrine seems to us a mere play upon words--a weak maxim only fit for children and priests. besides, did christ himself forgive judas? the gospel does not say so! when i reached my own apartments at the hotel i felt worn out and fagged. i resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day. while giving my orders to vincenzo a thought occurred to me. i went to a cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer. in it lay a strong leather case. i lifted this, and bade vincenzo unstrap and open it. he did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly ornamented pistols was displayed to his view. "good weapons?" i remarked, in a casual manner. my vallet took each one out of the case, and examined them both critically. "they need cleaning, eccellenza." "good!" i said, briefly. "then clean them and put them in good order. i may require to use them." the imperturbable vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to leave the room. "stay!" he turned. i looked at him steadily. "i believe you are a faithful fellow, vincenzo," i said. he met my glance frankly. "the day may come," i went on, quietly, "when i shall perhaps put your fidelity to the proof." the dark tuscan eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed brightly and then grew humid. "eccellenza, you have only to command! i was a soldier once--i know what duty means. but there is a better service--gratitude. i am your poor servant, but you have won my heart. i would give my life for you should you desire it!" he paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through his mask of impassibility, bowed again and would have left me, but that i called him back and held out my hand. "shake hands, amico" i said, simply. he caught it with an astonished yet pleased look--and stooping, kissed it before i could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of my presence with an entire oblivion of his usual dignity. left alone, i considered this behavior of his with half-pained surprise. this poor fellow loved me it was evident--why, i knew not. i had done no more for him than any other master might have done for a good servant. i had often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet i had "won his heart"--so he said. why should he care for me? why should my poor old butler giacomo cherish me so devotedly in his memory; why should my very dog still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my wife and my friend, had so gladly forsaken me, and were so eager to forget me! perhaps fidelity was not the fashion now among educated persons? perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the bas-peuple--to the vulgar--and to animals? progress might have attained this result--no doubt it had. i sighed wearily, and threw myself down in an arm-chair near the window, and watched the white-sailed boats skimming like flecks of silver across the blue-green water. the tinkling of a tambourine by and by attracted my wandering attention, and looking into the street just below my balcony i saw a young girl dancing. she was lovely to look at, and she danced with exquisite grace as well as modesty, but the beauty of her face was not so much caused by perfection of feature or outline as by a certain wistful expression that had in it something of nobility and pride. i watched her; at the conclusion of her dance she held up her tambourine with a bright but appealing smile. silver and copper were freely flung to her, i contributing my quota to the amount; but all she received she at once emptied into a leathern bag which was carried by a young and handsome man who accompanied her, and who, alas! was totally blind. i knew the couple well, and had often seen them; their history was pathetic enough. the girl had been betrothed to the young fellow when he had occupied a fairly good position as a worker in silver filigree jewelry. his eyesight, long painfully strained over his delicate labors, suddenly failed him--he lost his place, of course, and was utterly without resources. he offered to release his fiance from her engagement, but she would not take her freedom--she insisted on marrying him at once. she had her way, and devoted herself to him soul and body--danced in the streets and sung to gain a living for herself and him; taught him to weave baskets so that he might not feel himself entirely dependent on her, and she sold these baskets for him so successfully that he was gradually making quite a little trade of them. poor child! for she was not much more than a child--what a bright face she had!--glorified by the self-denial and courage of her everyday life. no wonder she had won the sympathy of the warmhearted and impulsive neapolitans--they looked upon her as a heroine of romance; and as she passed through the streets, leading her blind husband tenderly by the hand, there was not a creature in the city, even among the most abandoned and vile characters, who would have dared to offer her the least insult, or who would have ventured to address her otherwise than respectfully. she was good, innocent, and true; how was it, i wondered dreamily, that i could not have won a woman's heart like hers? were the poor alone to possess all the old world virtues--honor and faith, love and loyalty? was there something in a life of luxury that sapped virtue at its root? evidently early training had little to do with after results, for had not my wife been brought up among an order of nuns renowned for simplicity and sanctity; had not her own father declared her to be "as pure as a flower on the altar of the madonna;" and yet the evil had been in her, and nothing had eradicated it; for even religion, with her, was a mere graceful sham, a kind of theatrical effect used to tone down her natural hypocrisy. my own thoughts began to harass and weary me. i took up a volume of philosophic essays and began to read, in an endeavor to distract my mind from dwelling on the one perpetual theme. the day wore on slowly enough; and i was glad when the evening closed in, and when vincenzo, remarking that the night was chilly, kindled a pleasant wood-fire in my room, and lighted the lamps. a little while before my dinner was served he handed me a letter stating that it had just been brought by the countess romani's coachman. it bore my own seal and motto. i opened it; it was dated, "la santissima annunziata," and ran as follows: "beloved! i arrived here safely; the nuns are delighted to see me, and you will be made heartily welcome when you come. i think of you constantly--how happy i felt this morning! you seemed to love me so much; why are you not always so fond of your faithful "nina?" i crumpled this note fiercely in my hand and flung it into the leaping flames of the newly lighted fire. there was a faint perfume about it that sickened me--a subtle odor like that of a civet cat when it moves stealthily after its prey through a tangle of tropical herbage. i always detested scented note-paper--i am not the only man who does so. one is led to fancy that the fingers of the woman who writes upon it must have some poisonous or offensive taint about them, which she endeavors to cover by the aid of a chemical concoction. i would not permit myself to think of this so "faithful nina," as she styled herself. i resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during which meal vincenzo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and decorum, though i could feel that he watched me with a certain solicitude. i suppose i looked weary--i certainly felt so, and retired to rest unusually early. the time seemed to me so long--would the end never come? the next day dawned and trailed its tiresome hours after it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset, and then--then, when the gray of the wintry sky flashed for a brief space into glowing red--then, while the water looked like blood and the clouds like flame--then a few words sped along the telegraph wires that stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and muscle in my body to instant action. they were plain, clear, and concise: "from guido ferrari, rome, to il conte cesare oliva, naples.--shall be with you on the th inst. train arrives at : p.m. will come to you as you desire without fail." chapter xxii. christmas eve! the day had been extra chilly, with frequent showers of stinging rain, but toward five o'clock in the afternoon the weather cleared. the clouds, which had been of a dull uniform gray, began to break asunder and disclose little shining rifts of pale blue and bright gold; the sea looked like a wide satin ribbon shaken out and shimmering with opaline tints. flower girls trooped forth making the air musical with their mellow cries of "fiori! chi vuol fiori" and holding up their tempting wares--not bunches of holly and mistletoe such as are known in england, but roses, lilies, jonquils, and sweet daffodils. the shops were brilliant with bouquets and baskets of fruits and flowers; a glittering show of etrennes, or gifts to suit all ages and conditions, were set forth in tempting array, from a box of bonbons costing one franc to a jeweled tiara worth a million, while in many of the windows were displayed models of the "bethlehem," with babe jesus lying in his manger, for the benefit of the round-eyed children--who, after staring fondly at his waxen image for some time, would run off hand in hand to the nearest church where the usual christmas creche was arranged, and there kneeling down, would begin to implore their "dear little jesus," their "own little brother," not to forget them, with a simplicity of belief that was as touching as it was unaffected. i am told that in england the principle sight on christmas-eve are the shops of the butchers and poulterers hung with the dead carcases of animals newly slaughtered, in whose mouths are thrust bunches of prickly holly, at which agreeable spectacle the passers-by gape with gluttonous approval. surely there is nothing graceful about such a commemoration of the birth of christ as this? nothing picturesque, nothing poetic?--nothing even orthodox, for christ was born in the east, and the orientals are very small eaters, and are particularly sparing in the use of meat. one wonders what such an unusual display of vulgar victuals has to do with the coming of the saviour, who arrived among us in such poor estate that even a decent roof was denied to him. perhaps, though, the english people read their gospels in a way of their own, and understood that the wise men of the east, who are supposed to have brought the divine child symbolic gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, really brought joints of beef, turkeys, and "plum-pudding," that vile and indigestible mixture at which an italian shrugs his shoulders in visible disgust. there is something barbaric, i suppose, in the british customs still--something that reminds one of their ancient condition when the romans conquered them--when their supreme idea of enjoyment was to have an ox roasted whole before them while they drank "wassail" till they groveled under their own tables in a worse condition than overfed swine. coarse and vulgar plenty is still the leading characteristic at the dinners of english or american parvenus; they have scarcely any idea of the refinements that can be imparted to the prosaic necessity of eating--of the many little graces of the table that are understood in part by the french, but that perhaps never reach such absolute perfection of taste and skill as at the banquets of a cultured and clever italian noble. some of these are veritable "feasts of the gods," and would do honor to the fabled olympus, and such a one i had prepared for guido ferrari as a greeting to him on his return from rome--a feast of welcome and--farewell! all the resources of the hotel at which i stayed had been brought into requisition. the chef, a famous cordon bleu, had transferred the work of the usual table d'hote to his underlings, and had bent the powers of his culinary intelligence solely on the production of the magnificent dinner i had ordered. the landlord, in spite of himself, broke into exclamations of wonder and awe as he listened to and wrote down my commands for different wines of the rarest kinds and choicest vintages. the servants rushed hither and thither to obey my various behests, with looks of immense importance; the head waiter, a superb official who prided himself on his artistic taste, took the laying-out of the table under his entire superintendence, and nothing was talked of or thought of for the time but the grandeur of my proposed entertainment. about six o'clock i sent my carriage down to the railway station to meet ferrari as i had arranged; and then, at my landlord's invitation, i went to survey the stage that was prepared for one important scene of my drama--to see if the scenery, side-lights, and general effects were all in working order. to avoid disarranging my own apartments, i had chosen for my dinner-party a room on the ground-floor of the hotel, which was often let out for marriage-breakfasts and other purposes of the like kind; it was octagonal in shape, not too large, and i had had it most exquisitely decorated for the occasion. the walls were hung with draperies of gold-colored silk and crimson velvet, interspersed here and there with long mirrors, which were ornamented with crystal candelabra, in which twinkled hundreds of lights under rose-tinted glass shades. at the back of the room, a miniature conservatory was displayed to view, full of rare ferns and subtly perfumed exotics, in the center of which a fountain rose and fell with regular and melodious murmur. here, later on, a band of stringed instruments and a choir of boys' voices were to be stationed, so that sweet music might be heard and felt without the performers being visible. one, and one only, of the long french windows of the room was left uncurtained, it was simply draped with velvet as one drapes a choice picture, and through it the eyes rested on a perfect view of the bay of naples, white with the wintery moonlight. the dinner-table, laid for fifteen persons, glittered with sumptuous appointments of silver, venetian glass, and the rarest flowers; the floor was carpeted with velvet pile, in which some grains of ambergris had been scattered, so that in walking the feet sunk, as it were, into a bed of moss rich with the odors of a thousand spring blossoms. the very chairs wherein my guests were to seat themselves were of a luxurious shape and softly stuffed, so that one could lean back in them or recline at ease--in short, everything was arranged with a lavish splendor almost befitting the banquet of an eastern monarch, and yet with such accurate taste that there was no detail one could have wished omitted. i was thoroughly satisfied, but as i know what an unwise plan it is to praise servants too highly for doing well what they are expressly paid to do, i intimated my satisfaction to my landlord by a mere careless nod and smile of approval. he, who waited on my every gesture with abject humility, received this sign of condescension with as much delight as though it had come from the king himself, and i could easily see that the very fact of my showing no enthusiasm at the result of his labors, made him consider me a greater man than ever. i now went to my own apartments to don my evening attire; i found vincenzo brushing every speck of dust from my dresscoat with careful nicety--he had already arranged the other articles of costume neatly on my bed ready for wear. i unlocked a dressing-case and took from thence three studs, each one formed of a single brilliant of rare clearness and lusters and handed them to him to fix in my shirt-front. while he was polishing these admiringly on his coat-sleeve i watched him earnestly--then i suddenly addressed him. "vincenzo!" he started. "eccellenza?" "to-night you will stand behind my chair and assist in serving the wine." "yes, eccellenza." "you will," i continued, "attend particularly to sigor ferrari, who will sit at my right hand. take care that his glass is never empty." "yes, eccellenza." "whatever may be said or done," i went on, quietly, "you will show no sign of alarm or surprise. from the commencement of dinner till i tell you to move, remember your place is fixed by me." the honest fellow looked a little puzzled, but replied as before: "yes, eccellenza." i smiled, and advancing, laid my hand on his arm. "how about the pistols, vincenzo?" "they are cleaned and ready for use, eccellenza," he replied. "i have placed them in your cabinet." "that is well!" i said with a satisfied gesture. "you can leave me and arrange the salon for the reception of my friends." he disappeared, and i busied myself with my toilet, about which i was for once unusually particular. the conventional dress-suit is not very becoming, yet there are a few men here and there who look well in it, and who, in spite of similarity in attire, will never be mistaken for waiters. others there are who, passable in appearance when clad in their ordinary garments, reach the very acme of plebeianism when they clothe themselves in the unaccommodating evening-dress. fortunately, i happened to be one of the former class--the sober black, the broad white display of starched shirt-front and neat tie became me, almost too well i thought. it would have been better for my purposes if i could have feigned an aspect of greater age and weightier gravity. i had scarcely finished my toilet when the rumbling of wheels in the court-yard outside made the hot blood rush to my face, and my heart beat with feverish excitement. i left my dressing-room, however, with a composed countenance and calm step, and entered my private salon just as its doors were flung open and "signor ferrari" was announced. he entered smiling--his face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation--he looked handsomer than usual. "eccomi qua!" he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in his own. "my dear conte, i am delighted to see you! what an excellent fellow you are! a kind of amiable arabian nights genius, who occupies himself in making mortals happy. and how are you? you look remarkably well!" "i can return the compliment," i said, gayly. "you are more of an antinous than ever." he laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and loosening his traveling overcoat. "well, i suppose plenty of cash puts a man in good humor, and therefore in good condition," he replied. "but my dear fellow, you are dressed for dinner--quel preux chevalier! i am positively unfit to be in your company! you insisted that i should come to you directly, on my arrival, but i really must change my apparel. your man took my valise; in it are my dress-clothes--i shall not be ten minutes putting them on." "take a glass of wine first," i said, pouring out some of his favorite montepulciano. "there is plenty of time. it is barely seven, and we do not dine till eight." he took the wine from my hand and smiled. i returned the smile, adding, "it gives me great pleasure to receive you, ferrari! i have been impatient for your return--almost as impatient as--" he paused in the act of drinking, and his eyes flashed delightedly. "as she has? piccinina! how i long to see her again! i swear to you, amico, i should have gone straight to the villa romani had i obeyed my own impulse--but i had promised you to come here, and, on the whole, the evening will do as well"--and he laughed with a covert meaning in his laughter--"perhaps better!" my hands clinched, but i said with forced gayety: "ma certamente! the evening will be much better! is it not byron who says that women, like stars, look best at night? you will find her the same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming. it must be her pure and candid soul that makes her face so fair! it may be a relief to your mind to know that i am the only man she has allowed to visit her during your absence!" "thank god for that!" cried ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his wine. "and now tell me, my dear conte, what bacchanalians are coming to-night? per dio, after all i am more in the humor for dinner than love-making!" i burst out laughing harshly. "of course! every sensible man prefers good eating even to good women! who are my guests you ask? i believe you know them all. first, there is the duca filippo marina." "by heaven!" interrupted guido. "an absolute gentleman, who by his manner seems to challenge the universe to disprove his dignity! can he unbend so far as to partake of food in public? my dear conte, you should have asked him that question!" "then," i went on, not heeding this interruption, "signor fraschetti and the marchese giulano." "giulano drinks deep," laughed ferrari, "and should he mix his wines, you will find him ready to stab all the waiters before the dinner is half over." "in mixing wines," i returned, coolly, "he will but imitate your example, caro mio." "ah, but i can stand it!" he said. "he cannot! few neapolitans are like me!" i watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests. "after these, comes the capitano luigi freccia." "what! the raging fire-eater?" exclaimed guido. "he who at every second word raps out a pagan or christian oath, and cannot for his life tell any difference between the two!" "and the illustrious gentleman crispiano dulci and antonio biscardi, artists like yourself," i continued. he frowned slightly--then smiled. "i wish them good appetites! time was when i envied their skill--now i can afford to be generous. they are welcome to the whole field of art as far as i am concerned. i have said farewell to the brush and palette--i shall never paint again." true enough! i thought, eying the shapely white hand with which he just then stroked his dark mustache; the same hand on which my family diamond ring glittered like a star. he looked up suddenly. "go on, conte i am all impatience. who comes next?" "more fire-eaters, i suppose you will call them," i answered, "and french fire-eaters, too. monsieur le marquis d'avencourt, and le beau capitaine eugene de hamal." ferrari looked astonished. "per bacco!" he exclaimed. "two noted paris duelists! why--what need have you of such valorous associates? i confess your choice surprises me." "i understood them to be your friends," i said, composedly. "if you remember, you introduced me to them. i know nothing of the gentlemen beyond that they appear to be pleasant fellows and good talkers. as for their reputed skill i am inclined to set that down to a mere rumor, at any rate, my dinner-table will scarcely provide a field for the display of swordsmanship." guido laughed. "well, no! but these fellows would like to make it one--why, they will pick a quarrel for the mere lifting of an eyebrow. and the rest of your company?" "are the inseparable brother sculptors carlo and francesco respetti, chevalier mancini, scientist and man of letters, luziano salustri, poet and musician, and the fascinating marchese ippolito gualdro, whose conversation, as you know, is more entrancing than the voice of adelina patti. i have only to add," and i smiled half mockingly, "the name of signor guido ferrari, true friend and loyal lover--and the party is complete." "altro! fifteen in all including yourself," said ferrari, gayly, enumerating them on his fingers. "per la madre di dio! with such a goodly company and a host who entertains en roi we shall pass a merry time of it. and did you, amico, actually organize this banquet, merely to welcome back so unworthy a person as myself?" "solely and entirely for that reason," i replied. he jumped up from his chair and clapped his two hands on my shoulders. "a la bonne heure! but why, in the name of the saints or the devil, have you taken such a fancy to me?" "why have i taken such a fancy to you?" i repeated, slowly. "my dear ferrari, i am surely not alone in my admiration for your high qualities! does not every one like you? are you not a universal favorite? do you not tell me that your late friend the count romani held you as the dearest to him in the world after his wife? ebbene! why underrate yourself?" he let his hands fall slowly from my shoulders and a look of pain contracted his features. after a little silence he said: "fabio again! how his name and memory haunt me! i told you he was a fool--it was part of his folly that he loved me too well--perhaps. do you know i have thought of him very much lately?" "indeed?" and i feigned to be absorbed in fixing a star-like japonica in my button-hole. "how is that?" a grave and meditative look softened the usually defiant brilliancy of his eyes. "i saw my uncle die," he continued, speaking in a low tone. "he was an old man and had very little strength left,--yet his battle with death was horrible--horrible! i see him yet--his yellow convulsed face--his twisted limbs--his claw-like hands tearing at the empty air--then the ghastly grim and dropped jaw--the wide-open glazed eyes--pshaw! it sickened me!" "well, well!" i said in a soothing way, still busying myself with the arrangement of my button-hole, and secretly wondering what new emotion was at work in the volatile mind of my victim. "no doubt it was distressing to witness--but you could not have been very sorry--he was an old man, and, though it is a platitude not worth repeating--we must all die." "sorry!" exclaimed ferrari, talking almost more to himself than to me. "i was glad! he was an old scoundrel, deeply dyed in every sort of social villainy. no--i was not sorry, only as i watched him in his frantic struggle, fighting furiously for each fresh gasp of breath--i thought--i know not why--of fabio." profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of indifference, i began to laugh. "upon my word, ferrari--pardon me for saying so, but the air of rome seems to have somewhat obscured your mind! i confess i cannot follow your meaning." he sighed uneasily. "i dare say not! i scarce can follow it myself. but if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what must it have been for fabio! we were students together; we used to walk with our arms round each other's necks like school-girls, and he was young and full of vitality--physically stronger, too, than i am. he must have battled for life with every nerve and sinew stretched to almost breaking." he stopped and shuddered. "by heaven! death should be made easier for us! it is a frightful thing!" a contemptuous pity arose in me. was he coward as well as traitor? i touched him lightly on the arm. "excuse me, my young friend, if i say frankly that your dismal conversation is slightly fatiguing. i cannot accept it as a suitable preparation for dinner! and permit me to remind you that you have still to dress." the gentle satire of my tone made him look up and smile. his face cleared, and he passed his hand over his forehead, as though he swept it free of some unpleasant thought. "i believe i am nervous," he said with a half laugh. "for the last few hours i have had all sorts of uncomfortable presentiments and forebodings." "no wonder!" i returned carelessly, "with such a spectacle as you have described before the eyes of your memory. the eternal city savors somewhat disagreeably of graves. shake the dust of the caesars from your feet, and enjoy your life, while it lasts!" "excellent advice!" he said, smiling, "and not difficult to follow. now to attire for the festival. have i your permission?" i touched the bell which summoned vincenzo, and bade him wait on signor ferrari's orders. guido disappeared under his escort, giving me a laughing nod of salutation as he left the room. i watched his retiring figure with a strange pitifulness--the first emotion of the kind that had awakened in me for him since i learned his treachery. his allusion to that time when we had been students together--when we had walked with arms round each other's necks "like school-girls," as he said, had touched me more closely than i cared to realize. it was true, we had been happy then--two careless youths with all the world like an untrodden race-course before us. she had not then darkened the heaven of our confidence; she had not come with her false fair face to make of me a blind, doting madman, and to transform him into a liar and hypocrite. it was all her fault, all the misery and horror; she was the blight on our lives; she merited the heaviest punishment, and she would receive it. yet, would to god we had neither of us ever seen her! her beauty, like a sword, had severed the bonds of friendship that after all, when it does exist between two men, is better and braver than the love of woman. however, all regrets were unavailing now; the evil was done, and there was no undoing it. i had little time left me for reflection; each moment that passed brought me nearer to the end i had planned and foreseen. chapter xxiii. at about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive, and one by one they all came in save two--the brothers respetti. while we were awaiting them, ferrari entered in evening-dress, with the conscious air of a handsome man who knows he is looking his best. i readily admitted his charm of manner; had i not myself been subjugated and fascinated by it in the old happy, foolish days? he was enthusiastically greeted and welcomed back to naples by all the gentlemen assembled, many of whom were his own particular friends. they embraced him in the impressionable style common to italians, with the exception of the stately duca di marina, who merely bowed courteously, and inquired if certain families of distinction whom he named had yet arrived in rome for the winter season. ferrari was engaged in replying to these questions with his usual grace and ease and fluency, when a note was brought to me marked "immediate." it contained a profuse and elegantly worded apology from carlo respetti, who regretted deeply that an unforeseen matter of business would prevent himself and his brother from having the inestimable honor and delight of dining with me that evening. i thereupon rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no longer be delayed; and, turning to those assembled, i announced to them the unavoidable absence of two of the party. "a pity francesco could not have come," said captain freccia, twirling the ends of his long mustachios. "he loves good wine, and, better still, good company." "caro capitano!" broke in the musical voice of the marchese gualdro, "you know that our francesco goes nowhere without his beloved carlo. carlo cannot come--altro! francesco will not. would that all men were such brothers!" "if they were," laughed luziano salustri, rising from the piano where he had been playing softly to himself, "half the world would be thrown out of employment. you, for instance," turning to the marquis d'avencourt, "would scarce know what to do with your time." the marquis smiled and waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture--that hand, by the by, was remarkably small and delicately formed--it looked almost fragile. yet the strength and suppleness of d'avencourt's wrist was reputed to be prodigious by those who had seen him handle the sword, whether in play or grim earnest. "it is an impossible dream," he said, in reply to the remarks of gualdro and salustri, "that idea of all men fraternizing together in one common pig-sty of equality. look at the differences of caste! birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one hears the tone of his voice. we cannot help these things. i do not think we would help them even if we could." "you are quite right," said ferrari. "you cannot put race-horses to draw the plow. i have always imagined that the first quarrel--the cain and abel affair--must have occurred through some difference of caste as well as jealousy--for instance, perhaps abel was a negro and cain a white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy existing between the races to this day." the duke di marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders. "that first quarrel," he said, "as related in the bible, was exceedingly vulgar. it must have been a kind of prize-fight. ce n'etait pas fin." gualdro laughed delightedly. "so like you, marina!" he exclaimed, "to say that! i sympathize with your sentiments! fancy the butcher abel piling up his reeking carcasses and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood cain the green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other vegetable matter! what a spectacle! the gods of olympus would have sickened at it! however, the jewish deity, or rather, the well-fed priest who represented him, showed his good taste in the matter; i myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor of scorching vegetables!" we laughed--and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity-- "le diner de monsieur le conte est servi!" i at once led the way to the banqueting-room--my guests followed gayly, talking and jesting among themselves. they were all in high good humor, none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence of the brothers respetti. i had--for the number of my guests was now thirteen instead of fifteen. thirteen at table! i wondered if any of the company were superstitious? ferrari was not, i knew--unless his nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle. at any rate, i resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar superstitions. i myself was the one most affected by it--it had for me a curious and fatal significance. i was so occupied with the consideration of it that i scarcely attended to the words addressed to me by the duke di marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. we reached the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. low murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. i pretended not to hear their eulogies, as i took my seat at the head of the table, with guido ferrari on my right and the duke di marina on my left. the music sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young fresh voices broke forth into a neapolitan "madrigale"--which as far as i can translate it ran as follows: "welcome the festal hour! pour the red wine into cups of gold! health to the men who are strong and bold! welcome the festal hour! waken the echoes with riotous mirth-- cease to remember the sorrows of earth in the joys of the festal hour! wine is the monarch of laughter and light, death himself shall be merry to-night! hail to the festal hour!" an enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became general. "by heaven!" exclaimed ferrari, "if this olympian carouse is meant as a welcome to me, amico, all i can say is that i do not deserve it. why, it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!" "ebbene!" i said. "are there any better kings than honest men? let us hope we are thus far worthy of each other's esteem." he flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the duke di marina concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the table. "you have no doubt traveled much in the east, conte," said this nobleman. "your banquet reminds me of an oriental romance i once read, called 'vathek.'" "exactly," exclaimed guido. "i think oliva must be vathek himself." "scarcely!" i said, smiling coldly. "i lay no claim to supernatural experiences. the realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me." antonio biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked toward us and said modestly: "i think you are right, conte. the beauties of nature and of humanity are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, i think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is." "you speak like an artist and a man of even temperament," broke in the marchese gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be able to talk--talking being his chief delight. "for me, i am never contented. i never have enough of anything! that is my nature. when i see lovely flowers, i wish more of them--when i behold a fine sunset, i desire many more such sunsets--when i look upon a lovely woman--" "you would have lovely women ad infinitum!" laughed the french capitaine de hamal. "en verite, gualdro, you should have been a turk!" "and why not?" demanded gualdro. "the turks are very sensible people--they know how to make coffee better than we do. and what more fascinating than a harem? it must be like a fragrant hot-house, where one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, sometimes a simple violet--sometimes--" "a thorn?" suggested salustri. "well, perhaps!" laughed the marchese. "yet one would run the risk of that for the sake of a perfect rose." chevalier mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the legion d'honneur, looked up--he was a thin man with keen eyes and a shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of laughter. "there is undoubtedly something entrainant about the idea," he observed, in his methodical way. "i have always fancied that marriage as we arrange it is a great mistake." "and that is why you have never tried it?" queried ferrari, looking amused. "certissimamente!" and the chevalier's grim countenance began to work with satirical humor. "i have resolved that i will never be bound over by the law to kiss only one woman. as matters stand, i can kiss them all if i like." a shout of merriment and cries of "oh! oh!" greeted this remark, which ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part. "all?" he said, with a dubious air. "you mean all except the married ones?" the chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of comic severity. "when i said all, i meant all," he returned--"the married ones in particular. they, poor things, need such attentions--and often invite them--why not? their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous after the first months of marriage." i burst out laughing. "you are right, mancini," i said; "and even if the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they deserve to be duped--and they generally are! come, amico," i added, turning to ferrari, "those are your own sentiments--you have often declared them to me." he smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. i could easily perceive that he was annoyed. to change the tone of the conversation i gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of a slow, voluptuous hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room. the dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his work, and good wine flowed freely. vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair, and seldom moved except to refill ferrari's glass, and occasionally to proffer some fresh vintage to the duke di marina. he, however, was an abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the wisest italians, who never mix their wines. he remained faithful to the first beverage he had selected--a specially fine chianti, of which he partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his pale aristocratic features. its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as elegant a talker as the marchese gualdro. this latter, who scarce had a scudo to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other people's expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling stories and witty pleasantries. the merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. every now and then might be heard the smooth voice of captain freccia rolling out his favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a primo tenore; sometimes the elegant french of the marquis d'avencourt, with his high, sing-song parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and again, the choice tuscan of the poet luziano salustri rolled forth in melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from dante or ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. i accepted my share in the universal hilarity, though i principally divided my conversation between ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but specially to ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain. we had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be served--the invisible choir of boys' voices had just completed an enchanting stornello with an accompaniment of mandolines--when a stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company--a pause--an ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly entered the room and commanded "silence!" no one seemed disposed to speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the velvet pile of the carpets--no sound was heard but the measured plash of the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. the moon, shining frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one side of the velvet hangings--a spectral effect which was heightened by the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. each man looked at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, though i moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the spell, i was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the moment. ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically--the duke appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little methodical patterns; the stillness seemed to last so long that it was like a suffocating heaviness in the air. suddenly vincenzo, in his office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a loud-sounding pop! we all started as though a pistol had been fired in our ears, and the marchese gualdro burst out laughing. "corpo di bacco!" he cried. "at last you have awakened from sleep! were you all struck dumb, amici, that you stared at the table-cloth so persistently and with such admirable gravity? may saint anthony and his pig preserve me, but for the time i fancied i was attending a banquet on the wrong side of the styx, and that you, my present companions, were all dead men!" "and that idea made you also hold your tongue, which is quite an unaccountable miracle in its way," laughed luziano salustri. "have you never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? an angel enters, bestowing his benediction as he passes through." "that story is more ancient than the church," said chevalier mancini. "it is an exploded theory--for we have ceased to believe in angels--we call them women instead." "bravo, mon vieux gaillard!" cried captain de hamal. "your sentiments are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. you believe women to be angels--i know them to be devils--mas il n'y a qu'un pas entre les deux? we will not quarrel over a word--a votre sante, mon cher!" and he drained his glass, nodding to mancini, who followed his example. "perhaps," said the smooth, slow voice of captain freccia, "our silence was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our party--a little inequality--which i dare say our noble host has not thought it worth while to mention." every head was turned in his direction. "what do you mean?" "what inequality?" "explain yourself!" chorused several voices. "really it is a mere nothing," answered freccia, lazily, as he surveyed with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just placed before him. "i assure you, only the uneducated would care two scudi about such a circumstance. the excellent brothers respetti are to blame--their absence to-night has caused--but why should i disturb your equanimity? i am not superstitious--ma, chi sa?--some of you may be." "i see what you mean!" interrupted salustri, quickly. "we are thirteen at table!" chapter xxiv. at this announcement my guests looked furtively at each other, and i could see they were counting up the fatal number for themselves. they were undeniably clever, cultivated men of the world, but the superstitious element was in their blood, and all, with the exception perhaps of freccia and the ever-cool marquis d'avencourt, were evidently rendered uneasy by the fact now discovered. on ferrari it had a curious effect--he started violently and his face flushed. "diabolo!" he muttered, under his breath, and seizing his never-empty glass, he swallowed its contents thirstily and quickly at one gulp as though attacked by fever, and pushed away his plate with a hand that trembled nervously. i, meanwhile, raised my voice and addressed my guests cheerfully! "our distinguished friend salustri is perfectly right, gentlemen. i myself noticed the discrepancy in our number some time ago--but i knew that you were all advanced thinkers, who had long since liberated yourselves from the trammels of superstitious observances, which are the result of priestcraft, and are now left solely to the vulgar. therefore i said nothing. the silly notion of any misfortune attending the number thirteen arose, as you are aware, out of the story of the last supper, and children and women may possibly still give credence to the fancy that one out of thirteen at table must be a traitor and doomed to die. but we men know better. none of us here to-night have reason to put ourselves in the position of a christ or a judas--we are all good friends and boon companions, and i cannot suppose for a moment that this little cloud can possibly affect you seriously. remember also that this is christmas-eve, and that according to the world's greatest poet, shakespeare, "'then no planet strikes, no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, so hallowed and so gracious is the time.'" a murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded this little speech, and the marchese gualdro sprung to his feet-- "by heaven!" he exclaimed, "we are not a party of terrified old women to shiver on the edge of a worn-out omen! fill your glasses, signori! more wine, garcon! per bacco! if judas iscariot himself had such a feast as ours before he hanged himself, he was not much to be pitied! hola amici! to the health of our noble host, conte cesare oliva!" he waved his glass in the air three times--every one followed his example and drank the toast with enthusiasm. i bowed my thanks and acknowledgments--and the superstitious dread which at first had undoubtedly seized the company passed away quickly--the talking, the merriment, and laughter were resumed, and soon it seemed as though the untoward circumstance were entirely forgotten. only guido ferrari seemed still somewhat disturbed in his mind--but even his uneasiness dissipated itself by degrees, and heated by the quantity of wine he had taken, he began to talk with boastful braggartism of his many successful gallantries, and related his most questionable anecdotes in such a manner as to cause some haughty astonishment in the mind of the duke di marina, who eyed him from time to time with ill-disguised impatience that bordered on contempt. i, on the contrary, listened to everything he said with urbane courtesy--i humored him and drew him out as much as possible--i smiled complacently at his poor jokes and vulgar witticisms--and when he said something that was more than usually outrageous, i contented myself with a benevolent shake of my head, and the mild remark: "ah! young blood! young blood!" uttered in a bland sotto-voce. the dessert was now served, and with it came the costly wines which i had ordered to be kept back till then. priceless "chateau yquem," "clos vougeot," of the rarest vintages, choice "valpulcello" and an exceedingly superb "lacrima cristi"--one after the other, these were tasted, criticised, and heartily appreciated. there was also a very unique brand of champagne costing nearly forty francs a bottle, which was sparkling and mellow to the palate, but fiery in quality. this particular beverage was so seductive in flavor that every one partook of it freely, with the result that the most discreet among the party now became the most uproarious. antonio biscardi, the quiet and unobtrusive painter, together with his fellow-student, crispiano dulci, usually the shyest of young men, suddenly grew excited, and uttered blatant nothings concerning their art. captain freccia argued the niceties of sword-play with the marquis d'avencourt, both speakers illustrating their various points by thrusting their dessert-knives skillfully into the pulpy bodies of the peaches they had on their plates. luziano salustri lay back at ease in his chair, his classic head reclining on the velvet cushions, and recited in low and measured tones one of his own poems, caring little or nothing whether his neighbors attended to him or not. the glib tongue of the marchese gualdro ran on smoothly and incessantly, though he frequently lost the thread of his anecdotes and became involved in a maze of contradictory assertions. the rather large nose of the chevalier mancini reddened visibly as he laughed joyously to himself at nothing in particular--in short, the table had become a glittering whirlpool of excitement and feverish folly, which at a mere touch, or word out of season, might rise to a raging storm of frothy dissension. the duke di marina and myself alone of all the company were composed as usual--he had resisted the champagne, and as for me, i had let all the splendid wines go past me, and had not taken more than two glasses of a mild chianti. i glanced keenly round the riotous board--i noted the flushed faces and rapid gesticulations of my guests, and listened to the babel of conflicting tongues. i drew a long breath as i looked--i calculated that in two or three minutes at the very least i might throw down the trump card i had held so patiently in my hand all the evening. i took a close observation of ferrari. he had edged his chair a little away from mine, and was talking confidentially to his neighbor, captain de hamal--his utterance was low and thick, but yet i distinctly heard him enumerating in somewhat coarse language the exterior charms of a woman--what woman i did not stop to consider--the burning idea struck me that he was describing the physical perfections of my wife to this de hamal, a mere spadaccino, for whom there was nothing sacred in heaven or earth. my blood rapidly heated itself to boiling point--to this day i remember how it throbbed in my temples, leaving my hands and feet icy cold. i rose in my seat, and tapped on the table to call for silence and attention--but for some time the noise of argument and the clatter of tongues were so great that i could not make myself heard. the duke endeavored to second my efforts, but in vain. at last ferrari's notice was attracted--he turned round, and seizing a dessert knife beat with it on the table and on his own plate so noisily and persistently that the loud laughter and conversation ceased suddenly. the moment had come--i raised my head, fixed my spectacles more firmly over my eyes, and spoke in distinct and steady tones, first of all stealing a covert glance toward ferrari. he had sunk back again lazily in his chair and was lighting a cigarette. "my friends," i said, meeting with a smile the inquiring looks that were directed toward me, "i have presumed to interrupt your mirth for a moment, not to restrain it, but rather to give it a fresh impetus. i asked you all here to-night, as you know, to honor me by your presence and to give a welcome to our mutual friend, signor guido ferrari." here i was interrupted by a loud clapping of hands and ejaculations of approval, while ferrari himself murmured affably between two puffs of his cigarette. "tropp' onore, amico, tropp' onore!" i resumed, "this young and accomplished gentleman, who is, i believe, a favorite with you all, has been compelled through domestic affairs to absent himself from our circle for the past few weeks, and i think he must himself be aware how much we have missed his pleasant company. it will, however, be agreeable to you, as it has been for me, to know that he has returned to naples a richer man than when he left it--that fortune has done him justice, and that with the possession of abundant wealth he is at last called upon to enjoy the reward due to his merits!" here there was more clapping of hands and exclamations of pleasure, while those who were seated near ferrari raised their glasses and drank to his health with congratulations, all of which courtesies he acknowledged by a nonchalant, self-satisfied bow. i glanced at him again--how tranquil he looked!--reclining among the crimson cushions of his chair, a brimming glass of champagne beside him, the cigarette between his lips, and his handsome face slightly upturned, though his eyes rested half drowsily on the uncurtained window through which the bay of naples was seen glittering in the moonlight. i continued: "it was, gentlemen, that you might welcome and congratulate signor ferrari as you have done, that i assembled you here to-night--or rather, let me say it was partly the object of our present festivity--but there is yet another reason which i shall now have the pleasure of explaining to you--a reason which, as it concerns myself and my immediate happiness, will, i feel confident, secure your sympathy and good wishes." this time every one was silent, intently following my words. "what i am about to say," i went on, calmly, "may very possibly surprise you. i have been known to you as a man of few words, and, i fear, of abrupt and brusque manners"--cries of "no, no!" mingled with various complimentary assurances reached my ears from all sides of the table. i bowed with a gratified air, and when silence was restored--"at any rate you would not think me precisely the sort of man to take a lady's fancy." a look of wonder and curiosity was now exchanged among my guests. ferrari took his cigarette out of his mouth and stared at me in blank astonishment. "no," i went on, meditatively, "old as i am, and a half-blind invalid besides, it seems incredible that any woman should care to look at me more than twice en passant. but i have met--let me say with the chevalier mancini--an angel--who has found me not displeasing to her, and--in short--i am going to marry!" there was a pause. ferrari raised himself slightly from his reclining position and seemed about to speak, but apparently changing his mind he remained silent--his face had somewhat paled. the momentary hesitation among my guests passed quickly. all present, except guido, broke out into a chorus of congratulations, mingled with good-humored jesting and laughter. "say farewell to jollity, conte!" cried chevalier mancini; "once drawn along by the rustling music of a woman's gown, no more such feasts as we have had to-night!" and he shook his head with tipsy melancholy. "by all the gods!" exclaimed gualdro, "your news has surprised me! i should have thought you were the last man to give up liberty for the sake of a woman. one woman, too! why, man, freedom could give you twenty!" "ah!" murmured salustri, softly and sentimentally, "but the one perfect pearl--the one flawless diamond--" "bah! salustri, caro mio, you are half asleep!" returned gualdro. "'tis the wine talks, not you. thou art conquered by the bottle, amico. you, the darling of all the women in naples, to talk of one! buona notte, bambino!" i still maintained my standing position, leaning my two hands on the table before me. "what our worthy gualdro says," i went on, "is perfectly true. i have been noted for my antipathy to the fair sex. i know it. but when one of the loveliest among women comes out of her way to tempt me--when she herself displays the matchless store of her countless fascinations for my attraction--when she honors me by special favors and makes me plainly aware that i am not too presumptuous in venturing to aspire to her hand in marriage--what can i do but accept with a good grace the fortune thrown to me by providence? i should be the most ungrateful of men were i to refuse so precious a gift from heaven, and i confess i feel no inclination to reject what i consider to be the certainty of happiness. i therefore ask you all to fill your glasses, and do me the favor to drink to the health and happiness of my future bride." gualdro sprung erect, his glass held high in the air; every man followed his example, ferrari rose to his feet with some unsteadiness, while the hand that held his full champagne glass trembled. the duke di marina, with a courteous gesture, addressed me: "you will, of course, honor us by disclosing the name of the fair lady whom we are prepared to toast with all befitting reverence?" "i was about to ask the same question," said ferrari, in hoarse accents--his lips were dry, and he appeared to have some difficulty in speaking. "possibly we are not acquainted with her?" "on the contrary," i returned, eying him steadily with a cool smile. "you all know her name well! illustrissimi signori!" and my voice rang out clearly--"to the health of my betrothed wife, the contessa romani!" "liar!" shouted ferrari--and with all a madman's fury he dashed his brimming glass of champagne full in my face! in a second the wildest scene of confusion ensued. every man left his place at table and surrounded us. i stood erect and perfectly calm--wiping with my handkerchief the little runlets of wine that dripped from my clothing--the glass had fallen at my feet, striking the table as it fell and splitting itself to atoms. "are you drunk or mad, ferrari?" cried captain de hamal, seizing him by the arm--"do you know what you have done?" ferrari glared about him like a tiger at bay--his face was flushed and swollen like that of a man in apoplexy--the veins in his forehead stood out like knotted cords--his breath came and went hard as though he had been running. he turned his rolling eyes upon me. "damn you!" he muttered through his clinched teeth--then suddenly raising his voice to a positive shriek, he cried, "i will have your blood if i have to tear your heart for it!"--and he made an effort to spring upon me. the marquis d'avencourt quietly caught his other arm and held it as in a vise. "not so fast, not so fast, mon cher" he said, coolly. "we are not murderers, we! what devil possesses you, that you offer such unwarrantable insult to our host?" "ask him!" replied ferrari, fiercely, struggling to release himself from the grasp of the two frenchmen--"he knows well enough! ask him!" all eyes were turned inquiringly upon me. i was silent. "the noble conte is really not bound to give any explanation," remarked captain freccia--"even admitting he were able to do so." "i assure you, my friends," i said, "i am ignorant of the cause of this fracas, except that this young gentleman had pretensions himself to the hand of the lady whose name affects him so seriously!" for a moment i thought ferrari would have choked. "pretensions--pretensions!" he gasped. "gran dio! hear him!--hear the miserable scoundrel!" "ah, basta!" exclaimed chevalier mancini, scornfully--"is that all? a mere bagatelle! ferrari, you were wont to be more sensible! what! quarrel with an excellent friend for the sake of a woman who happens to prefer him to you! ma che! women are plentiful--friends are few." "if," i resumed, still methodically wiping the stains of wine from my coat and vest--"if signor ferrari's extraordinary display of temper is a mere outcome of natural disappointment, i am willing to excuse it. he is young and hotblooded--let him apologize, and i shall freely pardon him." "by my faith!" said the duke di marina with indignation, "such generosity is unheard of, conte! permit me to remark that it is altogether exceptional, after such ungentlemanly conduct." ferrari looked from one to the other in silent fury. his face had grown pale as death. he wrenched himself from the grasp of d'avencourt and de hamal. "fools! let me go!" he said, savagely. "none of you are on my side--i see that!" he stepped to the table, poured out a glass of water and drank it off. he then turned and faced me--his head thrown back, his eyes blazing with wrath and pain. "liar!" he cried again, "double-faced accursed liar! you have stolen her--you have fooled me--but, by g-d, you shall pay for it with your life!" "willingly!" i said, with a mocking smile, restraining by a gesture the hasty exclamations of those around me who resented this fresh attack--"most willingly, caro signor! but excuse me if i fail to see wherein you consider yourself wronged. the lady who is now my fiancee has not the slightest affection for you--she told me so herself. had she entertained any such feelings i might have withdrawn my proposals--but as matters stand, what harm have i done you?" a chorus of indignant voices interrupted me. "shame on you, ferrari!" cried gualdro. "the count speaks like a gentleman and a man of honor. were i in his place you should have had no word of explanation whatever. i would not have condescended to parley with you--by heaven i would not!" "nor i!" said the duke, stiffly. "nor i!" said mancini. "surely," said luziano salustri, "ferrari will make the amende honorable." there was a pause. each man looked at ferrari with some anxiety. the suddenness of the quarrel had sobered the whole party more effectually than a cold douche. ferrari's face grew more and more livid till his very lips turned a ghastly blue--he laughed aloud in bitter scorn. then, walking steadily up to me, with his eyes full of baffled vindictiveness, he said, in a low clear tone: "you say that--you say she never cared for me--you! and i am to apologize to you! thief, coward, traitor--take that for my apology!" and he struck me across the mouth with his bare hand so fiercely that the diamond ring he wore (my diamond ring) cut my flesh and slightly drew blood. a shout of anger broke from all present! i turned to the marquis d'avencourt. "there can be but one answer to this," i said, with indifferent coldness. "signor ferrari has brought it on himself. marquis, will you do me the honor to arrange the affair?" the marquis bowed, "i shall be most happy!" ferrari glared about him for a moment and then said, "freccia, you will second me?" captain freccia shrugged his shoulders. "you must positively excuse me," he said. "my conscience will not permit me to take up such a remarkably wrong cause as yours, cara mio! i shall be pleased to act with d'avencourt for the count, if he will permit me." the marquis received him with cordiality, and the two engaged in earnest conversation. ferrari next proffered his request to his quondam friend de hamal, who also declined to second him, as did every one among the company. he bit his lips in mortification and wounded vanity, and seemed hesitating what to do next, when the marquis approached him with frigid courtesy and appeared to offer him some suggestions in a low tone of voice--for after a few minutes' converse, ferrari suddenly turned on his heel and abruptly left the room without another word or look. at the same instant i touched vincenzo, who, obedient to his orders, had remained an impassive but evidently astonished spectator of all that had passed, and whispered--"follow that man and do not let him see you." he obeyed so instantly that the door had scarcely closed upon ferrari when vincenzo had also disappeared. the marquis d'avencourt now came up to me. "your opponent has gone to find two seconds," he said. "as you perceived, no one here would or could support him. it is a most unfortunate affair." "most unfortunate," chorused de hamal, who, though not in it, appeared thoroughly to enjoy it. "for my part," said the duke di marina, "i wonder how our noble friend could be so lenient with such a young puppy. his conceit is insufferable!" others around me made similar remarks, and were evidently anxious to show how entirely they were on my side. i however remained silent, lest they should see how gratified i was at the success of my scheme. the marquis addressed me again: "while awaiting the other seconds, who are to find us here," he said, with a glance at his watch, "freccia and i have arranged a few preliminaries. it is now nearly midnight. we propose that the affair should come off in the morning at six precisely. will that suit you?" i bowed. "as the insulted party you have the choice of weapons. shall we say--" "pistols," i replied briefly. "a la bonne heure! then, suppose we fix upon the plot of open ground just behind the hill to the left of the casa ghirlande--between that and the villa romani--it is quiet and secluded, and there will be no fear of interruption." i bowed again. "thus it stands," continued the marquis, affably--"the hour of six--the weapons pistols--the paces to be decided hereafter when the other seconds arrive." i professed myself entirely satisfied with these arrangements, and shook hands with my amiable coadjutor. i then looked round at the rest of the assembled company with a smile at their troubled faces. "gentlemen," i said, "our feast has broken up in a rather disagreeable manner--and i am sorry for it, the more especially as it compels me to part from you. receive my thanks for your company, and for the friendship you have displayed toward me! i do not believe that this is the last time i shall have the honor of entertaining you--but if it should be so, i shall at any rate carry a pleasant remembrance of you into the next world! if on the contrary i should survive the combat of the morning, i hope to see you all again on my marriage-day, when nothing shall occur to mar our merriment. in the meantime--good-night!" they closed round me, pressing my hands warmly and assuring me of their entire sympathy with me in the quarrel that had occurred. the duke was especially cordial, giving me to understand that had the others failed in their services, he himself, in spite of his dignity and peace-loving disposition, would have volunteered as my second. i escaped from them all at last and reached the quiet of my own apartments. there i sat alone for more than an hour, waiting for the return of vincenzo, whom i had sent to track ferrari. i heard the departing footsteps of my guests as they left the hotel by twos and threes--i heard the equable voices of the marquis and captain freccia ordering hot coffee to be served to them in a private room where they were to await the other seconds--now and then i caught a few words of the excited language of the waiters who were volubly discussing the affair as they cleared away the remains of the superb feast at which, though none knew it save myself, death had been seated. thirteen at table! one was a traitor and one must die. i knew which one. no presentiment lurked in my mind as to the doubtful result of the coming combat. it was not my lot to fall--my time had not come yet--i felt certain of that! no! all the fateful forces of the universe would help me to keep alive till my vengeance was fulfilled. oh, what bitter shafts of agony ferrari carried in his heart at that moment, i thought. how he had looked when i said she never cared for him! poor wretch! i pitied him even while i rejoiced at his torture. he suffered now as i had suffered--he was duped as i had been duped--and each quiver of his convulsed face and tormented frame had been fraught with satisfaction to me! each moment of his life was now a pang to him. well! it would soon be over--thus far at least i was merciful. i drew out pens and paper and commenced to write a few last instructions, in case the result of the fight should be fatal to me. i made them very concise and brief--i knew, while writing, that they would not be needed. still--for the sake of form i wrote--and sealing the document, i directed it to the duke di marina. i looked at my watch--it was past one o'clock and vincenzo had not yet returned. i went to the window, and drawing back the curtains, surveyed the exquisitely peaceful scene that lay before me. the moon was still high and bright--and her reflection made the waters of the bay appear like a warrior's coat of mail woven from a thousand glittering links of polished steel. here and there, from the masts of anchored brigs and fishing-boats gleamed a few red and green lights burning dimly like fallen and expiring stars. there was a heavy unnatural silence everywhere--it oppressed me, and i threw the window wide open for air. then came the sound of bells chiming softly. people passed to and fro with quiet footsteps--some paused to exchange friendly greetings. i remembered the day with a sort of pang at my heart. the night was over, though as yet there was no sign of dawn--and--it was christmas morning! chapter xxv. the opening of the room door aroused me from my meditations. i turned--to find vincenzo standing near me, hat in hand--he had just entered. "ebbene!" i said, with a cheerful air--"what news?" "eccellenza, you have been obeyed. the young signor ferrari is now at his studio." "you left him there?" "yes, eccellenza"--and vincenzo proceeded to give me a graphic account of his adventures. on leaving the banqueting-room, ferrari had taken a carriage and driven straight to the villa romani--vincenzo, unperceived, had swung himself on to the back of the vehicle and had gone also. "arriving there," continued my valet, "he dismissed the fiacre--and rang the gate-bell furiously six or seven times. no one answered. i hid myself among the trees and watched. there were no lights in the villa windows--all was darkness. he rang it again--he even shook the gate as though he would break it open. at last the poor giacomo came, half undressed and holding a lantern in his hand--he seemed terrified, and trembled so much that the lantern jogged up and down like a corpse-candle on a tomb. "'i must see the contessa,' said the young signor, giacomo blinked like an owl, and coughed as though the devil scratched in his throat. "'the contessa!' he said. 'she is gone!' "the signor then threw himself upon giacomo and shook him to and fro as though he were a bag of loose wheat. "'gone!' and he screamed like a madman! 'where? tell me where, dolt! idiot! driveler! before i twist your neck for you!' "truly, eccellenza, i would have gone to the rescue of the poor giacomo, but respect for your commands kept me silent. 'a thousand pardons, signor!' he whispered, out of breath with his shaking.' i will tell you instantly--most instantly. she is at the convento dell' annunziata--ten miles from here--the saints know i speak the truth--she left two days since.' "the signor ferrari then flung away the unfortunate giacomo with so much force that he fell in a heap on the pavement and broke his lantern to pieces. the old man set up a most pitiful groaning, but the signor cared nothing for that. he was mad, i think. 'get to bed!' he cried, 'and sleep--sleep till you die! tell your mistress when you see her that i came to kill her! my curse upon this house and all who dwell in it!' and with that he ran so quickly through the garden into the high-road that i had some trouble to follow him. there after walking unsteadily for a few paces, he suddenly fell down, senseless." vincenzo paused. "well," i said, "what happened next?" "eccellenza, i could not leave him there without aid. i drew my cloak well up to my mouth and pulled my hat down over my eyes so that he could not recognize me. then i took water from the fountain close by and dashed it on his face. he soon came to himself, and, taking me for a stranger, thanked me for my assistance, saying that he had a sudden shock. he then drank greedily from the fountain and went on his way." "you followed?" "yes, eccellenza--at a little distance. he next visited a common tavern in one of the back streets of the city and came out with two men. they were well dressed--they had the air of gentlemen spoiled by bad fortune. the signor talked with them for some time--he seemed much excited. i could not hear what they said except at the end, when these two strangers consented to appear as seconds for signor ferrari, and they at once left him, to come straight to this hotel. and they are arrived, for i saw them through a half-opened door as i came in, talking with the marquis d'avencourt." "well!" i said, "and what of signor ferrari when he was left alone by his two friends?" "there is not much more to tell, eccellenza. he went up the little hill to his own studio, and i noticed that he walked like a very old man with his head bent. once he stopped and shook his fist in the air as though threatening some one. he let himself in at his door with a private key--and i saw him no more. i felt that he would not come out again for some time. and as i moved away to return here, i heard a sound as of terrible weeping." "and that is all, vincenzo?" "that is all, eccellenza." i was silent. there was something in the simple narration that touched me, though i remained as determinately relentless as ever. after a few moments i said: "you have done well, vincenzo. you are aware how grossly this young man has insulted me--and that his injurious treatment can only be wiped out in one way. that way is already arranged. you can set out those pistols you cleaned." vincenzo obeyed--but as he lifted the heavy case of weapons and set them on the table, he ventured to remark, timidly: "the eccellenza knows it is now christmas-day?" "i am quite aware of the fact," i said somewhat frigidly. in nowise daunted he went on, "coming back just now i saw the big nicolo--the eccellenza has doubtless seen him often?--he is a vine-grower, and they say he is the largest man in naples--three months since he nearly killed his brother--ebbene! to-night that same big nicolo is drinking chianti with that same brother, and both shouted after me as i passed, 'hola! vincenzo flamma! all is well between us because it is the blessed christ's birthday.'" vincenzo stopped and regarded me wistfully. "well!" i said, calmly, "what has the big nicolo or his brother to do with me?" my valet hesitated--looked up--then down--finally he said, simply, "may the saints preserve the eccellenza from all harm!" i smiled gravely. "thank you, my friend! i understand what you mean. have no fear for me. i am now going to lie down and rest till five o'clock or thereabouts--and i advise you to do the same. at that time you can bring me some coffee." and i nodded kindly to him as i left him and entered my sleeping apartment, where i threw myself on the bed, dressed as i was. i had no intention of sleeping--my mind was too deeply engrossed by all i had gone through. i could enter into guido's feelings--had i not suffered as he was now suffering?--nay! more than he--for he, at any rate, would not be buried alive! i should take care of that! he would not have to endure the agony of breaking loose from the cold grasp of the grave to come back to life and find his name slandered, and his vacant place filled up by a usurper. do what i would, i could not torture him as much as i myself had been tortured. that was a pity--death, sudden and almost painless, seemed too good for him. i held up my hand in the half light and watched it closely to see if it trembled ever so slightly. no! it was steady as a rock--i felt i was sure of my aim. i would not fire at his heart, i thought but just above it--for i had to remember one thing--he must live long enough to recognize me before he died. that was the sting i reserved for his last moments! the sick dreams that had bewildered my brain when i was taken ill at the auberge recurred to me. i remembered the lithe figure, so like guido, that had glided in the indian canoe toward me and had plunged a dagger three times in my heart? had it not been realized? had not guido stabbed me thrice?--in his theft of my wife's affections--in his contempt for my little dead child--in his slanders on my name? then why such foolish notions of pity--of forgiveness, that were beginning to steal into my mind? it was too late now for forgiveness--the very idea of it only rose out of a silly sentimentalism awakened by ferrari's allusion to our young days--days for which, after all, he really cared nothing. meditating on all these things, i suppose i must have fallen by imperceptible degrees into a doze which gradually deepened till it became a profound and refreshing sleep. from this i was awakened by a knocking at the door. i arose and admitted vincenzo, who entered bearing a tray of steaming coffee. "is it already so late?" i asked him. "it wants a quarter to five," replied vincenzo--then looking at me in some surprise, he added, "will not the eccellenza change his evening-dress?" i nodded in the affirmative--and while i drank my coffee my valet set out a suit of rough tweed, such as i was accustomed to wear every day. he then left me, and i quickly changed my attire, and while i did so i considered carefully the position of affairs. neither the marquis d'avencourt nor captain freccia had ever known me personally when i was fabio romani--nor was it at all probable that the two tavern companions of ferrari had ever seen me. a surgeon would be on the field--most probably a stranger. thinking over these points, i resolved on a bold stroke--it was this--that when i turned to face ferrari in the combat, i would do so with uncovered eyes--i would abjure my spectacles altogether for the occasion. vaguely i wondered what the effect would be upon him. i was very much changed even without these disguising glasses--my white beard and hair had seemingly altered my aspect--yet i knew there was something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to startle one who had known me well. my seconds would consider it very natural that i should remove the smoke-colored spectacles in order to see my aim unencumbered--the only person likely to be disconcerted by my action was ferrari himself. the more i thought of it the more determined i was to do it. i had scarcely finished dressing when vincenzo entered with my overcoat, and informed me that the marquis waited for me, and that a close carriage was in attendance at the private door of the hotel. "permit me to accompany you, eccellenza!" pleaded the faithful fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice. "come then, amico!" i said, cheerily. "if the marquis makes no objection i shall not. but you must promise not to interrupt any of the proceedings by so much as an exclamation." he promised readily, and when i joined the marquis he followed, carrying my case of pistols. "he can be trusted, i suppose?" asked d'avencourt, glancing keenly at him while shaking hands cordially with me. "to the death!" i replied, laughingly. "he will break his heart if he is not allowed to bind up my wounds!" "i see you are in good spirits, conte," remarked captain freccia, as we took our seats in the carriage. "it is always the way with the man who is in the right. ferrari, i fear, is not quite so comfortable." and he proffered me a cigar, which i accepted. just as we were about to start, the fat landlord of the hotel rushed toward us, and laying hold of the carriage door--"eccellenza," he observed in a confidential whisper, "of course this is only a matter of coffee and glorias? they will be ready for you all on your return. i know--i understand!" and he smiled and nodded a great many times, and laid his finger knowingly on the side of his nose. we laughed heartily, assuring him that his perspicuity was wonderful, and he stood on the broad steps in high good humor, watching us as our vehicle rumbled heavily away. "evidently," i remarked, "he does not consider a duel as a serious affair." "not he!" replied freccia. "he has known of too many sham fights to be able to understand a real one. d'avencourt knows something about that too, though he always kills his man. but very often it is sufficient to scratch one another with the sword-point so as to draw a quarter of a drop of blood, and honor is satisfied! then the coffee and glorias are brought, as suggested by our friend the landlord." "it is a ridiculous age," said the marquis, taking his cigar from his mouth, and complacently surveying his small, supple white hand, "thoroughly ridiculous, but i determined it should never make a fool of me. you see, my dear conte, nowadays a duel is very frequently decided with swords rather than pistols, and why? because cowards fancy it is much more difficult to kill with the sword. but not at all. long ago i made up my mind that no man should continue to live who dared to insult me. i therefore studied swordplay as an art. and i assure you it is a simple matter to kill with the sword--remarkably simple. my opponents are astonished at the ease with which i dispatch them!" freccia laughed. "de hamal is a pupil of yours, marquis, is he not?" "i regret to say yes! he is marvelously clumsy. i have often earnestly requested him to eat his sword rather than handle it so boorishly. yet he kills his men, too, but in a butcher-like manner--totally without grace or refinement. i should say he was about on a par with our two associates, ferrari's seconds." i roused myself from a reverie into which i had fallen. "what men are they?" i inquired. "one calls himself the capitano ciabatti, the other cavaliere dursi, at your service," answered freccia, indifferently. "good swearers both and hard drinkers--filled with stock phrases, such as 'our distinguished dear friend, ferrari,' 'wrongs which can only be wiped out by blood'--all bombast and braggadocio! these fellows would as soon be on one side as the other." he resumed his smoking, and we all three lapsed into silence. the drive seemed very long, though in reality the distance was not great. at last we passed the casa ghirlande, a superb chateau belonging to a distinguished nobleman who in former days had been a friendly neighbor to me, and then our vehicle jolted down a gentle declivity which sloped into a small valley, where there was a good-sized piece of smooth flat greensward. from this spot could be faintly discerned the castellated turrets of my own house, the villa romani. here we came to a standstill. vincenzo jumped briskly down from his seat beside the coachman, and assisted us to alight. the carriage then drove off to a retired corner behind some trees. we surveyed the ground, and saw that as yet only one person beside ourselves had arrived. this was the surgeon, a dapper good-humored little german who spoke bad french and worse italian, and who shook hands cordially with us all. on learning who i was he bowed low and smiled very amiably. "the best wish i can offer to you, signor," he said, "is that you may have no occasion for my services. you have reposed yourself? that is well--sleep steadies the nerves. ach! you shiver! true it is, the morning is cold." i did indeed experience a passing shudder, but not because the air was chilly. it was because i felt certain--so terribly certain, of killing the man i had once loved well. almost i wished i could also feel that there was the slightest possibility of his killing me; but no!--all my instincts told me there was no chance of this. i had a sort of sick pain at my heart, and as i thought of her, the jewel-eyed snake who had wrought all the evil, my wrath against her increased tenfold. i wondered scornfully what she was doing away in the quiet convent where the sacred host, unveiled, glittered on the altar like a star of the morning. no doubt she slept; it was yet too early for her to practice her sham sanctity. she slept, in all probability most peacefully, while her husband and her lover called upon death to come and decide between them. the slow clear strokes of a bell chiming from the city tolled six, and as its last echo trembled mournfully on the wind there was a slight stir among my companions. i looked and saw ferrari approaching with his two associates. he walked slowly, and was muffled in a thick cloak; his hat was pulled over his brows, and i could not see the expression of his face, as he did not turn his head once in my direction, but stood apart leaning against the trunk of a leafless tree. the seconds on both sides now commenced measuring the ground. "we are agreed as to the distance, gentlemen," said the marquis. "twenty paces, i think?" "twenty paces," stiffly returned one of ferrari's friends--a battered-looking middle-aged roue with ferocious mustachios, whom i presumed was captain ciabatti. they went on measuring carefully and in silence. during the pause i turned my back on the whole party, slipped off my spectacles and put them in my pocket. then i lowered the brim of my hat slightly so that the change might not be observed too suddenly--and resuming my first position, i waited. it was daylight though not full morning--the sun had not yet risen, but there was an opaline luster in the sky, and one pale pink streak in the east like the floating pennon from the lance of a hero, which heralded his approach. there was a gentle twittering of awakening birds--the grass sparkled with a million tiny drops of frosty dew. a curious calmness possessed me. i felt for the time as though i were a mechanical automaton moved by some other will than my own. i had no passion left. the weapons were now loaded--and the marquis, looking about him with a cheerful business-like air, remarked: "i think we may now place our men?" this suggestion agreed to, ferrari left his place near the tree against which he had in part inclined as though fatigued, and advanced to the spot his seconds pointed out to him. he threw off his hat and overcoat, thereby showing that he was still in his evening-dress. his face was haggard and of a sickly paleness--his eyes had dark rings of pain round them, and were full of a keen and bitter anguish. he eagerly grasped the pistol they handed to him, and examined it closely with vengeful interest. i meanwhile also threw off my hat and coat--the marquis glanced at me with careless approval. "you look a much younger man without your spectacles, conte," he remarked as he handed me my weapon. i smiled indifferently, and took up my position at the distance indicated, exactly opposite ferrari. he was still occupied in the examination of his pistol, and did not at once look up. "are we ready, gentlemen?" demanded freccia, with courteous coldness. "quite ready," was the response. the marquis d'avencourt took out his handkerchief. then ferrari raised his head and faced me fully for the first time. great heaven! shall i ever forget the awful change that came over his pallid countenance--the confused mad look of his eyes--the startled horror of his expression! his lips moved as though he were about to utter an exclamation--he staggered. "one!" cried d'avencourt. we raised our weapons. "two!" the scared and bewildered expression of ferrari's face deepened visibly as he eyed me steadily in taking aim. i smiled proudly--i gave him back glance for glance--i saw him waver--his hand shook. "three!" and the white handkerchief fluttered to the ground. instantly, and together, we fired. ferrari's bullet whizzed past me, merely tearing my coat and grazing my shoulder. the smoke cleared--ferrari still stood erect, opposite to me, staring straight forward with the same frantic faroff look--the pistol had dropped from his hand. suddenly he threw up his arms--shuddered--and with a smothered groan fell, face forward, prone on the sward. the surgeon hurried to his side and turned him so that he lay on his back. he was unconscious--though his dark eyes were wide open, and turned blindly upward to the sky. the front of his shirt was already soaked with blood. we all gathered round him. "a good shot?" inquired the marquis, with the indifference of a practiced duelist. "ach! a good shot indeed!" replied the little german doctor, shaking his head as he rose from his examination of the wound. "excellent! he will be dead in ten minutes. the bullet has passed through the lungs close to the heart. honor is satisfied certainly!" at that moment a deep anguished sigh parted the lips of the dying man. sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully upturned. he looked upon us all doubtfully one after the other--till finally his gaze rested upon me. then he grew strangely excited--his lips moved--he eagerly tried to speak. the doctor, watchful of his movements, poured brandy between his teeth. the cordial gave him momentary strength--he raised himself by a supreme effort. "let me speak," he gasped faintly, "to him!" and he pointed to me--then he continued to mutter like a man in a dream--"to him--alone--alone!--to him alone!" the others, slightly awed by his manner, drew aside out of ear-shot, and i advanced and knelt beside him, stooping my face between his and the morning sky. his wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching terror. "in god's name," he whispered, thickly, "who are you?" "you know me, guido!" i answered, steadily. "i am fabio romani, whom you once called friend! i am he whose wife you stole!--whose name you slandered!--whose honor you despised! ah! look at me well! your own heart tells you who i am!" he uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture. "fabio? fabio?" he gasped. "he died--i saw him in his coffin--" i leaned more closely over him. "i was buried alive," i said with thrilling distinctness. "understand me, guido--buried alive! i escaped--no matter how. i came home--to learn your treachery and my own dishonor! shall i tell you more?" a terrible shudder shook his frame--his head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. with my own handkerchief i wiped his lips and brow tenderly--my nerves were strung up to an almost brittle tension--i smiled as a woman smiles when on the verge of hysterical weeping. "you know the avenue," i said, "the dear old avenue, where the nightingales sing? i saw you there, guido--with her!--on the very night of my return from death--she was in your arms--you kissed her--you spoke of me--you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!" he writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement. "tell me--quick!" he gasped. "does--she--know you?" "not yet!" i answered, slowly. "but soon she will--when i have married her!" a look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. "oh, god, god!" he exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. "this is horrible, too horrible! spare me--spare--" a rush of blood choked his utterance. his breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance. staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched for some lost thing. i took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped. "you know the rest," i said gently; "you understand my vengeance! but it is all over, guido--all over, now! she has played us both false. may god forgive you as i do!" he smiled--a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes--the old boyish look that had won my love in former days. "all over!" he repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. "all over now! god--fabio--forgive!--" a terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted his limbs and features, his throat rattled, and stretching himself out with a long shivering sigh--he died! the first beams of the rising sun, piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees, fell on his clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to his wide-open sightless eyes: there was a smile on the closed lips! a burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat, as of rebellious tears trying to force a passage. i still held the hand of my friend and enemy--it had grown cold in my clasp. upon it sparkled my family diamond--the ring she had given him. i drew the jewel off: then i kissed that poor passive hand as i laid it gently down--kissed it tenderly, reverently. hearing footsteps approaching, i rose from my kneeling posture and stood erect with folded arms, looking tearlessly down on the stiffening clay before me. the rest of the party came up; no one spoke for a minute, all surveyed the dead body in silence. at last captain freccia said, softly in half-inquiring accents: "he is gone, i suppose?" i bowed. i could not trust myself to speak. "he made you his apology?" asked the marquis. i bowed again. there was another pause of heavy silence. the rigid smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. the doctor stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes--and then it seemed to me as though guido merely slept and that a touch would waken him. the marquis d'avencourt took me by the arm and whispered, "get back to the city, amico, and take some wine--you look positively ill! your evident regret does you credit, considering the circumstances--but what would you?--it was a fair fight. consider the provocation you had! i should advise you to leave naples for a couple of weeks--by that time the affair will be forgotten. i know how these things are managed--leave it all to me." i thanked him and shook his hand cordially and turned to depart. vincenzo was in waiting with the carriage. once i looked back, as with slow steps i left the field; a golden radiance illumined the sky just above the stark figure stretched so straightly on the sward; while almost from the very side of that pulseless heart a little bird rose from its nest among the grasses and soared into the heavens, singing rapturously as it flew into the warmth and glory of the living, breathing day. chapter xxvi. entering the fiacre, i drove in it a very little way toward the city. i bade the driver stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the villa romani, and there i alighted. i ordered vincenzo to go on to the hotel and send from thence my own carriage and horses up to the villa gates, where i would wait for it. i also bade him pack my portmanteau in readiness for my departure that evening, as i proposed going to avellino, among the mountains, for a few days. he heard my commands in silence and evident embarrassment. finally he said: "do i also travel with the eccellenza?" "why, no!" i answered with a forced sad smile. "do you not see, amico, that i am heavy-hearted, and melancholy men are best left to themselves. besides--remember the carnival--i told you you were free to indulge in its merriment, and shall i not deprive you of your pleasure? no, vincenzo; stay and enjoy yourself, and take no concern for me." vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features wore an expression of obstinacy. "the eccellenza must pardon me," he said, "but i have just looked at death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. again--the eccellenza is sad--it is necessary that i should accompany him to avellino." i saw that his mind was made up, and i was in no humor for argument. "as you will," i answered, wearily, "only believe me, you make a foolish decision. but do what you like; only arrange all so that we leave to-night. and now get back quickly--give no explanation at the hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage. i will wait alone at the villa romani till it comes." the vehicle rumbled off, bearing vincenzo seated on the box beside the driver. i watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led me to my own dishonored home. the place looked silent and deserted--not a soul was stirring. the silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it was as if some one lay dead within. a vague wonderment arose in my mind. who was dead? surely it must be i--i the master of the household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! this terrible white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the walls was not me--it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak punishment on the guilty. _i_ was dead--_i_ could never have killed the man who had once been my friend. and he also was dead--the same murderess had slain us both--and she lived! ha! that was wrong--she must now die--but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and shrivel under it into a devil's flame for the furnace of hell! with my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these i looked through the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. here had guido stood, poor wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent fury. there on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. on this very spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the curse of a dying man. i was glad he had uttered it--such maledictions cling! there was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he was dead. he had been duped and wronged even as i; and i felt that his spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with mine and aid in her punishment. i paced round the silent house till i came to the private wicket that led into the avenue; i opened it and entered the familiar path. i had not been there since the fatal night on which i had learned my own betrayal. how intensely still were those solemn pines--how gaunt and dark and grim! not a branch quivered--not a leaf stirred. a cold dew that was scarcely a frost glittered on the moss at my feet, no bird's voice broke the impressive hush of the wood-lands morning dream. no bright-hued flower unbuttoned its fairy cloak to the breeze; yet there was a subtle perfume everywhere--the fragrance of unseen violets whose purple eyes were still closed in slumber. i gazed on the scene as a man may behold in a vision the spot where he once was happy. i walked a few paces, then paused with a strange beating at my heart. a shadow fell across my path--it flitted before me, it stopped--it lay still. i saw it resolve itself into the figure of a man stretched out in rigid silence, with the light beating full on its smiling, dead face, and also on a deep wound just above his heart, from which the blood oozed redly, staining the grass on which he lay. mastering the sick horror which seized me at this sight, i sprung forward--the shadow vanished instantly--it was a mere optical delusion, the result of my overwrought and excited condition. i shuddered involuntarily at the image my own heated fancy had conjured up; should i always see guido thus, i thought, even in my dreams? suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst joyously on the silence--the slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark branches quivered, and the grasses lifted up their green lilliputian sword-blades. bells!--and such bells!--tongues of melody that stormed the air with sweetest eloquence--round, rainbow bubbles of music that burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes. "peace on earth, good will to men! peace--on--earth--good--will--to--men!" they seemed to say over and over again, till my ears ached with the repetition. peace! what had i to do with peace or good-will? the christ mass could teach me nothing. i was as one apart from human life--an alien from its customs and affections--for me no love, no brotherhood remained. the swinging song of the chimes jarred my nerves. why, i thought, should the wild erring world, with all its wicked men and women, presume to rejoice at the birth of the saviour?--they, who were not worthy to be saved! i turned swiftly away; i strode fiercely past the kingly pines that, now thoroughly awakened, seemed to note me with a stern disdain as though they said among themselves: "what manner of small creature is this that torments himself with passions unknown to us in our calm converse with the stars?" i was glad when i stood again on the high-road, and infinitely relieved when i heard the rapid trot of horses, rumbling of wheels, and saw my closed brougham, drawn by its prancing black arabians, approaching. i walked to meet it; the coachman seeing me drew up instantly, i bade him take me to the convento dell'annunziata, and entering the carriage, i was driven rapidly away. the convent was situated, i knew, somewhere between naples and sorrento. i guessed it to be near castellamare, but it was fully three miles beyond that, and was a somewhat long drive of more than two hours. it lay a good distance out of the direct route, and was only attained by a by-road, which from its rough and broken condition was evidently not much frequented. the building stood apart from all other habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone wall spiked at the top. roses climbed thickly among the spikes, and almost hid their sharp points from view, and from a perfect nest of green foliage, the slender spire of the convent chapel rose into the sky like a white finger pointing to heaven. my coachman drew up before the heavily barred gates. i alighted, and bade him take the carriage to the principal hostelry at castellamare, and wait for me there. as soon as he had driven off, i rang the convent bell. a little wicket fixed in the gate opened immediately, and the wrinkled visage of a very old and ugly nun looked out. she demanded in low tones what i sought. i handed her my card, and stated my desire to see the countess romani, if agreeable to the superioress. while i spoke she looked at me curiously--my spectacles, i suppose, excited her wonder--for i had replaced these disguising glasses immediately on leaving the scene of the duel--i needed them yet a little while longer. after peering at me a minute or two with her bleared and aged eyes, she shut the wicket in my face with a smart click and disappeared. while i awaited her return i heard the sound of children's laughter and light footsteps running trippingly on the stone passage within. "fi donc, rosie!" said the girl's voice in french; "la bonne mere marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi." "tais-toi, petite sainte!" cried another voice more piercing and silvery in tone. "je veux voir qui est la! c'est un homme je sais bien--parceque la vieille mere laura a rougi!" and both young voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter. then came the shuffling noise of the old nun's footsteps returning; she evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for i heard her expostulating, scolding and apostrophizing the saints all in a breath, as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little jesus to forgive their naughtiness. a silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of the huge gate were undone slowly--it opened, and i was admitted. i raised my hat as i entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. here she motioned me to take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said: "mother marguerite will wait upon you instantly, signor." i bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that i did not even hear the door close behind her. left alone in what i rightly concluded was the reception-room for visitors, i looked about me with some faint interest and curiosity. i had never before seen the interior of what is known as an educational convent. there were many photographs on the walls and mantelpiece--portraits of girls, some plain of face and form, others beautiful--no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as souvenirs of former pupils. rising from my chair i examined a few of them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of murillo's virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame surmounted with my own crest and coronet. in it was the portrait of my wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me. i took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. this was she--this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like face--this was the thing for which two men's lives had been sacrificed! with a movement of disgust i replaced the frame in its former position; i had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun's band and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me. i saluted her with a deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her head. her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on her quiet breast. her voice, though low, was singularly clear and penetrating. "i address the count oliva?" she inquired. i bowed in the affirmative. she looked at me keenly: she had dark, brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered passion still gleamed. "you would see the countess romani, who is in retreat here?" "if not inconvenient or out of rule--" i began. the shadow of a smile flitted across the nun's pale, intellectual face; it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. "not at all," she replied, in the same even monotone. "the countess nina is, by her own desire, following a strict regime, but to-day being a universal feast-day all rules are somewhat relaxed. the reverend mother desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass--she has herself already entered the chapel. if you will share in our devotions, the countess shall afterward be informed of your presence here." i could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it was unwelcome to me. i was in no humor for either prayers or praise; i thought moodily how startled even this impassive nun might have been, could she have known what manner of man it was that she thus invited to kneel in the sanctuary. however, i said no word of objection, and she bade me follow her. as we left the room i asked: "is the countess well?" "she seems so," returned mere marguerite; "she follows her religious duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue." we were now crossing the hall. i ventured on another inquiry. "she was a favorite pupil of yours, i believe?" the nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild surprise and reproof. "i have no favorites," she answered, coldly. "all the children educated here share my attention and regard equally." i murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile: "you must pardon my apparent inquisitiveness, but as the future husband of the lady who was brought up under your care, i am naturally interested in all that concerns her." again the searching eyes of the religieuse surveyed me; she sighed slightly. "i am aware of the connection between you," she said, in rather a pained tone. "nina romani belongs to the world, and follows the ways of the world. of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young girls' destinies, there are comparatively few who are called out of the ranks to serve christ. therefore, when nina married the estimable count romani, of whom report spoke ever favorably, we rejoiced greatly, feeling that her future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise protector. may his soul rest in peace! but a second marriage for her is what i did not expect, and what i cannot in my conscience approve. you see i speak frankly." "i am honored that you do so, madame!" i said, earnestly, feeling a certain respect for this sternly composed yet patient-featured woman; "yet, though in general you may find many reasonable objections to it, a second marriage is i think, in the countess romani's case almost necessary. she is utterly without a protector--she is very young and how beautiful!" the nun's eyes grew solemn and almost mournful. "such beauty is a curse," she answered, with emphasis; "a fatal--a fearful curse! as a child it made her wayward. as a woman it keeps her wayward still. enough of this, signor!" and she bowed her head; "excuse my plain speaking. rest assured that i wish you both happiness." we had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody. mere marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. i seated myself, and looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene before me. there was the sparkle of twinkling lights--the bloom and fragrance of flowers. there were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. behind these a little cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. behind these again, one woman's slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was black, yet not so thick but that i could perceive the sheeny glitter of golden hair--that was my wife, i knew. pious angel! how devout she looked! i smiled in dreary scorn as i watched her; i cursed her afresh in the name of the man i had killed. and above all, surrounded with the luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered host shone serenely like the gleam of the morning star. the stately service went on--the organ music swept through and through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free--but amid it all i sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing--inflexible and cold as marble. the rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the choir, singing the agnus dei, moved me to a chill sort of wonder. "qui tollis peccata mundi--who takest away the sin of the world." no, no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away--the sins of faithless women, the "little" sins as they are called nowadays--for we have grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. we will imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor--not she! a pity it is that christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be done with such women--not the penitent magdalenes, but the creatures whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray--they who would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive their last confessions--they who would even act out a sham repentance on their deathbeds in order to look well. what can be done with devils such as these? much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? we, the stronger sex, are weak in this--we are too chivalrous. when a woman flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. tortures will not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying her. i know not what it can be--perhaps it is the memory of our mothers. whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. but a time is at hand when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. on changera tout cela! when once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. we are slow to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to bring us to. we shall meet them on that low platform of the "equality" they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite! absorbed in thought, i knew not when the service ended. a hand touched me, and looking up i saw mere marguerite, who whispered: "follow me, if you please." i rose and obeyed her mechanically. outside the chapel door she said: "pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see the nuns and boarders passing out." i bowed, and walked on beside her. feeling forced to say something, i asked: "have you many boarders at this holiday season?" "only fourteen," she replied, "and they are children whose parents live far away. poor little ones!" and the set lines of the nun's stern face softened into tenderness as she spoke. "we do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely. we have generally fifty or sixty young girls here, besides the day scholars." "a great responsibility," i remarked. "very great indeed!" and she sighed; "almost terrible. so much of a woman's after life depends on the early training she receives. we do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil creeps in, we know not how--some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils. alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish in this world." thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books and softly carpeted. "this is one of our libraries," she explained. "the countess will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room. pardon me," and her steady gaze had something of compassion in it, "but you do not look well. can i send you some wine?" i declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured her i was perfectly well. she hesitated, and at last said, anxiously: "i trust you were not offended at my remark concerning nina romani's marriage with you? i fear i was too hasty?" "not so, madame," i answered, with all the earnestness i felt. "nothing is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. i have been so accustomed to deception--" here i broke off and added hastily, "pray do not think me capable of judging you wrongly." she seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, she said: "no doubt you are impatient, signor; nina shall come to you directly," and with a slight salutation she left me. surely she was a good woman, i thought, and vaguely wondered about her past history--that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of prayers. what had she been like when young--before she had shut herself within the convent walls--before she had set the crucifix like a seal on her heart? had she ever trapped a man's soul and strangled it with lies? i fancied not--her look was too pure and candid; yet who could tell? were not nina's eyes trained to appear as though they held the very soul of truth? a few minutes passed. i heard the fresh voices of children singing in the next room: "d'ou vient le petit gesu? ce joli bouton de rose qui fleurit, enfant cheri sur le coeur de notre mere marie." then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my wife entered. chapter xxvii. she approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, her red lips parted in a charming smile. "so good of you to come!" she began, holding out her two hands as though she invited an embrace; "and on christmas morning too!" she paused, and seeing that i did not move or speak, she regarded me with some alarm. "what is the matter?" she asked, in fainter tones; "has anything happened?" i looked at her. i saw that she was full of sudden fear, i made no attempt to soothe her, i merely placed a chair. "sit down," i said, gravely. "i am the bearer of bad news." she sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with terrified eyes. she trembled. watching her keenly, i observed all these outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. i saw plainly what was passing in her mind. a great dread had seized her--the dread that i had found out her treachery. so indeed i had, but the time had not yet come for her to know it. meanwhile she suffered--suffered acutely with that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. i said nothing, i waited for her to speak. after a pause, during which her cheeks had lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke-- "bad news? you surprise me! what can it be? some unpleasantness with guido? have you seen him?" "i have seen him," i answered in the same formal and serious tone; "i have just left him. he sends you this," and i held out my diamond ring that i had drawn off the dead man's finger. if she had been pale before, she grew paler now. all the brilliancy of her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. she took the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. there was no attempt at smiling now. she drew a sharp quick breath; she thought i knew all. i was again silent. she looked at the diamond signet with a bewildered air. "i do not understand," she murmured, petulantly. "i gave him this as a remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?" self-tortured criminal! i studied her with a dark amusement, but answered nothing. suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears. "why are you so cold and strange, cesare?" she pleaded, in a sort of plaintive whimper. "do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me and tell me at once what has happened." kiss her! so soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! no, i could not and would not. i remained standing where i was, inflexibly silent. she glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh. "ah, you do not love me!" she murmured. "you could not be so stern and silent if you loved me! if there is indeed any bad news, you ought to break it to me gently and kindly. i thought you would always make everything easy for me--" "such has been my endeavor, madame," i said interrupting her complaint. "from your own statement, i judged that your adopted brother guido ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. i promised that i would silence him--you remember! i have kept my word. he is silenced--forever!" she started. "silenced? how? you mean--" i moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that i faced her as i spoke. "i mean that he is dead." she uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment. "dead!" she exclaimed. "not possible! dead! you have killed him?" i bent my head gravely. "i killed him--yes! but in open combat, openly witnessed. last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning. we forgave each other before he died." she listened attentively. a little color came back into her cheeks. "in what way did he insult you?" she asked, in a low voice. i told her all, briefly. she still looked anxious. "did he mention my name?" she said. i glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. she feared the dying man might have made some confession to me! i answered: "no; not after our quarrel. but i hear he went to your house to kill you! not finding you there, he only cursed you." she heaved a sigh of relief. she was safe now, she thought! her red lips widened into a cruel smile. "what bad taste!" she said, coldly. "why he should curse me i cannot imagine! i have always been kind to him--too kind." too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her kindness was dead! for she was glad! i could see that in the murderous glitter of her eyes. "you are not sorry?" i inquired, with an air of pretended surprise. "sorry? not at all! why should i be? he was a very agreeable friend while my husband was alive to keep him in order, but after my poor fabio's death, his treatment of me was quite unbearable." take care, beautiful hypocrite! take care! take care lest your "poor fabio's" fingers should suddenly nip your slim throat with a convulsive twitch that means death! heaven only knows how i managed to keep my hands off her at that moment! why, any groveling beast of the field had more feeling than this wretch whom i had made my wife! even for guido's sake--such are the strange inconsistencies of the human heart--i could have slain her then. but i restrained my fury; i steadied my voice and said calmly: "then i was mistaken? i thought you would be deeply grieved, that my news would shock and annoy you greatly, hence my gravity and apparent coldness. but it seems i have done well?" she sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms round my neck. "you are brave, you are brave!" she exclaimed, in a sort of exultation. "you could not have done otherwise! he insulted you and you killed him. that was right! i love you all the more for being such a man of honor!" i looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. honor! its very name was libeled coming from her lips. she did not notice the expression of my face--she was absorbed, excellent actress as she was, in the part she had chosen to play. "and so you were dull and sad because you feared to grieve me! poor cesare!" she said, in child-like caressing accents, such as she could assume when she chose. "but now that you see i am not unhappy, you will be cheerful again? yes? think how much i love you, and how happy we will be! and see, you have given me such lovely jewels, so many of them too, that i scarcely dare offer you such a trifle as this; but as it really belonged to fabio, and to fabio's father, whom you knew, i think you ought to have it. will you take it and wear it to please me?" and she slipped on my finger the diamond signet--my own ring! i could have laughed aloud! but i bent my head gravely as i accepted it. "only as a proof of your affection, cara mia," i said, "though it has a terrible association for me. i took it from ferrari's hand when--" "oh, yes, i know!" she interrupted me with a little shiver; "it must have been trying for you to have seen him dead. i think dead people look so horrid--the sight upsets the nerves! i remember when i was at school here, they would take me to see a nun who died; it sickened me and made me ill for days. i can quite understand your feelings. but you must try and forget the matter. duels are very common occurrences, after all!" "very common," i answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair upturned face, the lustrous eyes, the rippling hair; "but they do not often end so fatally. the result of this one compels me to leave naples for some days. i go to avellino to-night." "to avellino?" she exclaimed, with interest. "oh, i know it very well. i went there once with fabio when i was first married." "and were you happy there?" i inquired, coldly. i remembered the time she spoke of--a time of such unreasoning, foolish joy! "happy? oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. it was delightful to be my own mistress, and i was so glad to be out of the convent." "i thought you liked the nuns?" i said. "some of them--yes. the reverend mother is a dear old thing. but mere marguerite, the vicaire as she is called--the one that received you--oh, i do detest her!" "indeed! and why?" the red lips curled mutinously. "because she is so sly and silent. some of the children here adore her; but they must have something to love, you know," and she laughed merrily. "must they?" i asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying something. "of course they must," she answered, gayly. "you foolish cesare! the girls often play at being one another's lovers, only they are careful not to let the nuns know their game. it is very amusing. since i have been here they have what is called a 'craze' for me. they give me flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and call me by all manner of loving names. i let them do it because it vexes madame la vicaire; but of course it is very foolish." i was silent. i thought what a curse it was--this necessity of loving. even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of children--young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and guarded by the conscientious care of holy women. "and the nuns?" i said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. "how do they manage without love or romance?" a wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes. "do they always manage without love or romance?" she asked, half indolently. "what of abelard and heloise, or fra lippi?" roused by something in her tone, i caught her round the waist, and held her firmly while i said, with some sternness: "and you--is it possible that you have sympathy with, or find amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable passion--tell me?" she recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely. "not i!" she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; "how can you think so? there is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good ever comes of it." i loosened her from my embrace. "you are right," i said, calmly; "i am glad your instincts are so correct! i have always hated lies." "so have i!" she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; "i have often wondered why people tell them. they are so sure to be found out!" i bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue longed to utter. why should i damn the actress or the play before the curtain was ready to fall on both? i changed the subject of converse. "how long do you propose remaining here in retreat?" i asked. "there is nothing now to prevent your returning to naples." she pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said: "i told the superioress i came here for a week. i had better stay till that time is expired. not longer, because as guido is really dead, my presence is actually necessary in the city." "indeed! may i ask why?" she laughed a little consciously. "simply to prove his last will and testament," she replied. "before he left for rome, he gave it into my keeping." a light flashed on my mind. "and its contents?" i inquired. "its contents make me the owner of everything he died possessed of!" she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph. unhappy guido! what trust he had reposed in this vile, self-interested, heartless woman! he had loved her, even as i had loved her--she who was unworthy of any love! i controlled my rising emotion, and merely said with gravity: "i congratulate you! may i be permitted to see this document?" "certainly; i can show it to you now. i have it here," and she drew a russia-leather letter-case from her pocket, and opening it, handed me a sealed envelope. "break the seal!" she added, with childish eagerness. "he closed it up like that after i had read it." with reluctant hand, and a pained piteousness at my heart, i opened the packet. it was as she had said, a will drawn up in perfectly legal form, signed and witnessed, leaving everything unconditionally to "nina, countess romani, of the villa romani, naples." i read it through and returned it to her. "he must have loved you!" i said. she laughed. "of course," she said, airily. "but many people love me--that is nothing new; i am accustomed to be loved. but you see," she went on, reverting to the will again, "it specifies, 'everything he dies possessed of;' that means all the money left to him by his uncle in rome, does it not?" i bowed. i could not trust myself to speak. "i thought so," she murmured, gleefully, more to herself than to me; "and i have a right to all his papers and letters." there she paused abruptly and checked herself. i understood her. she wanted to get back her own letters to the dead man, lest her intimacy with him should leak out in some chance way for which she was unprepared. cunning devil! i was almost glad she showed me to what a depth of vulgar vice she had fallen. there was no question of pity or forbearance in her case. if all the tortures invented by savages or stern inquisitors could be heaped upon her at once, such punishment would be light in comparison with her crimes--crimes for which, mark you, the law gives you no remedy but divorce. tired of the wretched comedy, i looked at my watch. "it is time for me to take my leave of you," i said, in the stiff, courtly manner i affected. "moments fly fast in your enchanting company! but i have still to walk to castellamare, there to rejoin my carriage, and i have many things to attend to before my departure this evening. on my return from avellino shall i be welcome?" "you know it," she returned, nestling her head against my shoulder, while for mere form's sake i was forced to hold her in a partial embrace. "i only wish you were not going at all. dearest, do not stay long away--i shall be so unhappy till you come back!" "absence strengthens love, they say," i observed, with a forced smile. "may it do so in our case. farewell, cara mia! pray for me; i suppose you do pray a great deal here?" "oh, yes," she replied, naively; "there is nothing else to do." i held her hands closely in my grasp. the engagement ring on her finger, and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the crossing of swords. "pray then," i said, "storm the gates of heaven with sweet-voiced pleadings for the repose of poor ferrari's soul! remember he loved you, though you never loved him. for your sake he quarreled with me, his best friend--for your sake he died! pray for him--who knows," and i spoke in thrilling tones of earnestness--"who knows but that his too-hastily departed spirit may not be near us now--hearing our voices, watching our looks?" she shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold. "yes, yes," i continued, more calmly; "you must not forget to pray for him--he was young and not prepared to die." my words had some of the desired effect upon her--for once her ready speech failed--she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found none. i still held her hands. "promise me!" i continued; "and at the same time pray for your dead husband! he and poor ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to him 'from whom no secrets are hid,' and who reads with unerring eyes the purity of your intentions. will you do it?" she smiled, a forced, faint smile. "i certainly will," she replied, in a low voice; "i promise you." i released her hands--i was satisfied. if she dared to pray thus i felt--i knew that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled wrath of heaven; for i looked beyond the grave! the mere death of her body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter destruction of her wicked soul that i sought. she should never repent, i swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence, presume to ask admittance into that eternal gloryland whither my little child had gone--never, never! no church should save her, no priest should absolve her--not while _i_ lived! she watched me as i fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves. "are you going now?" she asked, somewhat timidly. "yes, i am going now, cara mia," i said. "why! what makes you look so pale?" for she had suddenly turned very white. "let me see your hand again," she demanded, with feverish eagerness, "the hand on which i placed the ring!" smilingly and with readiness i took off the glove i had just put on. "what odd fancy possesses you now, little one?" i asked, with an air of playfulness. she made no answer, but took my hand and examined it closely and curiously. then she looked up, her lips twitched nervously, and she laughed a little hard mirthless laugh. "your hand," she murmured, incoherently, "with--that--signet--on it--is exactly like--like fabio's!" and before i had time to say a word she went off into a violent fit of hysterics--sobs, little cries, and laughter all intermingled in that wild and reasonless distraction that generally unnerves the strongest man who is not accustomed to it. i rang the bell to summon assistance; a lay-sister answered it, and seeing nina's condition, rushed for a glass of water and summoned madame la vicaire. this latter, entering with her quiet step and inflexible demeanor, took in the situation at a glance, dismissed the lay-sister, and possessing herself of the tumbler of water, sprinkled the forehead of the interesting patient, and forced some drops between her clinched teeth. then turning to me she inquired, with some stateliness of manner, what had caused the attack? "i really cannot tell you, madame," i said, with an air of affected concern and vexation. "i certainly told the countess of the unexpected death of a friend, but she bore the news with exemplary resignation. the circumstance that appears to have so greatly distressed her is that she finds, or says she finds, a resemblance between my hand and the hand of her deceased husband. this seems to me absurd, but there is no accounting for ladies' caprices." and i shrugged my shoulders as though i were annoyed and impatient. over the pale, serious face of the nun there flitted a smile in which there was certainly the ghost of sarcasm. "all sensitiveness and tenderness of heart, you see!" she said, in her chill, passionless tones, which, icy as they were, somehow conveyed to my ear another meaning than that implied by the words she uttered. "we cannot perhaps understand the extreme delicacy of her feelings, and we fail to do justice to them." here nina opened her eyes, and looked at us with piteous plaintiveness, while her bosom heaved with those long, deep sighs which are the finishing chords of the sonata hysteria. "you are better, i trust?" continued the nun, without any sympathy in her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. "you have greatly alarmed the count oliva." "i am sorry--" began nina, feebly. i hastened to her side. "pray do not speak of it!" i urged, forcing something like a lover's ardor into my voice. "i regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune to have hands like those of your late husband! i assure you i am quite miserable about it. can you forgive me?" she was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she had behaved somewhat foolishly. she smiled a weak pale smile; but she looked very scared, worn and ill. she rose from her chair slowly and languidly. "i think i will go to my room," she said, not regarding mere marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering coldly on her still breast. "good-bye, cesare! please forget my stupidity, and write to me from avellino." i took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently with my lips. she turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous idea seemed to enter her mind. she looked at madame la vicaire and then came back to me. "addio, amor mio!" she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately. then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room. i was somewhat confused. the suddenness and warmth of her caress had been, i knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious scruples of mere marguerite. i knew not what to say to the stately woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that moved dumbly as though in prayer. as the door closed after my wife's retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark lashes. "madame," i began, earnestly, "i assure you--" "say nothing, signor," she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory gesture; "it is quite unnecessary. to mock a religieuse is a common amusement with young girls and women of the world. i am accustomed to it, though i feel its cruelty more than i ought to do. ladies like the countess romani think that we--we, the sepulchers of womanhood--sepulchers that we have emptied and cleansed to the best of our ability, so that they may more fittingly hold the body of the crucified christ; these grandes dames, i say, fancy that we are ignorant of all they know--that we cannot understand love, tenderness or passion. they never reflect--how should they?--that we also have had our histories--histories, perhaps, that would make angels weep for pity! i, even i--" and she struck her breast fiercely, then suddenly recollecting herself, she continued coldly: "the rule of our convent, signor, permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour--that hour has expired. i will summon a sister to show you the way out." "wait one instant, madame," i said, feeling that to enact my part thoroughly i ought to attempt to make some defense of nina's conduct; "permit me to say a word! my fiancee is very young and thoughtless. i really cannot think that her very innocent parting caress to me had anything in it that was meant to purposely annoy you." the nun glanced at me--her eyes flashed disdainfully. "you think it was all affection for you, no doubt, signor? very natural supposition, and--i should be sorry to undeceive you." she paused a moment and then resumed: "you seem an earnest man--may be you are destined to be the means of saving nina; i could say much--yet it is wise to be silent. if you love her do not flatter her; her overweening vanity is her ruin. a firm, wise, ruling master-hand may perhaps--who knows?" she hesitated and sighed, then added, gently, "farewell, signor! benedicite!" and making the sign of the cross as i respectfully bent my head to receive her blessing, she passed noiselessly from the room. one moment later, and a lame and aged lay-sister came to escort me to the gate. as i passed down the stone corridor a side door opened a very little way, and two fair young faces peeped out at me. for an instant i saw four laughing bright eyes; i heard a smothered voice say, "oh! c'est un vieux papa!" and then my guide, who though lame was not blind, perceived the opened door and shut it with an angry bang, which, however, did not drown the ringing merriment that echoed from within. on reaching the outer gates i turned to my venerable companion, and laying four twenty-franc pieces in her shriveled palm, i said: "take these to the reverend mother for me, and ask that mass may be said in the chapel to-morrow for the repose of the soul of him whose name is written here." and i gave her guido ferrari's visiting-card, adding in lower and more solemn tones: "he met with a sudden and unprepared death. of your charity, pray also for the man who killed him!" the old woman looked startled, and crossed herself devoutly; but she promised that my wishes should be fulfilled, and i bade her farewell and passed out, the convent gates closing with a dull clang behind me. i walked on a few yards, and then paused, looking back. what a peaceful home it seemed; how calm and sure a retreat, with the white noisette roses crowning its ancient gray walls! yet what embodied curses were pent up in there in the shape of girls growing to be women; women for whom all the care, stern training and anxious solicitude of the nuns would be unavailing; women who would come forth from even that abode of sanctity with vile natures and animal impulses, and who would hereafter, while leading a life of vice and hypocrisy, hold up this very strictness of their early education as proof of their unimpeachable innocence and virtue! to such, what lesson is learned by the daily example of the nuns who mortify their flesh, fast, pray and weep? no lesson at all--nothing save mockery and contempt. to a girl in the heyday of youth and beauty the life of a religieuse seems ridiculous. "the poor nuns!" she says, with a laugh; "they are so ignorant. their time is over--mine has not yet begun." few, very few, among the thousands of young women who leave the scene of their quiet schooldays for the social whirligig of the world, ever learn to take life in earnest, love in earnest, sorrow in earnest. to most of them life is a large dressmaking and millinery establishment; love a question of money and diamonds; sorrow a solemn calculation as to how much or how little mourning is considered becoming or fashionable. and for creatures such as these we men work--work till our hairs are gray and our backs bent with toil--work till all the joy and zest of living has gone from us, and our reward is--what? happiness?--seldom. infidelity?--often. ridicule? truly we ought to be glad if we are only ridiculed and thrust back to occupy the second place in our own houses; our lady-wives call that "kind treatment." is there a married woman living who does not now and then throw a small stone of insolent satire at her husband when his back is turned? what, madame? you, who read these words--you say with indignation: "certainly there is, and _i_ am that woman!" ah, truly? i salute you profoundly!--you are, no doubt, the one exception! chapter xxviii. avellino is one of those dreamy, quiet and picturesque towns which have not as yet been desecrated by the vandal tourist. persons holding "through tickets" from messrs. cook or gaze do not stop there--there are no "sights" save the old sanctuary called monte virgine standing aloft on its rugged hill, with all the memories of its ancient days clinging to it like a wizard's cloak, and wrapping it in a sort of mysterious meditative silence. it can look back through a vista of eventful years to the eleventh century, when it was erected, so the people say, on the ruins of a temple of cybele. but what do the sheep and geese that are whipped abroad in herds by the drovers cook and gaze know of monte virgine or cybele? nothing--and they care less; and quiet avellino escapes from their depredations, thankful that it is not marked on the business map of the drovers' "runs." shut in by the lofty apennines, built on the slope of the hill that winds gently down into a green and fruitful valley through which the river sabato rushes and gleams white against cleft rocks that look like war-worn and deserted castles, a drowsy peace encircles it, and a sort of stateliness, which, compared with the riotous fun and folly of naples only thirty miles away, is as though the statue of a nude egeria were placed in rivalry with the painted waxen image of a half-dressed ballet-dancer. few lovelier sights are to be seen in nature than a sunset from one of the smaller hills round avellino--when the peaks of the apennines seem to catch fire from the flaming clouds, and below them, the valleys are full of those tender purple and gray shadows that one sees on the canvases of salvator rosa, while the town itself looks like a bronzed carving on an old shield, outlined clearly against the dazzling luster of the sky. to this retired spot i came--glad to rest for a time from my work of vengeance--glad to lay down my burden of bitterness for a brief space, and become, as it were, human again, in the sight of the near mountains. for within their close proximity, things common, things mean seem to slip from the soul--a sort of largeness pervades the thoughts, the cramping prosiness of daily life has no room to assert its sway--a grand hush falls on the stormy waters of passion, and like a chidden babe the strong man stands, dwarfed to an infinite littleness in his own sight, before those majestic monarchs of the landscape whose large brows are crowned with the blue circlet of heaven. i took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply, and attended only by vincenzo. i was tired of the ostentation i had been forced to practice in naples in order to attain my ends--and it was a relief to me to be for a time as though i were a poor man. the house in which i found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built, picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character. she was a roman, she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes--i could guess that at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded figure, and her free, firm tread--that step which is swift without being hasty, which is the manner born of rome. she told me her history in a few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through it again as she spoke: her husband had been a worker in a marble quarry--one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him, and he was crushed to death. "and well do i know," she said, "that he killed my toni purposely, for he would have loved me had he dared. but i am a common woman, see you--and it seems to me one cannot lie. and when my love's poor body was scarce covered in the earth, that miserable one--the murderer--came to me--he offered marriage. i accused him of his crime--he denied it--he said the rock slipped from his hands, he knew not how. i struck him on the mouth, and bade him leave my sight and take my curse with him! he is dead now--and surely if the saints have heard me, his soul is not in heaven!" thus she spoke with flashing eyes and purposeful energy, while with her strong brown arms she threw open the wide casement of the sitting-room i had taken, and bade me view her orchard. it was a fresh green strip of verdure and foliage--about eight acres of good land, planted entirely with apple-trees. "yes, truly!" she said, showing her white teeth in a pleased smile as i made the admiring remark she expected. "avellino has long had a name for its apples--but, thanks to the holy mother, i think in the season there is no fruit in all the neighborhood finer than mine. the produce of it brings me almost enough to live upon--that and the house, when i can find signori willing to dwell with me. but few strangers come hither; sometimes an artist, sometimes a poet--such as these are soon tired of gayety, and are glad to rest. to common persons i would not open my door--not for pride, ah, no! but when one has a girl, one cannot be too careful." "you have a daughter, then?" her fierce eyes softened. "one--my lilla. i call her my blessing, and too good for me. often i fancy that it is because she tends them that the trees bear so well, and the apples are so sound and sweet! and when she drives the load of fruit to market, and sits so smilingly behind the team, it seems to me that her very face brings luck to the sale." i smiled at the mother's enthusiasm, and sighed. i had no fair faiths left--i could not even believe in lilla. my landlady, signora monti as she was called, saw that i looked fatigued, and left me to myself--and during my stay i saw very little of her, vincenzo constituting himself my majordomo, or rather becoming for my sake a sort of amiable slave, always looking to the smallest details of my comfort, and studying my wishes with an anxious solicitude that touched while it gratified me. i had been fully three days in my retreat before he ventured to enter upon any conversation with me, for he had observed that i always sought to be alone, that i took long, solitary rambles through the woods and across the hills--and, not daring to break through my taciturnity, he had contented himself by merely attending to my material comforts in silence. one afternoon, however, after clearing away the remains of my light luncheon, he lingered in the room. "the eccellenza has not yet seen lilla monti?" he asked, hesitatingly. i looked at him in some surprise. there was a blush on his olive-tinted cheeks and an unusual sparkle in his eyes. for the first time i realized that this valet of mine was a handsome young fellow. "seen lilla monti!" i repeated, half absently; "oh, you mean the child of the landlady? no, i have not seen her. why do you ask?" vincenzo smiled. "pardon, eccellenza! but she is beautiful, and there is a saying in my province: be the heart heavy as stone, the sight of a fair face will lighten it!" i gave an impatient gesture. "all folly, vincenzo! beauty is the curse of the world. read history, and you shall find the greatest conquerors and sages ruined and disgraced by its snares." he nodded gravely. he probably thought of the announcement i had made at the banquet of my own approaching marriage, and strove to reconcile it with the apparent inconsistency of my present observation. but he was too discreet to utter his mind aloud--he merely said: "no doubt you are right, eccellenza. still one is glad to see the roses bloom, and the stars shine, and the foam-bells sparkle on the waves--so one is glad to see lilla monti." i turned round in my chair to observe him more closely--the flush deepened on his cheek as i regarded him. i laughed with a bitter sadness. "in love, amico, art thou? so soon!--three days--and thou hast fallen a prey to the smile of lilla! i am sorry for thee!" he interrupted me eagerly. "the eccellenza is in error! i would not dare--she is too innocent--she knows nothing! she is like a little bird in the nest, so soft and tender--a word of love would frighten her; i should be a coward to utter it." well, well! i thought, what was the use of sneering at the poor fellow! why, because my own love had turned to ashes in my grasp, should i mock at those who fancied they had found the golden fruit of the hesperides? vincenzo, once a soldier, now half courier, half valet, was something of a poet at heart; he had the grave meditative turn of mind common to tuscans, together with that amorous fire that ever burns under their lightly worn mask of seeming reserve. i roused myself to appear interested. "i see, vincenzo," i said, with a kindly air of banter, "that the sight of lilla monti more than compensates you for that portion of the neapolitan carnival which you lose by being here. but why you should wish me to behold this paragon of maidens i know not, unless you would have me regret my own lost youth." a curious and perplexed expression flitted over his face. at last he said firmly, as though his mind were made up: "the eccellenza must pardon me for seeing what perhaps i ought not to have seen, but--" "but what?" i asked. "eccellenza, you have not lost your youth." i turned my head toward him again--he was looking at me in some alarm--he feared some outburst of anger. "well!" i said, calmly. "that is your idea, is it? and why?" "eccellenza, i saw you without your spectacles that day when you fought with the unfortunate signor ferrari. i watched you when you fired. your eyes are beautiful and terrible--the eyes of a young man, though your hair is white." quietly i took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me. "as you have seen me once without them, you can see me again," i observed, gently. "i wear them for a special purpose. here in avellino the purpose does not hold. thus far i confide in you. but beware how you betray my confidence." "eccellenza!" cried vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and with a grieved look. i rose and laid my hand on his arm. "there! i was wrong--forgive me. you are honest; you have served your country well enough to know the value of fidelity and duty. but when you say i have not lost my youth, you are wrong, vincenzo! i have lost it--it has been killed within me by a great sorrow. the strength, the suppleness of limb, the brightness of eye these are mere outward things: but in the heart and soul are the chill and drear bitterness of deserted age. nay, do not smile; i am in truth very old--so old that i tire of my length of days; yet again, not too old to appreciate your affection, amico, and"--here i forced a faint smile--"when i see the maiden lilla, i will tell you frankly what i think of her." vincenzo stooped his head, caught my hand within his own, and kissed it, then left the room abruptly, to hide the tears that my words had brought to his eyes. he was sorry for me, i could see, and i judged him rightly when i thought that the very mystery surrounding me increased his attachment. on the whole, i was glad he had seen me undisguised, as it was a relief to me to be without my smoked glasses for a time, and during all the rest of my stay at avellino i never wore them once. one day i saw lilla. i had strolled up to a quaint church situated on a rugged hill and surrounded by fine old chestnut-trees, where there was a picture of the scourging of christ, said to have been the work of fra angelico. the little sanctuary was quite deserted when i entered it, and i paused on the threshold, touched by the simplicity of the place and soothed by the intense silence. i walked on my tiptoe up to the corner where hung the picture i had come to see, and as i did so a girl passed me with a light step, carrying a basket of fragrant winter narcissi and maiden-hair fern. something in her graceful, noiseless movements caused me to look after her; but she had turned her back to me and was kneeling at the shrine consecrated to the virgin, having placed her flowers on the lowest step of the altar. she was dressed in peasant costume--a simple, short blue skirt and scarlet bodice, relieved by the white kerchief that was knotted about her shoulders; and round her small well-shaped head the rich chestnut hair was coiled in thick shining braids. i felt that i must see her face, and for that reason went back to the church door and waited till she should pass out. very soon she came toward me, with the same light timid step that i had often before noticed, and her fair young features were turned fully upon me. what was there in those clear candid eyes that made me involuntarily bow my head in a reverential salutation as she passed? i know not. it was not beauty--for though the child was lovely i had seen lovelier; it was something inexplicable and rare--something of a maidenly composure and sweet dignity that i had never beheld on any woman's face before. her cheeks flushed softly as she modestly returned my salute, and when she was once outside the church door she paused, her small white fingers still clasping the carven brown beads of her rosary. she hesitated a moment, and then spoke shyly yet brightly: "if the eccellenza will walk yet a little further up the hill he will see a finer view of the mountains." something familiar in her look--a sort of reflection of her mother's likeness--made me sure of her identity. i smiled. "ah! you are lilla monti?" she blushed again. "si, signor. i am lilla." i let my eyes dwell on her searchingly and almost sadly. vincenzo was right: the girl was beautiful, not with the forced hot-house beauty of the social world and its artificial constraint, but with the loveliness and fresh radiance which nature gives to those of her cherished ones who dwell with her in peace. i had seen many exquisite women--women of juno-like form and face--women whose eyes were basilisks to draw and compel the souls of men--but i had never seen any so spiritually fair as this little peasant maiden, who stood fearlessly yet modestly regarding me with the innocent inquiry of a child who suddenly sees something new, to which it is unaccustomed. she was a little fluttered by my earnest gaze, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the hill. i said gently: "you are going home, fauciulla mia?" the kind protecting tone in which i spoke reassured her. she answered readily: "si signor. my mother waits for me to help her with the eccellenza's dinner." i advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary. "what!" i exclaimed, playfully, "do you still work hard, little lilla, even when the apple season is over?" she laughed musically. "oh! i love work. it is good for the temper. people are so cross when their hands are idle. and many are ill for the same reason. yes, truly!" and she nodded her head with grave importance, "it is often so. old pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to mend--yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want of money--oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich--but because he had nothing to do. so my mother and i found some shoes with holes, and took them to him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever! and we are careful to give him something always." she laughed again, and again looked grave. "yes, yes!" she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, "one cannot live without work. my mother says that good women are never tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. and that reminds me i must make haste to return and prepare the eccellenza's coffee." "do you make my coffee, little one?" i asked, "and does not vincenzo help you?" the faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks. "oh, he is very good, vincenzo," she said, demurely, with downcast eyes; "he is what we call buon' amico, yes, indeed! but he is often glad when i make coffee for him also; he likes it so much! he says i do it so well! but perhaps the eccellenza will prefer vincenzo?" i laughed. she was so naive, so absorbed in her little duties--such a child altogether. "nay, lilla, i am proud to think you make anything for me. i shall enjoy it more now that i know what kind hands have been at work. but you must not spoil vincenzo--you will turn his head if you make his coffee too often." she looked surprised. she did not understand. evidently to her mind vincenzo was nothing but a good-natured young fellow, whose palate could be pleased by her culinary skill; she treated him, i dare say, exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. she seemed to think over my words, as one who considers a conundrum, then she apparently gave it up as hopeless, and shook her head lightly as though dismissing the subject. "will the eccellenza visit the punto d'angelo?" she said brightly, as she turned to go. i had never heard of this place, and asked her to what she alluded. "it is not far from here," she explained, "it is the view i spoke of before. just a little further up the hill you will see a flat gray rock, covered with blue gentians. no one knows how they grow--they are always there, blooming in summer and winter. but it is said that one of god's own great angels comes once in every month at midnight to bless the monte vergine, and that he stands on that rock. and of course wherever the angels tread there are flowers, and no storm can destroy them--not even an avalanche. that is why the people call it the punto d'angelo. it will please you to see it, eccellenza--it is but a walk of a little ten minutes." and with a smile, and a courtesy as pretty and as light as a flower might make to the wind, she left me, half running, half dancing down the hill, and singing aloud for sheer happiness and innocence of heart. her pure lark-like notes floated upward toward me where i stood, wistfully watching her as she disappeared. the warm afternoon sunshine caught lovingly at her chestnut hair, turning it to a golden bronze, and touched up the whiteness of her throat and arms, and brightened the scarlet of her bodice, as she descended the grassy slope, and was at last lost to my view amid the foliage of the surrounding trees. chapter xxix. i sighed heavily as i resumed my walk. i realized all that i had lost. this lovely child with her simple fresh nature, why had i not met such a one and wedded her instead of the vile creature who had been my soul's undoing? the answer came swiftly. even if i had seen her when i was free, i doubt if i should have known her value. we men of the world who have social positions to support, we see little or nothing in the peasant type of womanhood; we must marry "ladies," so-called--educated girls who are as well versed in the world's ways as ourselves, if not more so. and so we get the cleopatras, the du barrys, the pompadours, while unspoiled maidens such as lilla too often become the household drudges of common mechanics or day-laborers, living and dying in the one routine of hard work, and often knowing and caring for nothing better than the mountain-hut, the farm-kitchen, or the covered stall in the market-place. surely it is an ill-balanced world--so many mistakes are made; fate plays us so many apparently unnecessary tricks, and we are all of us such blind madmen, knowing not whither we are going from one day to another! i am told that it is no longer fashionable to believe in a devil--but i care nothing for fashion! a devil there is i am sure, who for some inscrutable reason has a share in the ruling of this planet--a devil who delights in mocking us from the cradle to the grave. and perhaps we are never so hopelessly, utterly fooled as in our marriages! occupied in various thoughts, i scarcely saw where i wandered, till a flashing glimmer of blue blossoms recalled me to the object of my walk. i had reached the punto d'angelo. it was, as lilla had said, a flat rock bare in every place save at the summit, where it was thickly covered with the lovely gentians, flowers that are rare in this part of italy. here then the fabled angel paused in his flight to bless the venerable sanctuary of monte vergine. i stopped and looked around me. the view was indeed superb--from the leafy bosom of the valley, the green hills like smooth, undulating billows rolled upward, till their emerald verdure was lost in the dense purple shadows and tall peaks of the apennines; the town of avellino lay at my feet, small yet clearly defined as a miniature painting on porcelain; and a little further beyond and above me rose the gray tower of the monte vergine itself, the one sad and solitary-looking object in all the luxuriant riante landscape. i sat down to rest, not as an intruder on the angel's flower-embroidered throne, but on a grassy knoll close by. and then i bethought me of a packet i had received from naples that morning--a packet that i desired yet hesitated to open. it had been sent by the marquis d'avencourt, accompanied by a courteous letter, which informed me that ferrari's body had been privately buried with all the last religious rites in the cemetery, "close to the funeral vault of the romani family," wrote d'avencourt, "as, from all we can hear or discover, such seems to have been his own desire. he was, it appears, a sort of adopted brother of the lately deceased count, and on being informed of this circumstance, we buried him in accordance with the sentiments he would no doubt have expressed had he considered the possible nearness of his own end at the time of the combat." with regard to the packet inclosed, d'avencourt continued--"the accompanying letters were found in ferrari's breast-pocket, and on opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clew as to his last wishes, we came to the conclusion that you, as the future husband of the lady whose signature and handwriting you will here recognize, should be made aware of the contents, not only for your own sake, but in justice to the deceased. if all the letters are of the same tone as the one i unknowingly opened, i have no doubt ferrari considered himself a sufficiently injured man. but of that you will judge for yourself, though, if i might venture so far in the way of friendship, i should recommend you to give careful consideration to the inclosed correspondence before tying the matrimonial knot to which you alluded the other evening. it is not wise to walk on the edge of a precipice with one's eyes shut! captain ciabatti was the first to inform me of what i now know for a fact--namely, that ferrari left a will in which everything he possessed is made over unconditionally to the countess romani. you will of course draw your own conclusions, and pardon me if i am guilty of trop de zele in your service. i have now only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing over very smoothly and without scandal--i have taken care of that. you need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and i, for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to naples. with every sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, i am, my dear conte, "your very true friend and servitor, "philippe d'avencourt." i folded this letter carefully and put it aside. the little package he had sent me lay in my hand--a bundle of neatly folded letters tied together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint sickly perfume i knew and abhorred. i turned them over and over; the edges of the note-paper were stained with blood--guido's blood--as though in its last sluggish flowing it had endeavored to obliterate all traces of the daintily penned lines that now awaited my perusal. slowly i untied the ribbon. with methodical deliberation i read one letter after the other. they were all from nina--all written to guido while he was in rome, some of them bearing the dates of the very days when she had feigned to love me--me, her newly accepted husband. one very amorous epistle had been written on the self-same evening she had plighted her troth to me! letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate protestations of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that surely it was no wonder that guido's suspicions were all unawakened, and that he had reason to believe himself safe in his fool's paradise. one passage in this poetical and romantic correspondence fixed my attention: it ran thus: "why do you write so much of marriage to me, guido mio? it seems to my mind that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when once the hard world knows of our passion. if you become my husband you will assuredly cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart. ah, my best beloved! i desire you to be my lover always, as you were when fabio lived--why bring commonplace matrimony into the heaven of such a passion as ours?" i studied these words attentively. of course i understood their drift. she had tried to feel her way with the dead man. she had wanted to marry me, and yet retain guido for her lonely hours, as "her lover always!" such a pretty, ingenious plan it was! no thief, no murderer ever laid more cunning schemes than she, but the law looks after thieves and murderers. for such a woman as this, law says, "divorce her--that is your best remedy." divorce her! let the criminal go scot-free! others may do it that choose--i have different ideas of justice! tying up the packet of letters again, with their sickening perfume and their blood-stained edges, i drew out the last graciously worded missive i had received from nina. of course i heard from her every day--she was a most faithful correspondent! the same affectionate expressions characterized her letters to me as those that had deluded her dead lover--with this difference, that whereas she inveighed much against the prosiness of marriage to guido, to me she drew the much touching pictures of her desolate condition: how lonely she had felt since her "dear husband's" death, how rejoiced she was to think that she was soon again to be a happy wife--the wife of one so noble, so true, so devoted as i was! she had left the convent and was now at home--when should she have the happiness of welcoming me, her best beloved cesare, back to naples? she certainly deserved some credit for artistic lying; i could not understand how she managed it so well. almost i admired her skill, as one sometimes admires a cool-headed burglar, who has more skill, cunning, and pluck than his comrades. i thought with triumph that though the wording of ferrari's will enabled her to secure all other letters she might have written to him, this one little packet of documentary evidence was more than sufficient for my purposes. and i resolved to retain it in my own keeping till the time came for me to use it against her. and how about d'avencourt's friendly advice concerning the matrimonial knot? "a man should not walk on the edge of a precipice with his eyes shut." very true. but if his eyes are open, and he has his enemy by the throat, the edge of a precipice is a convenient position for hurling that enemy down to death in a quiet way, that the world need know nothing of! so for the present i preferred the precipice to walking on level ground. i rose from my seat near the punto d'angelo. it was growing late in the afternoon. from the little church below me soft bells rang out the angelus, and with them chimed in a solemn and harsher sound from the turret of the monte vergine. i lifted my hat with the customary reverence, and stood listening, with my feet deep in the grass and scented thyme, and more than once glanced up at the height whereon the venerable sanctuary held its post, like some lonely old god of memory brooding over vanished years. there, according to tradition, was once celebrated the worship of the many-breasted cybele; down that very slope of grass dotted with violets had rushed the howling, naked priests beating their discordant drums and shrieking their laments for the loss of atys, the beautiful youth, their goddess's paramour. infidelity again!--even in this ancient legend, what did cybele care for old saturn, whose wife she was? nothing, less than nothing!--and her adorers worshiped not her chastity, but her faithlessness; it is the way of the world to this day! the bells ceased ringing; i descended the hill and returned homeward through a shady valley, full of the odor of pines and bog-myrtle. on reaching the gate of the signora monti's humble yet picturesque dwelling, i heard the sound of laughter and clapping of hands, and looking in the direction of the orchard, i saw vincenzo hard at work, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, splitting some goodly logs of wood, while lilla stood beside him, merrily applauding and encouraging his efforts. he seemed quite in his element, and wielded his ax with a regularity and vigor i should scarcely have expected from a man whom i was accustomed to see performing the somewhat effeminate duties of a valet-de-chambre. i watched him and the fair girl beside him for a few moments, myself unperceived. if this little budding romance were left alone it would ripen into a flower, and vincenzo would be a happier man than his master. he was a true tuscan, from the very way he handled his wood-ax; i could see that he loved the life of the hills and fields--the life of a simple farmer and fruit-grower, full of innocent enjoyments, as sweet as the ripe apples in his orchard. i could foresee his future with lilla beside him. he would have days of unwearying contentment, rendered beautiful by the free fresh air and the fragrance of flowers--his evenings would slip softly by to the tinkle of the mandolin, and the sound of his wife and children's singing. what fairer fate could a man desire?--what life more certain to keep health in the body and peace in the mind? could i not help him to his happiness, i wondered? i, who had grown stern with long brooding upon my vengeance--could i not aid in bringing joy to others! if i could, my mind would be somewhat lightened of its burden--a burden grown heavier since guide's death, for from his blood had sprung forth a new group of furies, that lashed me on to my task with scorpion whips of redoubled wrath and passionate ferocity. yet if i could do one good action now--would it not be as a star shining in the midst of my soul's storm and darkness? just then lilla laughed--how sweetly!--the laugh of a very young child. what amused her now? i looked, and saw that she had taken the ax from vincenzo, and lifting it in her little hands, was endeavoring bravely to imitate his strong and telling stroke; he meanwhile stood aside with an air of smiling superiority, mingled with a good deal of admiration for the slight active figure arrayed in the blue kirtle and scarlet bodice, on which the warm rays of the late sun fell with so much amorous tenderness. poor little lilla! a penknife would have made as much impression as her valorous blows produced on the inflexible, gnarled, knotty old stump she essayed to split in twain. flushed and breathless with her efforts, she looked prettier than ever, and at last, baffled, she resigned her ax to vincenzo, laughing gayly at her incapacity for wood-cutting, and daintily shaking her apron free from the chips and dust, till a call from her mother caused her to run swiftly into the house, leaving vincenzo working away as arduously as ever. i went up to him; he saw me approaching, and paused in his labors with an air of slight embarrassment. "you like this sort of work, amico?" i said, gently. "an old habit, eccellenza--nothing more. it reminds me of the days of my youth, when i worked for my mother. ah! a pleasant place it was--the old home just above fiesole." his eyes grew pensive and sad. "it is all gone now--finished. that was before i became a soldier. but one thinks of it sometimes." "i understand. and no doubt you would be glad to return to the life of your boyhood?" he looked a little startled. "not to leave you, eccellenza!" i smiled rather sadly. "not to leave me? not if you wedded lilla monti?" his olive cheek flushed, but he shook his head. "impossible! she would not listen to me. she is a child." "she will soon be a woman, believe me! a little more of your company will make her so. but there is plenty of time. she is beautiful, as you said: and something better than that, she is innocent--think of that, vincenzo! do you know how rare a thing innocence is--in a woman? respect it as you respect god; let her young life be sacred to you." he glanced upward reverently. "eccellenza, i would as soon tear the madonna from her altars as vex or frighten lilla!" i smiled and said no more, but turned into the house. from that moment i resolved to let this little love-idyll have a fair chance of success. therefore i remained at avellino much longer than i had at first intended, not for my own sake, but for vincenzo's. he served me faithfully; he should have his reward. i took a pleasure in noticing that my efforts to promote his cause were not altogether wasted. i spoke with lilla often on indifferent matters that interested her, and watched her constantly when she was all unaware of my observant gaze. with me she was as frank and fearless as a tame robin; but after some days i found that she grew shy of mentioning the name of vincenzo, that she blushed when he approached her, that she was timid of asking him to do anything for her; and from all these little signs i knew her mind, as one knows by the rosy streaks in the sky that the sunrise is near. one afternoon i called the signora monti to my room. she came, surprised, and a little anxious. was anything wrong with the service? i reassured her housewifely scruples, and came to the point at once. "i would speak to you of your child, the little lilla," i said, kindly. "have you ever thought that she may marry?" her dark bold eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. "truly i have," she replied with a wistful sadness; "but i have prayed, perhaps foolishly, that she would not leave me yet. i love her so well; she is always a babe to me, so small and sweet! i put the thought of her marriage from me as a sorrowful thing." "i understand your feeling," i said. "still, suppose your daughter wedded a man who would be to you as a son, and who would not part her from you?--for instance, let us say vincenzo?" signora monti smiled through her tears. "vincenzo! he is a good lad, a very good lad, and i love him; but he does not think of lilla--he is devoted to the eccellenza." "i am aware of his devotion," i answered. "still i believe you will find out soon that he loves your lilla. at present he says nothing--he fears to offend you and alarm her; but his eyes speak--so do hers. you are a good woman, a good mother; watch them both, you will soon tell whether love is between them or no. and see," here i handed her a sealed envelope, "in this you will find notes to the amount of four thousand francs." she uttered a little cry of amazement. "it is lilla's dowry, whoever she marries, though i think she will marry vincenzo. nay--no thanks, money is of no value to me; and this is the one pleasure i have had for many weary months. think well of vincenzo--he is an excellent fellow. and all i ask of you is, that you keep this little dowry a secret till the day of your fair child's espousals." before i could prevent her the enthusiastic woman had seized my hand and kissed it. then she lifted her head with the proud free-born dignity of a roman matron; her broad bosom heaved, and her strong voice quivered with suppressed emotion. "i thank you, signor," she said, simply, "for lilla's sake! not that my little one needs more than her mother's hands have toiled for, thanks be to the blessed saints who have had us both in their keeping! but this is a special blessing of god sent through your hands, and i should be unworthy of all prosperity were i not grateful. eccellenza, pardon me, but my eyes are quick to see that you have suffered sorrow. good actions lighten grief! we will pray for your happiness, lilla and i, till the last breath leaves our lips. believe it--the name of our benefactor shall be lifted to the saints night and morning, and who knows but good may come of it!" i smiled faintly. "good will come of it, my excellent signora, though i am all unworthy of your prayers. rather pray," and i sighed heavily, "for the dead, 'that they may be loosed from their sins.'" the good woman looked at me with a sort of kindly pity mingled with awe, then murmuring once more her thanks and blessing, she left the room. a few minutes afterward vincenzo entered. i addressed him cheerfully. "absence is the best test of love, vincenzo; prepare all for our departure! we shall leave avellino the day after to-morrow." and so we did. lilla looked slightly downcast, but vincenzo seemed satisfied, and i augured from their faces, and from the mysterious smile of signora monti, that all was going well. i left the beautiful mountain town with regret, knowing i should see it no more. i touched lilla's fair cheek lightly at parting, and took what i knew was my last look into the sweet candid young face. yet the consciousness that i had done some little good gave my tired heart a sense of satisfaction and repose--a feeling i had not experienced since i died and rose again from the dead. on the last day of january i returned to naples, after an absence of more than a month, and was welcomed back by all my numerous acquaintance with enthusiasm. the marquis d'avencourt had informed me rightly--the affair of the duel was a thing of the past--an almost forgotten circumstance. the carnival was in full riot, the streets were scenes of fantastic mirth and revelry; there was music and song, dancing and masquerading, and feasting. but i withdrew from the tumult of merriment, and absorbed myself in the necessary preparations for--my marriage. chapter xxx. looking back on the incidents of those strange feverish weeks that preceded my wedding-day, they seemed to me like the dreams of a dying man. shifting colors, confused images, moments of clear light, hours of long darkness--all things gross, refined, material, and spiritual were shaken up in my life like the fragments in a kaleidoscope, ever changing into new forms and bewildering patterns. my brain was clear; yet i often questioned myself whether i was not going mad--whether all the careful methodical plans i formed were but the hazy fancies of a hopelessly disordered mind? yet no; each detail of my scheme was too complete, too consistent, too business-like for that. a madman may have a method of action to a certain extent, but there is always some slight slip, some omission, some mistake which helps to discover his condition. now, _i_ forgot nothing--i had the composed exactitude of a careful banker who balances his accounts with the most elaborate regularity. i can laugh to think of it all now; but then--then i moved, spoke, and acted like a human machine impelled by stronger forces than my own--in all things precise, in all things inflexible. within the week of my return from avellino my coming marriage with the countess romani was announced. two days after it had been made public, while sauntering across the largo del castello, i met the marquis d'avencourt. i had not seen him since the morning of the duel, and his presence gave me a sort of nervous shock. he was exceedingly cordial, though i fancied he was also slightly embarrassed after a few commonplace remarks he said, abruptly: "so your marriage will positively take place?" i forced a laugh. "ma! certamente! do you doubt it?" his handsome face clouded and his manner grew still more constrained. "no; but i thought--i had hoped--" "mon cher," i said, airily, "i perfectly understand to what you allude. but we men of the world are not fastidious--we know better than to pay any heed to the foolish love-fancies of a woman before her marriage, so long as she does not trick us afterward. the letters you sent me were trifles, mere trifles! in wedding the contessa romani i assure you i believe i secure the most virtuous as well as the most lovely woman in europe!" and i laughed again heartily. d'avencourt looked puzzled; but he was a punctilious man, and knew how to steer clear of a delicate subject. he smiled. "a la bonne heure," he said--"i wish you joy with all my heart! you are the best judge of your own happiness; as for me--vive la liberte!" and with a gay parting salute he left me. no one else in the city appeared to share his foreboding scruples, if he had any, about my forthcoming marriage. it was everywhere talked of with as much interest and expectation as though it were some new amusement invented to heighten the merriment of carnival. among other things, i earned the reputation of being a most impatient lover, for now i would consent to no delays. i hurried all the preparations on with feverish precipitation. i had very little difficulty in persuading nina that the sooner our wedding took place the better; she was to the full as eager as myself, as ready to rush on her own destruction as guido had been. her chief passion was avarice, and the repeated rumors of my supposed fabulous wealth had aroused her greed from the very moment she had first met me in my assumed character of the count oliva. as soon as her engagement to me became known in naples, she was an object of envy to all those of her own sex who, during the previous autumn, had laid out their store of fascinations to entrap me in vain--and this made her perfectly happy. perhaps the supremest satisfaction a woman of this sort can attain to is the fact of making her less fortunate sisters discontented and miserable! i loaded her, of course, with the costliest gifts, and she, being the sole mistress of the fortune left her by her "late husband," as well as of the unfortunate guido's money, set no limits to her extravagance. she ordered the most expensive and elaborate costumes; she was engaged morning after morning with dressmakers, tailors, and milliners, and she was surrounded by a certain favored "set" of female friends, for whose benefit she displayed the incoming treasures of her wardrobe till they were ready to cry for spite and vexation, though they had to smile and hold in their wrath and outraged vanity beneath the social mask of complacent composure. and nina loved nothing better than to torture the poor women who were stinted of pocket-money with the sight of shimmering satins, soft radiating plushes, rich velvets, embroidery studded with real gems, pieces of costly old lace, priceless scents, and articles of bijouterie; she loved also to dazzle the eyes and bewilder the brains of young girls, whose finest toilet was a garb of simplest white stuff unadorned save by a cluster of natural blossoms, and to send them away sick at heart, pining for they knew not what, dissatisfied with everything, and grumbling at fate for not permitting them to deck themselves in such marvelous "arrangements" of costume as those possessed by the happy, the fortunate future countess oliva. poor maidens! had they but known all they would not have envied her! women are too fond of measuring happiness by the amount of fine clothes they obtain, and i truly believe dress is the one thing that never fails to console them. how often a fit of hysterics can be cut short by the opportune arrival of a new gown! my wife, in consideration of her approaching second nuptial, had thrown off her widow's crape, and now appeared clad in those soft subdued half-tints of color that suited her fragile, fairy-like beauty to perfection. all her old witcheries and her graceful tricks of manner and speech were put forth again for my benefit. i knew them all so well! i understood the value of her light caresses and languishing looks so thoroughly! she was very anxious to attain the full dignity of her position as the wife of so rich a nobleman as i was reputed to be, therefore she raised no objection when i fixed the day of our marriage for giovedi grasso. then the fooling and mumming, the dancing, shrieking, and screaming would be at its height; it pleased my whim to have this other piece of excellent masquerading take place at the same time. the wedding was to be as private as possible, owing to my wife's "recent sad bereavements," as she herself said with a pretty sigh and tearful, pleading glance. it would take place in the chapel of san gennaro, adjoining the cathedral. we were married there before! during the time that intervened, nina's manner was somewhat singular. to me she was often timid, and sometimes half conciliatory. now and then i caught her large dark eyes fixed on me with a startled, anxious look, but this expression soon passed away. she was subject, too, to wild fits of merriment, and anon to moods of absorbed and gloomy silence. i could plainly see that she was strung up to an extreme pitch of nervous excitement and irritability, but i asked her no questions. if--i thought--if she tortured herself with memories, all the better--if she saw, or fancied she saw, the resemblance between me and her "dear dead fabio," it suited me that she should be so racked and bewildered. i came and went to and fro from the villa as i pleased. i wore my dark glasses as usual, and not even giacomo could follow me with his peering, inquisitive gaze; for since the night he had been hurled so fiercely to the ground by guido's reckless and impatient hand, the poor old man had been paralyzed, and had spoken no word. he lay in an upper chamber, tended by assunta, and my wife had already written to his relatives in lombardy, asking them to send for him home. "of what use to keep him?" she had asked me. true! of what use to give even roof-shelter to a poor old human creature, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore? after long years of faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth! if he die of neglect, starvation, and ill-usage, what matter?--he is a worn-out tool, his day is done--let him perish. i would not plead for him--why should i? i had made my own plans for his comfort--plans shortly to be carried out; and in the mean time assunta nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with no more strength than a year-old baby, and only a bewildered pain in his upturned, lack-luster eyes. one incident occurred during these last days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together with a sense of the bitterest anger. i had gone up to the villa somewhat early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn i saw a dark form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led directly up to the house. i went to examine it, and started back in horror--it was my dog wyvis shot dead. his silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in blood--his honest brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying agonies. sickened and infuriated at the sight, i called to a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery. "who has done this?" i demanded. the man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a low voice: "it was madama's order, signor. the dog bit her yesterday; we shot him at daybreak." i stooped to caress the faithful animal's body, and as i stroked the silky coat my eyes were dim with tears. "how did it happen?" i asked in smothered accents. "was your lady hurt?" the gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "ma!--no! but he tore the lace on her dress with his teeth and grazed her hand. it was little, but enough. he will bite no more--povera bestia!" i gave the fellow five francs. "i liked the dog," i said briefly, "he was a faithful creature. bury him decently under that tree," and i pointed to the giant cypress on the lawn, "and take this money for your trouble." he looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding. once more sorrowfully caressing the fallen head of perhaps the truest friend i ever possessed, i strode hastily into the house, and met nina coming out of her morning-room, clad in one of her graceful trailing garments, in which soft lavender hues were blended like the shaded colors of late and early violets. "so wyvis has been shot?" i said, abruptly. she gave a slight shudder. "oh, yes; is it not sad? but i was compelled to have it done. yesterday i went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung furiously at me for no reason at all. see!" and holding up her small hand she showed me three trifling marks in the delicate flesh. "i felt that you would be so unhappy if you thought i kept a dog that was at all dangerous, so i determined to get rid of him. it is always painful to have a favorite animal killed; but really wyvis belonged to my poor husband, and i think he has never been quite safe since his master's death, and now giacomo is ill--" "i see!" i said, curtly, cutting her explanations short. within myself i thought how much more sweet and valuable was the dog's life than hers. brave wyvis--good wyvis! he had done his best--he had tried to tear her dainty flesh; his honest instincts had led him to attempt rough vengeance on the woman he had felt was his master's foe. and he had met his fate, and died in the performance of duty. but i said no more on the subject. the dog's death was not alluded to again by either nina or myself. he lay in his mossy grave under the cypress boughs--his memory untainted by any lie, and his fidelity enshrined in my heart as a thing good and gracious, far exceeding the self-interested friendship of so-called christian humanity. the days passed slowly on. to the revelers who chased the flying steps of carnival with shouting and laughter, no doubt the hours were brief, being so brimful of merriment; but to me, who heard nothing save the measured ticking of my own timepiece of revenge, and who saw naught save its hands, that every second drew nearer to the last and fatal figure on the dial, the very moments seemed long and laden with weariness. i roamed the streets of the city aimlessly, feeling more like a deserted stranger than a well-known envied nobleman, whose wealth made him the cynosure of all eyes. the riotous glee, the music, the color that whirled and reeled through the great street of toledo at this season bewildered and pained me. though i knew and was accustomed to the wild vagaries of carnival, yet this year they seemed to be out of place, distracting, senseless, and all unfamiliar. sometimes i escaped from the city tumult and wandered out to the cemetery. there i would stand, dreamily looking at the freshly turned sods above guido ferrari's grave. no stone marked the spot as yet, but it was close to the romani vault--not more than a couple of yards away from the iron grating that barred the entrance to that dim and fatal charnel-house. i had a drear fascination for the place, and more than once i went to the opening of that secret passage made by the brigands to ascertain if all was safe and undisturbed. everything was as i had left it, save that the tangle of brush-wood had become thicker, and weeds and brambles had sprung up, making it less visible than before, and probably rendering it more impassable. by a fortunate accident i had secured the key of the vault. i knew that for family burial-places of this kind there are always two keys--one left in charge of the keeper of the cemetery, the other possessed by the person or persons to whom the mausoleum belongs, and this other i managed to obtain. on one occasion, being left for some time alone in my own library at the villa, i remembered that in an upper drawer of an old oaken escritoire that stood there, had always been a few keys belonging to the doors of cellars and rooms in the house. i looked, and found them lying there as usual; they all had labels attached to them, signifying their use, and i turned them over impatiently, not finding what i sought. i was about to give up the search, when i perceived a large rusty iron key that had slipped to the back of the drawer; i pulled it out, and to my satisfaction it was labeled "mausoleum." i immediately took possession of it, glad to have obtained so useful and necessary an implement; i knew that i should soon need it. the cemetery was quite deserted at this festive season--no one visited it to lay wreaths of flowers or sacred mementoes on the last resting-places of their friends. in the joys of the carnival who thinks of the dead? in my frequent walks there i was always alone; i might have opened my own vault and gone down into it without being observed, but i did not; i contented myself with occasionally trying the key in the lock, and assuring myself that it worked without difficulty. returning from one of these excursions late on a mild afternoon toward the end of the week preceding my marriage, i bent my steps toward the molo, where i saw a picturesque group of sailors and girls dancing one of those fantastic, graceful dances of the country, in which impassioned movement and expressive gesticulation are everything. their steps were guided and accompanied by the sonorous twanging of a full-toned guitar and the tinkling beat of a tambourine. their handsome, animated faces, their flashing eyes and laughing lips, their gay, many-colored costumes, the glitter of beads on the brown necks of the maidens, the red caps jauntily perched on the thick black curls of the fishermen--all made up a picture full of light and life thrown up into strong relief against the pale gray and amber tints of the february sky and sea; while shadowing overhead frowned the stern dark walls of the castel nuovo. it was such a scene as the english painter luke fildes might love to depict on his canvas--the one man of to-day who, though born of the land of opaque mists and rain-burdened clouds, has, notwithstanding these disadvantages, managed to partly endow his brush with the exhaustless wealth and glow of the radiant italian color. i watched the dance with a faint sense of pleasure--it was full of so much harmony and delicacy of rhythm. the lad who thrummed the guitar broke out now and then into song--a song in dialect that fitted into the music of the dance as accurately as a rosebud into its calyx. i could not distinguish all the words he sung, but the refrain was always the same, and he gave it in every possible inflection and variety of tone, from grave to gay, from pleading to pathetic. "che bella cosa e de morire acciso, inanze a la porta de la inamorata!" [footnote: neapolitan dialect.] meaning literally--"how beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at the door of one's beloved!" there was no sense in the thing, i thought half angrily--it was a stupid sentiment altogether. yet i could not help smiling at the ragged, barefooted rascal who sung it: he seemed to feel such a gratification in repeating it, and he rolled his black eyes with lovelorn intensity, and breathed forth sighs that sounded through his music with quite a touching earnestness. of course he was only following the manner of all neapolitans, namely, acting his song; they all do it, and cannot help themselves. but this boy had a peculiarly roguish way of pausing and crying forth a plaintive "ah!" before he added "che bella cosa," etc., which gave point and piquancy to his absurd ditty. he was evidently brimful of mischief--his expression betokened it; no doubt he was one of the most thorough little scamps that ever played at "morra," but there was a charm about his handsome dirty face and unkempt hair, and i watched him amusedly, glad to be distracted for a few minutes from the tired inner workings of my own unhappy thoughts. in time to come, so i mused, this very boy might learn to set his song about the "beloved" to a sterner key, and might find it meet, not to be slain himself, but to slay her! such a thing--in naples--was more than probable. by and by the dance ceased, and i recognized in one of the breathless, laughing sailors my old acquaintance andrea luziani, with whom i had sailed to palermo. the sight of him relieved me from a difficulty which had puzzled me for some days, and as soon as the little groups of men and women had partially dispersed, i walked up to him and touched him on the shoulder. he started, looked round surprised, and did not appear to recognize me. i remembered that when he had seen me i had not grown a beard, neither had i worn dark spectacles. i recalled my name to him; his face cleared and he smiled. "ah! buon giorno, eccellenza!" he cried. "a thousand pardons that i did not at first know you! often have i thought of you! often have i heard your name--ah! what a name! rich, great, generous!--ah! what a glad life! and on the point of marrying--ah, dio! love makes all the troubles go--so!" and taking his cigar from his mouth, he puffed a ring of pale smoke into the air and laughed gayly. then suddenly lifting his cap from his clustering black hair, he added, "all joy be with you, eccellenza!" i smiled and thanked him. i noticed he looked at me curiously. "you think i have changed in appearance, my friend?" i said. the sicilian looked embarrassed. "ebbene! we must all change," he answered, lightly, evading my glance. "the days pass on--each day takes a little bit of youth away with it. one grows old without knowing it!" i laughed. "i see," i observed. "you think i have aged somewhat since you saw me?" "a little, eccellenza," he frankly confessed. "i have suffered severe illness," i said, quietly, "and my eyes are still weak, as you perceive," and i touched my glasses. "but i shall get stronger in time. can you come with me for a few moments? i want your help in a matter of importance." he nodded a ready assent and followed me. chapter xxxi. we left the molo, and paused at a retired street corner leading from the chiaja. "you remember carmelo neri?" i asked. andrea shrugged his shoulders with an air of infinite commiseration. "ah! povero diavolo! well do i remember him! a bold fellow and brave, with a heart in him, too, if one did but know where to find it. and now he drags the chain! well, well, no doubt it is what he deserves; but i say, and always will maintain, there are many worse men than carmelo." i briefly related how i had seen the captured brigand in the square at palermo and had spoken with him. "i mentioned you," i added, "and he bade me tell you teresa had killed herself." "ah! that i well know," said the little captain, who had listened to me intently, and over whose mobile face flitted a shadow of tender pity, as he sighed. "poverinetta! so fragile and small! to think she had the force to plunge the knife in her breast! as well imagine a little bird flying down to pierce itself on an uplifted bayonet. ay, ay! women will do strange things--and it is certain she loved carmelo." "you would help him to escape again if you could, no doubt?" i inquired with a half smile. the ready wit of the sicilian instantly asserted itself. "not i, eccellenza," he replied, with an air of dignity and most virtuous honesty. "no, no, not now. the law is the law, and i, andrea luziani, am not one to break it. no, carmelo must take his punishment; it is for life they say--and hard as it seems, it is but just. when the little teresa was in the question, look you, what could i do? but now--let the saints that choose help carmelo, for i will not." i laughed as i met the audacious flash of his eyes; i knew, despite his protestations, that if carmelo neri ever did get clear of the galleys, it would be an excellent thing for him if luziani's vessel chanced to be within reach. "you have your brig the 'laura' still?" i asked him. "yes, eccellenza, the madonna be praised! and she has been newly rigged and painted, and she is as trig and trim a craft as you can meet with in all the wide blue waters of the mediterranean." "now you see," i said, impressively, "i have a friend, a relative, who is in trouble: he wishes to get away from naples quietly and in secret. will you help him? you shall be paid whatever you think proper to demand." the sicilian looked puzzled. he puffed meditatively at his cigar and remained silent. "he is not pursued by the law," i continued, noting his hesitation. "he is simply involved in a cruel difficulty brought upon him by his own family--he seeks to escape from unjust persecution." andrea's brow cleared. "oh, if that is the case, eccellenza, i am at your service. but where does your friend desire to go?" i paused for a moment and considered. "to civita vecchia," i said at last, "from that port he can obtain a ship to take him to his further destination." the captain's expressive face fell--he looked very dubious. "to civita vecchia is a long way, a very long way," he said, regretfully; "and it is the bad season, and there are cross currents and contrary winds. with all the wish in the world to please you, eccellenza, i dare not run the 'laura' so far; but there is another means--" and interrupting himself he considered awhile in silence. i waited patiently for him to speak. "whether it would suit your friend i know not," he said at last, laying his hand confidentially on my arm, "but there is a stout brig leaving here for civita vecchia on friday morning next--" "the day after giovedi grasso?" i queried, with a smile he did not understand. he nodded. "exactly so. she carries a cargo of lacrima cristi, and she is a swift sailer. i know her captain--he is a good soul; but," and andrea laughed lightly, "he is like the rest of us--he loves money. you do not count the francs--no, they are nothing to you--but we look to the soldi. now, if it please you i will make him a certain offer of passage money, as large as you shall choose, also i will tell him when to expect his one passenger, and i can almost promise you that he will not say no!" this proposal fitted in so excellently with my plans that i accepted it, and at once named an exceptionally munificent sum for the passage required. andrea's eyes glistened as he heard. "it is a little fortune!" he cried, enthusiastically. "would that i could earn as much in twenty voyages! but one should not be churlish--such luck cannot fall in all men's way." i smiled. "and do you think, amico, i will suffer you to go unrewarded?" i said. and placing two twenty-franc pieces in his brown palm i added, "as you rightly said, francs are nothing to me. arrange this little matter without difficulty, and you shall not be forgotten. you can call at my hotel to-morrow or the next day, when you have settled everything--here is the address," and i penciled it on my card and gave it to him; "but remember, this is a secret matter, and i rely upon you to explain it as such to your friend who commands the brig going to civita vecchia. he must ask no questions of his passenger--the more silence the more discretion--and when once he has landed him at his destination he will do well to straightway forget all about him. you understand?" andrea nodded briskly. "si, si, signor. he has a bad memory as it is--it shall grow worse at your command! believe it!" i laughed, shook hands, and parted with the friendly little fellow, he returning to the molo, and i slowly walking homeward by way of the villa reale. an open carriage coming swiftly toward me attracted my attention; as it drew nearer i recognized the prancing steeds and the familiar liveries. a fair woman clad in olive velvets and russian sables looked out smiling, and waved her hand. it was my wife--my betrothed bride, and beside her sat the duchess di marina, the most irreproachable of matrons, famous for her piety not only in naples but throughout italy. so immaculate was she that it was difficult to imagine her husband daring to caress that upright, well-dressed form, or venturing to kiss those prim lips, colder than the carven beads of her jeweled rosary. yet there was a story about her too--an old story that came from padua--of how a young and handsome nobleman had been found dead at her palace doors, stabbed to the heart. perhaps--who knows--he also might have thought-- "che bella cosa e de morire accisa, inanze a la porta de la inamorata!" some said the duke had killed him; but nothing could be proved, nothing was certain. the duke was silent, so was his duchess; and scandal herself sat meekly with closed lips in the presence of this stately and august couple, whose bearing toward each other in society was a lesson of complete etiquette to the world. what went on behind the scenes no one could tell. i raised my hat with the profoundest deference as the carriage containing the two ladies dashed by; i knew not which was the cleverest hypocrite of the two, therefore i did equal honor to both. i was in a meditative and retrospective mood, and when i reached the toledo the distracting noises, the cries of the flower-girls, and venders of chestnuts and confetti, the nasal singing of the street-rhymers, the yells of punchinello, and the answering laughter of the populace, were all beyond my endurance. to gratify a sudden whim that seized me, i made my way into the lowest and dirtiest quarters of the city, and roamed through wretched courts and crowded alleys, trying to discover that one miserable street which until now i had always avoided even the thought of, where i had purchased the coral-fisher's clothes on the day of my return from the grave. i went in many wrong directions, but at last i found it, and saw at a glance that the old rag-dealer's shop was still there, in its former condition of heterogeneous filth and disorder. a man sat at the door smoking, but not the crabbed and bent figure i had before seen--this was a younger and stouter individual, with a jewish cast of countenance, and dark, ferocious eyes. i approached him, and seeing by my dress and manner that i was some person of consequence, he rose, drew his pipe from his mouth, and raised his greasy cap with a respectful yet suspicious air. "are you the owner of this place?" i asked. "si, signor!" "what has become of the old man who used to live here?" he laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and drew his pipe-stem across his throat with a significant gesture. "so, signor!--with a sharp knife! he had a good deal of blood, too, for so withered a body. to kill himself in that fashion was stupid: he spoiled an indian shawl that was on his bed, worth more than a thousand francs. one would not have thought he had so much blood." and the fellow put back his pipe in his mouth and smoked complacently. i heard in sickened silence. "he was mad, i suppose?" i said at last. the long pipe was again withdrawn. "mad? well, the people say so. i for one think he was very reasonable--all except that matter of the shawl--he should have taken that off his bed first. but he was wise enough to know that he was of no use to anybody--he did the best he could! did you know him, signor?" "i gave him money once," i replied, evasively; then taking out a few francs i handed them to this evil-eyed, furtive-looking son of israel, who received the gift with effusive gratitude. "thank you for your information," i said coldly. "good-day." "good-day to you, signor," he replied, resuming his seat and watching me curiously as i turned away. i passed out of the wretched street feeling faint and giddy. the end of the miserable rag-dealer had been told to me briefly and brutally enough--yet somehow i was moved to a sense of regret and pity. abjectly poor, half crazy, and utterly friendless, he had been a brother of mine in the same bitterness and irrevocable sorrow. i wondered with a half shudder--would my end be like his? when my vengeance was completed should i grow shrunken, and old, and mad, and one lurid day draw a sharp knife across my throat as a finish to my life's history? i walked more rapidly to shake off the morbid fancies that thus insidiously crept in on my brain; and as before, the noise and glitter of the toledo had been unbearable, so now i found it a relief and a distraction. two maskers bedizened in violet and gold whizzed past me like a flash, one of them yelling a stale jest concerning la 'nnamorata--a jest i scarcely heard, and certainly had no heart or wit to reply to. a fair woman i knew leaned out of a gayly draped balcony and dropped a bunch of roses at my feet; out of courtesy i stooped to pick them up, and then raising my hat i saluted the dark-eyed donor, but a few paces on i gave them away to a ragged child. of all flowers that bloom, they were, and still are, the most insupportable to me. what is it the english poet swinburne says-- "i shall never be friends again with roses!" my wife wore them always: even on that night when i had seen her clasped in guido's arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in that embrace--a rose whose withered leaves i still possess. in the forest solitude where i now dwell there are no roses--and i am glad! the trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coarse brushwood too dense--nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers--weeds unfit for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter than all the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors are spoiled to me forever. i am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent of evil? true enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and--i strive always to forget! i reached my hotel that evening to find that i was an hour late for dinner, an unusual circumstance, which had caused vincenzo some disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face when i entered. for some days the honest fellow had watched me with anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks i was in the habit of taking, the evenings i passed in my room writing, with the doors locked--all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, i have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and i could see he had much ado to observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking questions. on this particular occasion i dined very hastily, for i had promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater that night. when i arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking radiantly beautiful. she was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging primrose stuff, and the brigand's jewels i had given her through guido's hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms. she greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as i entered, bearing the customary offering--a costly bouquet, set in a holder of mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance. i bowed to her lady friends, both of whom i knew, and then stood beside her watching the stage. the comedietta played there was the airiest trifle--it turned on the old worn-out story--a young wife, an aged, doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the "noblest" type. the husband was fooled (naturally), and the chief amusement of the piece appeared to consist in his being shut out of his own house in dressing-gown and slippers during a pelting storm of rain, while his spouse (who was particularly specified as "pure") enjoyed a luxurious supper with her highly moral and virtuous admirer. my wife laughed delightedly at the poor jokes and the stale epigrams, and specially applauded the actress who successfully supported the chief role. this actress, by the way, was a saucy, brazen-faced jade, who had a trick of flashing her black eyes, tossing her head, and heaving her ample bosom tumultuously whenever she hissed out the words vecchiaccio maladetto [footnote: accursed, villainous old monster.] at her discomfited husband, which had an immense effect on the audience--an audience which entirely sympathized with her, though she was indubitably in the wrong. i watched nina in some derision as she nodded her fair head and beat time to the music with her painted fan. i bent over her. "the play pleases you?" i asked, in a low tone. "yes, indeed!" she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes. "the husband is so droll! it is all very amusing." "the husband is always droll!" i remarked, smiling coldly. "it is not a temptation to marry when one knows that as a husband one must always look ridiculous." she glanced up at me. "cesare! you surely are not vexed? of course it is only in plays that it happens so!" "plays, cara mia, are often nothing but the reflex of real life," i said. "but let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are not fools." she smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers i had given her, and turned her eyes again to the stage. i said no more, and was a somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening. as we all left the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied nina said lightly: "you seem dull and out of spirits, conte?" i forced a smile. "not i, signora! surely you do not find me guilty of such ungallantry? were i dull in your company i should prove myself the most ungrateful of my sex." she sighed somewhat impatiently. she was very young and very lovely, and, as far as i knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical temperament than most women. "that is the mere language of compliment," she said, looking straightly at me with her clear, candid eyes. "you are a true courtier! yet often i think your courtesy is reluctant." i looked at her in some surprise. "reluctant? signora, pardon me if i do not understand!" "i mean," she continued, still regarding me steadily, though a faint blush warmed the clear pallor of her delicate complexion, "that you do not really like us women; you say pretty things to us, and you try to be amiable in our company, but you are in truth averse to our ways--you are sceptical--you think we are all hypocrites." i laughed a little coldly. "really, signora, your words place me in a very awkward position. were i to tell you my real sentiments--" she interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled gravely. "you would say, 'yes, you are right, signora. i never see one of your sex without suspecting treachery.' ah, signor conte, we women are indeed full of faults, but nothing can blind our instinct!" she paused, and her brilliant eyes softened as she added gently, "i pray your marriage may be a very happy one." i was silent. i was not even courteous enough to thank her for the wish. i was half angered that this girl should have been able to probe my thoughts so quickly and unerringly. was i so bad an actor after all? i glanced down at her as she leaned lightly on my arm. "marriage is a mere comedietta," i said, abruptly and harshly. "we have seen it acted to-night. in a few days i shall play the part of the chief buffoon--in other words, the husband." and i laughed. my young companion looked startled, almost frightened, and over her fair face there flitted an expression of something like aversion. i did not care--why should i?--and there was no time for more words between us, for we had reached the outer vestibule of the theater. my wife's carriage was drawn up at the entrance--my wife herself was stepping into it. i assisted her, and also her two friends, and then stood with uncovered head at the door wishing them all the "felicissima notte." nina put her tiny jeweled hand through the carriage window--i stooped and kissed it lightly. drawing it back quickly, she selected a white gardenia from her bouquet and gave it to me with a bewitching smile. then the glittering equipage dashed away with a whirl and clatter of prancing hoofs and rapid wheels, and i stood alone under the wide portico of the theater--alone, amid the pressing throngs of the people who were still coming out of the house--holding the strongly scented gardenia in my hand as vaguely as a fevered man who finds a strange flower in one of his sick dreams. after a minute or two i suddenly recollected myself, and throwing the blossom on the ground, i crushed it savagely beneath my heel--the penetrating odor rose from its slain petals as though a vessel of incense had been emptied at my feet. there was a nauseating influence in it; where had i inhaled that subtle perfume last? i remembered--guido ferrari had worn one of those flowers in his coat at my banquet--it had been still in his buttonhole when i killed him! i strode onward and homeward; the streets were full of mirth and music, but i heeded none of it. i felt, rather than saw, the quiet sky bending above me dotted with its countless millions of luminous worlds; i was faintly conscious of the soft plash of murmuring waves mingling with the dulcet chords of deftly played mandolins echoing from somewhere down by the shore; but my soul was, as it were, benumbed--my mind, always on the alert, was for once utterly tired out--my very limbs ached, and when i at last flung myself on my bed, exhausted, my eyes closed instantly, and i slept the heavy, motionless sleep of a man weary unto death. chapter xxxii. "tout le monde vient a celui qui sait attendre." so wrote the great napoleon. the virtue of the aphorism consists in the little words 'qui sait'. all the world comes to him who knows how to wait, _i_ knew this, and i had waited, and my world--a world of vengeance--came to me at last. the slow-revolving wheel of time brought me to the day before my strange wedding--the eve of my remarriage with my own wife! all the preparations were made--nothing was left undone that could add to the splendor of the occasion. for though the nuptial ceremony was to be somewhat quiet and private in character, and the marriage breakfast was to include only a few of our more intimate acquaintances, the proceedings were by no means to terminate tamely. the romance of these remarkable espousals was not to find its conclusion in bathos. no; the bloom and aroma of the interesting event were to be enjoyed in the evening, when a grand supper and ball, given by me, the happy and much-to-be-envied bridegroom, was to take place in the hotel which i had made my residence for so long. no expense was spared for this, the last entertainment offered by me in my brilliant career as a successful count cesare oliva. after it, the dark curtain would fall on the played-out drama, never to rise again. everything that art, taste, and royal luxury could suggest was included in the arrangements for this brilliant ball, to which a hundred and fifty guests had been invited, not one of whom had refused to attend. and now--now, in the afternoon of this, the last of my self-imposed probation--i sat alone with my fair wife in the drawing-room of the villa romani, conversing lightly on various subjects connected with the festivities of the coming morrow. the long windows were open--the warm spring sunlight lay like a filmy veil of woven gold on the tender green of the young grass, birds sung for joy and flitted from branch to branch, now poising hoveringly above their nests, now soaring with all the luxury of perfect liberty into the high heaven of cloudless blue--the great creamy buds of the magnolia looked ready to burst into wide and splendid flower between their large, darkly shining leaves, the odor of violets and primroses floated on every delicious breath of air, and round the wide veranda the climbing white china roses had already unfurled their little crumpled rosette-like blossoms to the balmy wind. it was spring in southern italy--spring in the land where, above all other lands, spring is lovely--sudden and brilliant in its beauty as might be the smile of a happy angel. gran dio!--talk of angels! had i not a veritable angel for my companion at that moment? what fair being, even in mohammed's paradise of houris, could outshine such charms as those which it was my proud privilege to gaze upon without rebuke--dark eyes, rippling golden hair, a dazzling and perfect face, a form to tempt the virtue of a galahad, and lips that an emperor might long to touch--in vain? well, no!--not altogether in vain: if his imperial majesty could offer a bribe large enough--let us say a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg--he might possibly purchase one, nay!--perhaps two kisses from that seductive red mouth, sweeter than the ripest strawberry. i glanced at her furtively from time to time when she was not aware of my gaze; and glad was i of the sheltering protection of the dark glasses i wore, for i knew and felt that there was a terrible look in my eyes--the look of a half-famished tiger ready to spring on some long-desired piece of prey. she herself was exceptionally bright and cheerful; with her riante features and agile movements, she reminded me of some tropical bird of gorgeous plumage swaying to and fro on a branch of equally gorgeous blossom. "you are like a prince in a fairy tale, cesare," she said, with a little delighted laugh; "everything you do is superbly done! how pleasant it is to be so rich--there is nothing better in all the world." "except love!" i returned, with a grim attempt to be sentimental. her large eyes softened like the pleading eyes of a tame fawn. "ay, yes!" and she smiled with expressive tenderness, "except love. but when one has both love and wealth, what a paradise life can be!" "so great a paradise," i assented, "that it is hardly worth while trying to get into heaven at all! will you make earth a heaven for me, nina mia, or will you only love me as much--or as little--as you loved your late husband?" she shrugged her shoulders and pouted like a spoilt child. "why are you so fond of talking about my late husband, cesare?" she asked, peevishly; "i am so tired of his name! besides, one does not always care to be reminded of dead people--and he died so horribly too! i have often told you that i did not love him at all. i liked him a little, and i was quite ill when that dreadful monk, who looked like a ghost himself, came and told me he was dead. fancy hearing such a piece of news suddenly, while i was actually at luncheon with gui--signore ferrari! we were both shocked, of course, but i did not break my heart over it. now i really do love you--" i drew nearer to her on the couch where she sat, and put one arm round her. "you really do?" i asked, in a half-incredulous tone; "you are quite sure?" she laughed and nestled her head on my shoulder. "i am quite sure! how many times have you asked me that absurd question? what can i say, what can i do--to make you believe me?" "nothing," i answered, and answered truly, for certainly nothing she could say or do would make me believe her for a moment. "but how do you love me--for myself or for my wealth?" she raised her head with a proud, graceful gesture. "for yourself, of course! do you think mere wealth could ever win my affection? no, cesare! i love you for your own sake--your own merits have made you dear to me." i smiled bitterly. she did not see the smile. i slowly caressed her silky hair. "for that sweet answer, carissima mia, you shall have your reward. you called me a fairy prince just now--perhaps i merit that title more than you know. you remember the jewels i sent you before we ever met?" "remember them!" she exclaimed. "they are my choicest ornaments. such a parure is fit for an empress." "and an empress of beauty wears them!" i said, lightly. "but they are mere trifles compared to other gems which i possess, and which i intend to offer for your acceptance." her eyes glistened with avarice and expectancy. "oh, let me see them!" she cried. "if they are lovelier than those i already have, they must be indeed magnificent! and are they all for me?" "all for you!" i replied, drawing her closer, and playing with the small white hand on which the engagement-ring i had placed there sparkled so bravely. "all for my bride. a little hoard of bright treasures; red rubies, ay--as red as blood--diamonds as brilliant as the glittering of crossed daggers--sapphires as blue as the lightning--pearls as pure as the little folded hands of a dead child--opals as dazzlingly changeful as woman's love! why do you start?" for she had moved restlessly in my embrace. "do i use bad similes? ah, cara mia, i am no poet! i can but speak of things as they seem to my poor judgment. yes, these precious things are for you, bellissima; you have nothing to do but to take them, and may they bring you much joy!" a momentary pallor had stolen over her face while i was speaking--speaking in my customary hard, harsh voice, which i strove to render even harder and harsher than usual--but she soon recovered from whatever passing emotion she may have felt, and gave herself up to the joys of vanity and greed, the paramount passions of her nature. "i shall have the finest jewels in all naples!" she laughed, delightedly. "how the women will envy me! but where are these treasures? may i see them now--immediately?" "no, not quite immediately," i replied, with a gentle derision that escaped her observation. "to-morrow night--our marriage night--you shall have them. and i must also fulfill a promise i made to you. you wish to see me for once without these," and i touched my dark glasses--"is it not so?" she raised her eyes, conveying into their lustrous depths an expression of melting tenderness. "yes," she murmured; "i want to see you as you are!" "i fear you will be disappointed," i said, with some irony, "for my eyes are not pleasant to look at." "never mind," she returned, gayly. "i shall be satisfied if i see them just once, and we need not have much light in the room, as the light gives you pain. i would not be the cause of suffering to you--no, not for all the world!" "you are very amiable," i answered, "more so than i deserve. i hope i may prove worthy of your tenderness! but to return to the subject of the jewels. i wish you to see them for yourself and choose the best among them. will you come with me to-morrow night? and i will show you where they are." she laughed sweetly. "are you a miser, cesare?--and have you some secret hiding-place full of treasure like aladdin?" i smiled. "perhaps i have," i said. "there are exceptional cases in which one fears to trust even to a bank. gems such as those i have to offer you are almost priceless, and it would be unwise, almost cruel to place such tempting toys within the reach of even an honest man. at any rate, if i have been something of a miser, it is for your sake, for your sake i have personally guarded the treasure that is to be your bridal gift. you cannot blame me for this?" in answer she threw her fair arms round my neck and kissed me. strive against it as i would, i always shuddered at the touch of her lips--a mingled sensation of loathing and longing possessed me that sickened while it stung my soul. "amor mio!" she murmured. "as if _i_ could blame you! you have no faults in my estimation of you. you are good, brave and generous--the best of men; there is only one thing i wish sometimes--" here she paused, and her brow knitted itself frowningly, while a puzzled, pained expression came into her eyes. "and that one thing is?" i inquired. "that you did not remind me so often of fabio," she said, abruptly and half angrily. "not when you speak of him, i do not mean that. what i mean is, that you have ways like his. of course i know there is no actual resemblance, and yet--" she paused again, and again looked troubled. "really, carina mia," i remarked, lightly and jestingly, "you embarrass me profoundly! this fancy of yours is a most awkward one for me. at the convent where i visited you, you became quite ill at the contemplation of my hand, which you declared was like the hand of your deceased husband; and now--this same foolish idea is returning, when i hoped it had gone, with other morbid notions of an oversensitive brain, forever. perhaps you think i am your late husband?" and i laughed aloud! she trembled a little, but soon laughed also. "i know i am very absurd," she said, "perhaps i am a little nervous and unstrung: i have had too much excitement lately. tell me more about the jewels. when will you take me to see them?" "to-morrow night," i answered, "while the ball is going on, you and i will slip away together--we shall return again before any of our friends can miss us. you will come with me?" "of course i will," she replied, readily, "only we must not be long absent, because my maid will have to pack my wedding-dress, and then there will be the jewels also to put in my strong box. let me see! we stay the night at the hotel, and leave for rome and paris the first thing in the morning, do we not?" "that is the arrangement, certainly," i said, with a cold smile. "the little place where you have hidden your jewels, you droll cesare, is quite near then?" she asked. "quite near," i assented, watching her closely. she laughed and clapped her hands. "oh, i must have them," she exclaimed. "it would be ridiculous to go to paris without them. but why will you not get them yourself, cesare, and bring them here to me?" "there are so many," i returned, quietly, "and i do not know which you would prefer. some are more valuable than others. and it will give me a special satisfaction--one that i have long waited for--to see you making your own choice." she smiled half shyly, half cunningly. "perhaps i will make no choice," she whispered, "perhaps i will take them all, cesare. what will you say then?" "that you are perfectly welcome to them," i replied. she looked slightly surprised. "you are really too good to me, caro mio," she said; "you spoil me." "can you be spoiled?" i asked, half jestingly. "good women are like fine brilliants--the more richly they are set the more they shine." she stroked my hand caressingly. "no one ever made such pretty speeches to me as you do!" she murmured. "not even guido ferrari?" i suggested, ironically. she drew herself up with an inimitably well-acted gesture of lofty disdain. "guido ferrari!" she exclaimed. "he dared not address me save with the greatest respect! i was as a queen to him! it was only lately that he began to presume on the trust left him by my husband, and then he became too familiar--a mistake on his part, for which you punished him--as he deserved!" i rose from my seat beside her. i could not answer for my own composure while sitting so close to the actual murderess of my friend and her lover. had she forgotten her own "familiar" treatment of the dead man--the thousand nameless wiles and witcheries and tricks of her trade, by which she had beguiled his soul and ruined his honor? "i am glad you are satisfied with my action in that affair," i said, coldly and steadily. "i myself regret the death of the unfortunate young man, and shall continue to do so. my nature, unhappily, is an oversensitive one, and is apt to be affected by trifles. but now, mia bella, farewell until to-morrow--happy to-morrow!--when i shall call you mine indeed!" a warm flush tinted her cheeks; she came to me where i stood, and leaned against me. "shall i not see you again till we meet in the church?" she inquired, with a becoming bashfulness. "no. i will leave you this last day of your brief widowhood alone. it is not well that i should obtrude myself upon your thoughts or prayers. stay!" and i caught her hand which toyed with the flower in my buttonhole. "i see you still wear your former wedding-ring. may i take it off?" "certainly." and she smiled while i deftly drew off the plain gold circlet i had placed there nearly four years since. "will you let me keep it?" "if you like. _i_ would rather not see it again." "you shall not," i answered, as i slipped it into my pocket. "it will be replaced by a new one to-morrow--one that i hope may be the symbol of more joy to you than this has been." and as her eyes turned to my face in all their melting, perfidious languor, i conquered my hatred of her by a strong effort, and stooped and kissed her. had i yielded to my real impulses, i would have crushed her cruelly in my arms, and bruised her delicate flesh with the brutal ferocity of caresses born of bitterest loathing, not love. but no sign of my aversion escaped me--all she saw was her elderly looking admirer, with his calmly courteous demeanor, chill smile, and almost parental tenderness; and she judged him merely as an influential gentleman of good position and unlimited income, who was about to make her one of the most envied women in all italy. the fugitive resemblance she traced in me to her "dead" husband was certainly attributed by her to a purely accidental likeness common to many persons in this world, where every man, they say, has his double, and for that matter every woman also. who does not remember the touching surprise of heinrich heine when, on visiting the picture-gallery of the palazzo durazzo in genoa, he was brought face to face with the portrait, as he thought, of a dead woman he had loved--"maria la morte." it mattered not to him that the picture was very old, that it had been painted by giorgio barbarelli centuries before his "maria" could have lived; he simply declares: "il est vraiment d'une ressemblance admirable, ressemblant jusqu'au silence de la mort!" such likenesses are common enough, and my wife, though my resemblance to myself (!) troubled her a little, was very far from imagining the real truth of the matter, as indeed how should she? what woman, believing and knowing, as far as anything can be known, her husband to be dead and fast buried, is likely to accept even the idea of his possible escape from the tomb! not one!--else the disconsolate widows would indeed have reason to be more inconsolable than they appear! when i left her that morning i found andrea luziani waiting for me at my hotel. he was seated in the outer entrance hall; i bade him follow me into my private salon. he did so. abashed at the magnificence of the apartment, he paused at the doorway, and stood, red cap in hand, hesitating, though with an amiable smile on his sunburned merry countenance. "come in, amico," i said, with an inviting gesture, "and sit down. all this tawdry show of velvet and gilding must seem common to your eyes, that have rested so long on the sparkling pomp of the foaming waves, the glorious blue curtain of the sky, and the sheeny white of the sails of the 'laura' gleaming in the gold of the sun. would i could live such a life as yours, andrea!--there is nothing better under the width of heaven." the poetical temperament of the sicilian was caught and fired by my words. he at once forgot the splendid appurtenances of wealth and the costly luxuries that surrounded him; he advanced without embarrassment, and seated himself on a velvet and gold chair with as much ease as though it were a coil of rough rope on board the "laura." "you say truly, eccellenza," he said, with a gleam of his white teeth through his jet-black mustache, while his warm southern eyes flashed fire, "there is nothing sweeter than the life of the marinaro. and truly there are many who say to me, 'ah, ah! andrea! buon amico, the time comes when you will wed, and the home where the wife and children sit will seem a better thing to you than the caprice of the wind and waves.' but i--see you!--i know otherwise. the woman i wed must love the sea; she must have the fearless eyes that can look god's storms in the face--her tender words must ring out all the more clearly for the sound of the bubbling waves leaping against the 'laura' when the wind is high! and as for our children," he paused and laughed, "per la santissima madonna! if the salt and iron of the ocean be not in their blood, they will be no children of mine!" i smiled at his enthusiasm, and pouring out some choice montepulciano, bade him taste it. he did so with a keen appreciation of its flavor, such as many a so-called connoisseur of wines does not possess. "to your health, eccellenza!" he said, "and may you long enjoy your life!" i thanked him; but in my heart i was far from echoing the kindly wish. "and are you going to fulfill the prophecy of your friends, andrea?" i asked. "are you about to marry?" he set down his glass only partly emptied, and smiled with an air of mystery. "ebbene! chi sa!" he replied, with a gay little shrug of his shoulders, yet with a sudden tenderness in his keen eyes that did not escape me. "there is a maiden--my mother loves her well--she is little and fair as carmelo neri's teresa--so high," and he laid his brown hand lightly on his breast, "her head touches just here," and he laughed. "she looks as frail as a lily, but she is hardy as a sea-gull, and no one loves the wild waves more than she. perhaps, in the month of the madonna, when the white lilies bloom--perhaps!--one can never tell--the old song may be sung for us-- "chi sa fervente amar solo e felice!" and humming the tune of the well-known love-ditty under his breath, he raised his glass of wine to his lips and drained it off with a relish, while his honest face beamed with gayety and pleasure. always the same story, i thought, moodily. love, the tempter--love, the destroyer--love, the curse! was there no escape possible from this bewildering snare that thus caught and slew the souls of men? chapter xxxiii. he soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair closer to mine, assumed an air of mystery. "and for your friend who is in trouble," he said, in a confidential tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to proceed. i nodded. "go on, amico. what have you arranged?" "everything!" he announced, with an air of triumph. "all is smooth sailing. at six o'clock on friday morning the 'rondinella,' that is the brig i told you of, eccellenza, will weigh anchor for civita vecchia. her captain, old antonio bardi, will wait ten minutes or even a quarter of an hour if necessary for the--the--" "passenger," i supplemented. "very amiable of him, but he will not need to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour. is he satisfied with the passage money?" "satisfied!" and andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud. "by san pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on the voyage! though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he being old and cross and crusty. yes; he is one of those men who have seen so much of life that they are tired of it. believe it! even the stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old bardi. but he is satisfied this time, eccellenza, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that i should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind when he steps on board." "that is well," i said, smiling. "i owe you many thanks, andrea. and yet there is one more favor i would ask of you." he saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture. "eccellenza, anything i can do--command me." "it is a mere trifle," i returned. "it is merely to take a small valise belonging to my friend, and to place it on board the 'rondinella' under the care of the captain. will you do this?" "most willingly. i will take it now if it so please you." "that is what i desire. wait here and i will bring it to you." and leaving him for a minute or two, i went into my bedroom and took from a cupboard i always kept locked a common rough leather bag, which i had secretly packed myself, unknown to vincenzo, with such things as i judged to be useful and necessary. chief among them was a bulky roll of bank-notes. these amounted to nearly the whole of the remainder of the money i had placed in the bank at palermo. i had withdrawn it by gradual degrees, leaving behind only a couple of thousand francs, for which i had no special need. i locked and strapped the valise; there was no name on it and it was scarcely any weight to carry. i took it to andrea, who swung it easily in his right hand and said, smilingly: "your friend is not wealthy, eccellenza, if this is all his luggage!" "you are right," i answered, with a slight sigh; "he is truly very poor--beggared of everything that should be his through the treachery of those whom he has benefited." i paused; andrea was listening sympathetically. "that is why i have paid his passage-money, and have done my best to aid him." "ah! you have the good heart, eccellenza," murmured the sicilian, thoughtfully. "would there were more like you! often when fortune gives a kick to a man, nothing will suit but that all who see him must kick him also. and thus the povero diavolo dies of so many kicks, often! this friend of yours is young, senza dubbio?" "yes, quite young, not yet thirty." "it is as if you were a father to him!" exclaimed andrea, enthusiastically. "i hope he may be truly grateful to you, eccellenza." "i hope so too," i said, unable to resist a smile. "and now, amico, take this," and i pressed a small sealed packet into his hand. "it is for yourself. do not open it till you are at home with the mother you love so well, and the little maiden you spoke of by your side. if its contents please you, as i believe they will, think that _i_ am also rendered happier by your happiness." his dark eyes sparkled with gratitude as i spoke, and setting the valise he held down on the ground, he stretched out his hand half timidly, half frankly. i shook it warmly and bade him farewell. "per bacco!" he said, with a sort of shamefaced eagerness, "the very devil must have caught my tongue in his fingers! there is something i ought to say to you, eccellenza, but for my life i cannot find the right words. i must thank you better when i see you next." "yes," i answered, dreamily and somewhat wearily, "when you see me next, andrea, you shall thank me if you will; but believe me, i need no thanks." and thus we parted, never to meet again--he to the strong glad life that is born of the wind and sea, and i to--. but let me not anticipate. step by step through the labyrinths of memory let me go over the old ground watered with blood and tears, not missing one sharp stone of detail on the drear pathway leading to the bitter end. that same evening i had an interview with vincenzo. he was melancholy and taciturn--a mood which was the result of an announcement i had previously made to him--namely, that his services would not be required during my wedding-trip. he had hoped to accompany me and to occupy the position of courier, valet, major-domo, and generally confidential attendant--a hope which had partially soothed the vexation he had evidently felt at the notion of my marrying at all. his plans were now frustrated, and if ever the good-natured fellow could be ill-tempered, he was assuredly so on this occasion. he stood before me with his usual respectful air, but he avoided my glance, and kept his eyes studiously fixed on the pattern of the carpet. i addressed him with an air of gayety. "ebbene, vincenzo! joy comes at last, you see, even to me! to-morrow i shall wed the countess romani--the loveliest and perhaps the richest woman in naples!" "i know it, eccellenza." this with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look. "you are not very pleased, i think, at the prospect of my happiness?" i asked, banteringly. he glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again. "if one could be sure that the illustrissimo eccellenza was indeed happy, that would be a good thing," he answered, dubiously. "and are you not sure?" he paused, then replied firmly: "no; the eccellenza does not look happy. no, no, davvero! he has the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together." i shrugged my shoulders indifferently. "you mistake me, vincenzo. i am well--very well--and happy! gran dio! who could be happier? but what of my health or happiness?--they are nothing to me, and should be less to you. listen; i have something i wish you to do for me." he gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. i went on: "to-morrow evening i want you to go to avellino." he was utterly astonished. "to avellino!" he murmured under his breath, "to avellino!" "yes, to avellino," i repeated, somewhat impatiently. "is there anything so surprising in that? you will take a letter from me to the signora monti. look you, vincenzo, you have been faithful and obedient so far, i expect implicit fidelity and obedience still. you will not be needed here to-morrow after the marriage ball has once begun; you can take the nine o'clock train to avellino, and--understand me--you will remain there till you receive further news from me. you will not have to wait long, and in the mean time," here i smiled, "you can make love to lilla." vincenzo did not return the smile. "but--but," he stammered, sorely perplexed--"if i go to avellino i cannot wait upon the eccellenza. there is the portmanteau to pack--and who will see to the luggage when you leave on friday morning for rome? and--and--i had thought to see you to the station--" he stopped, his vexation was too great to allow him to proceed. i laughed gently. "how many more trifles can you think of, my friend, in opposition to my wishes? as for the portmanteau, you can pack it this very day if you so please--then it will be in readiness. the rest of your duties can for once be performed by others. it is not only important, but imperative that you should go to avellino on my errand. i want you to take this with you," and i tapped a small square iron box, heavily made and strongly padlocked, which stood on the table near me. he glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his countenance deepened. i grew a little annoyed. "what is the matter with you?" i said at last with some sternness. "you have something on your mind--speak out!" the fear of my wrath startled him. he looked up with a bewildered pain in his eyes, and spoke, his mellow tuscan voice vibrating with his own eloquent entreaty. "eccellenza!" he exclaimed, eagerly, "you must forgive me--yes, forgive your poor servant who seems too bold, and who yet is true to you--yes, indeed, so true!--and who would go with you to death if there were need! i am not blind, i can see your sufferings, for you do suffer, 'lustrissimo, though you hide it well. often have i watched you when you have not known it. i feel that you have what we call a wound in the heart, bleeding, bleeding always. such a thing means death often, as much as a straight shot in battle. let me watch over you, eccellenza; let me stay with you! i have learned to love you! ah, mio signor," and he drew nearer and caught my hand timidly, "you do not know--how should you?--the look that is in your face sometimes, the look of one who is stunned by a hard blow. i have said to myself 'that look will kill me if i see it often.' and your love for this great lady, whom you will wed to-morrow, has not lightened your soul as love should lighten it. no! you are even sadder than before, and the look i speak of comes ever again and again. yes, i have watched you, and lately i have seen you writing, writing far into the night, when you should have slept. ah, signor! you are angry, and i know i should not have spoken; but tell me, how can i look at lilla and be happy when i feel that you are alone and sad?" i stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my hand from his clasp. "i am not angry," i said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with something of coldness, though my whole nature, always highly sensitive, was deeply stirred by the rapid, unstudied expressions of affection that melted so warmly from his lips in the liquid music of the mellow tuscan tongue. "no, i am not angry, but i am sorry to have been the object of so much solicitude on your part. your pity is misplaced, vincenzo, it is indeed! pity an emperor clad in purples and seated on a throne of pure gold, but do not pity me! i tell you that, to-morrow, yes, to-morrow, i shall obtain all that i have ever sought--my greatest desire will be fulfilled. believe it. no man has ever been so thoroughly satiated with--satisfaction--as i shall be!" then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, i clapped my hand on his shoulder and smiled. "come, come, amico, wear a merrier face for my bridal day, or you will not deserve to wed lilla. i thank you from my heart," and i spoke more gravely, "for your well meant care and kindness, but i assure you there is nothing wrong with me. i am well--perfectly well--and happy. it is understood that you go to avellino to-morrow evening?" vincenzo sighed, but was passive. "it must be as the eccellenza pleases," he murmured, resignedly. "that is well," i answered, good-humoredly; "and as you know my pleasure, take care that nothing interferes with your departure. and--one word more--you must cease to watch me. plainly speaking, i do not choose to be under your surveillance. nay--i am not offended, far from it, fidelity and devotion are excellent virtues, but in the present case i prefer obedience--strict, implicit obedience. whatever i may do, whether i sleep or wake, walk or sit still--attend to your duties and pay no heed to my actions. so will you best serve me--you understand?" "si, signor!" and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened with his own inward confusion. "you will pardon me, eccellenza, for my freedom of speech? i feel i have done wrong--" "i pardon you for what in this world is never pardoned--excess of love," i answered, gently. "knowing you love me, i ask you to obey me in my present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends." his face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in a new direction. he glanced at the iron box i had before pointed out to him. "that is to go to avellino, eccellenza?" he asked, with more alacrity than he had yet shown. "yes," i answered. "you will place it in the hands of the good signora monti, for whom i have a great respect. she will take care of it till--i return." "your commands shall be obeyed, signor," he said, rapidly, as though eager to atone for his past hesitation. "after all," and he smiled, "it will be pleasant to see lilla; she will be interested, too, to hear the account of the eccellenza's marriage." and somewhat consoled by the prospect of the entertainment his unlooked-for visit would give to the charming little maiden of his choice, he left me, and shortly afterward i heard him humming a popular love-song softly under his breath, while he busied himself in packing my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip--a portmanteau destined never to be used or opened by its owner. that night, contrary to my usual habit, i lingered long over my dinner; at its close i poured out a full glass of fine lacrima cristi, and secretly mixing with it a dose of a tasteless but powerful opiate, i called my valet and bade him drink it and wish me joy. he did so readily, draining the contents to the last drop. it was a tempestuous night; there was a high wind, broken through by heavy sweeping gusts of rain. vincenzo cleared the dinner-table, yawning visibly as he did so, then taking my out-door paletot on his arm, he went to his bedroom, a small one adjoining mine, for the purpose of brushing it, according to his customary method. i opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in its contents, i waited patiently for about half an hour. at the expiration of that time i stole softly to his door and looked in. it was as i had expected; overcome by the sudden and heavy action of the opiate, he had thrown himself on his bed, and was slumbering profoundly, the unbrushed overcoat by his side. poor fellow! i smiled as i watched him; the faithful dog was chained, and could not follow my steps for that night at least. i left him thus, and wrapping myself in a thick almaviva that muffled me almost to the eyes, i hurried out, fortunately meeting no one on my way--out into the storm and darkness, toward the campo santo, the abode of the all-wise though speechless dead. i had work to do there--work that must be done. i knew that if i had not taken the precaution of drugging my too devoted servitor, he might, despite his protestations, have been tempted to track me whither i went. as it was, i felt myself safe, for four hours must pass, i knew, before vincenzo could awake from his lethargy. and i was absent for some time. though i performed my task as quickly as might be, it took me longer than i thought, and filled me with more loathing and reluctance than i had deemed possible. it was a grewsome, ghastly piece of work--a work of preparation--and when i had finished it entirely to my satisfaction, i felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into my very marrow. i shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me upright, and my teeth chattered as though i were seized by strong ague. but the fixity of my purpose strengthened me till all was done--till the stage was set for the last scene of the tragedy. or comedy? what you will! i know that in the world nowadays you make a husband's dishonor more of a whispered jest than anything else--you and your heavy machinery of the law. but to me--i am so strangely constituted--dishonor is a bitterer evil than death. if all those who are deceived and betrayed felt thus, then justice would need to become more just. it is fortunate--for the lawyers--that we are not all honorable men! when i returned from my dreary walk in the driving storm i found vincenzo still fast asleep. i was glad of this, for had he seen me in the plight i was, he would have had good reason to be alarmed concerning both my physical and mental condition. perceiving myself in the glass, i recoiled as from an image of horror. i saw a man with haunted, hungry eyes gleaming out from under a mass of disordered white hair, his pale, haggard face set and stern as the face of a merciless inquisitor of old spain, his dark cloak dripping with glittering raindrops, his hands and nails stained as though he had dug them into the black earth, his boots heavy with mire and clay, his whole aspect that of one who had been engaged in some abhorrent deed, too repulsive to be named. i stared at my own reflection thus and shuddered; then i laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment. quickly i threw off all my soiled habiliments, and locked them out of sight, and arraying myself in dressing-gown and slippers, i glanced at the time. it was half-past one--already the morning of my bridal. i had been absent three hours and a half. i went into my salon and remained there writing. a few minutes after two o'clock had struck the door opened noiselessly, and vincenzo, looking still very sleepy, appeared with an expression of inquiring anxiety. he smiled drowsily, and seemed relieved to see me sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the writing-table. i surveyed him with an air of affected surprise. "ebbene, vincenzo! what has become of you all this while?" "eccellenza," he stammered, "it was the lacrima; i am not used to wine! i have been asleep." i laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on my own account, and rose from my easy-chair. "veramente," i said, lightly, "so have i, very nearly! and if i would appear as a gay bridegroom, it is time i went to bed. buona notte." "buona notte, signor." and we severally retired to rest, he satisfied that i had been in my own room all the evening, and i, thinking with a savage joy at my heart of what i had prepared out there in the darkness, with no witnesses of my work save the whirling wind and rain. chapter xxxiv. my marriage morning dawned bright and clear, though the high wind of the past night still prevailed and sent the white clouds scudding rapidly, like ships running a race, across the blue fairness of the sky. the air was strong, fresh, and exhilarating, and the crowds that swarmed into the piazza del popolo, and the toledo, eager to begin the riot and fun of giovedi grasso, were one and all in the highest good humor. as the hours advanced, many little knots of people hurried toward the cathedral, anxious, if possible, to secure places in or near the chapel of san gennaro, in order to see to advantage the brilliant costumes of the few distinguished persons who had been invited to witness my wedding. the ceremony was fixed to take place at eleven, and at a little before half past ten i entered my carriage, in company with the duke di marina as best man, and drove to the scene of action. clad in garments of admirable cut and fit, with well-brushed hair and beard, and wearing a demeanor of skillfully mingled gravity and gayety, i bore but little resemblance to the haggard, ferocious creature who had faced me in the mirror a few hours previously. a strange and secret mirth too possessed me, a sort of half-frenzied merriment that threatened every now and then to break through the mask of dignified composure it was necessary for me to wear. there were moments when i could have laughed, shrieked, and sung with the fury of a drunken madman. as it was, i talked incessantly; my conversation was flavored with bitter wit and pungent sarcasm, and once or twice my friend the duke surveyed me with an air of wondering inquiry, as though he thought my manner forced or unnatural. my coachman was compelled to drive rather slowly, owing to the pressing throngs that swarmed at every corner and through every thoroughfare, while the yells of the masqueraders, the gambols of street clowns, the firing of toy guns, and the sharp explosion of colored bladders, that were swung to and fro and tossed in the air by the merry populace, startled my spirited horses frequently, and caused them to leap and prance to a somewhat dangerous extent, thus attracting more than the customary attention to my equipage. as it drew up at last at the door of the chapel, i was surprised to see what a number of spectators had collected there. there was a positive crowd of loungers, beggars, children, and middle-class persons of all sorts, who beheld my arrival with the utmost interest and excitement. in accordance with my instructions a rich crimson carpet had been laid down from the very edge of the pavement right into the church as far as the altar; a silken awning had also been erected, under which bloomed a miniature avenue of palms and tropical flowers. all eyes were turned upon me curiously as i stepped from my carriage and entered the chapel, side by side with the duke, and murmurs of my vast wealth and generosity were audibly whispered as i passed along. one old crone, hideously ugly, but with large, dark piercing eyes, the fading lamps of a lost beauty, chuckled and mumbled as she craned her skinny throat forward to observe me more closely. "ay, ay! the saints know he need be rich and generous--pover'uomo to fill her mouth. a little red cruel mouth always open, that swallows money like macaroni, and laughs at the suffering poor! ah! that is bad, bad! he need be rich to satisfy her!" the duke di marina caught these words and glanced quickly at me, but i affected not to have heard. inside the chapel there were a great number of people, but my own invited guests, not numbering more than twenty or thirty, were seated in the space apportioned to them near the altar, which was divided from the mere sight-seers by means of a silken rope that crossed the aisle. i exchanged greetings with most of these persons, and in return received their congratulations; then i walked with a firm deliberate step up to the high altar and there waited. the magnificent paintings on the wall round me seemed endowed with mysterious life--the grand heads of saints and martyrs were turned upon me as though they demanded--"must thou do this thing? hast thou no forgiveness?" and ever my stern answer, "nay; if hereafter i am tortured in eternal flame for all ages, yet now--now while i live, i will be avenged!" a bleeding christ suspended on his cross gazed at me reproachfully with long-enduring eyes of dreadful anguish--eyes that seemed to say, "oh, erring man, that tormentest thyself with passing passions, shall not thine own end approach speedily?--and what comfort wilt thou have in thy last hour?" and inwardly i answered, "none! no shred of consolation can ever again be mine--no joy, save fulfilled revenge! and this i will possess though the heavens should crack and the earth split asunder! for once a woman's treachery shall meet with punishment--for once such strange uncommon justice shall be done!" and my spirit wrapped itself again in somber meditative silence. the sunlight fell gloriously through the stained windows--blue, gold, crimson, and violet shafts of dazzling radiance glittered in lustrous flickering patterns on the snowy whiteness of the marble altar, and slowly, softly, majestically, as though an angel stepped forward, the sound of music stole on the incense-laden air. the unseen organist played a sublime voluntary of palestrina's, and the round harmonious notes came falling gently on one another like drops from a fountain trickling on flowers. i thought of my last wedding-day, when i had stood in this very place, full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when guido ferrari had been by my side, and had drunk in for the first time the poisoned draught of temptation from the loveliness of my wife's face and form; when i, poor fool! would as soon have thought that god could lie, as that either of these whom i adored could play me false. i drew the wedding-ring from my pocket and looked at it--it was sparklingly bright and appeared new. yet it was old--it was the very same ring i had drawn off my wife's finger the day before; it had only been burnished afresh by a skilled jeweler, and showed no more marks of wear than if it had been bought that morning. the great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last stroke swung from the tower, the chapel doors were flung more widely open: then came the gentle rustle of trailing robes, and turning, i beheld my wife. she approached, leaning lightly on the arm of the old chevalier mancini, who, true to his creeds of gallantry, had accepted with alacrity the post of paternal protector to the bride on this occasion; and i could not well wonder at the universal admiration that broke in suppressed murmurs from all assembled, as this most fair masterpiece of the devil's creation paced slowly and gracefully up the aisle. she wore a dress of clinging white velvet made with the greatest simplicity--a lace veil, priceless in value and fine as gossamer, draped her from head to foot--the jewels i had given her flashed about her like scintillating points of light, in her hair, at her waist, on her breast and uncovered arms. being as she deemed herself, a widow, she had no bride-maids; her train was held up by a handsome boy clad in the purple and gold costume of a sixteenth century page--he was the youngest son of the duke di marina. two tiny girls of five and six years of age went before, strewing white roses and lilies, and stepping daintily backward as though in attendance on a queen; they looked like two fairies who had slipped out of a midnight dream, in their little loose gowns of gold-colored plush, with wreaths of meadow daffodils on their tumbled curly hair. they had been well trained by nina herself, for on arrival at the altar they stood demurely, one on each side of her, the pretty page occupying his place behind, and still holding up the end of the velvet train with a charming air of hauteur and self-complacency. the whole cortege was a picture in its way, as nina had meant it to be: she was fond of artistic effects. she smiled languishingly upon me as she reached the altar, and sunk on her knees beside me in prayer. the music swelled forth with redoubled grandeur, the priests and acolytes appeared, the marriage service commenced. as i placed the ring on the book i glanced furtively at the bride; her fair head was bent demurely--she seemed absorbed in holy meditations. the priest having performed the ceremony of sprinkling it with holy water, i took it back, and set it for the second time on my wife's soft white little hand--set it in accordance with the catholic ritual, first on the thumb, then on the second finger, then on the third, and lastly on the fourth, where i left it in its old place, wondering as i did so, and murmured, "in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, amen!" whether she recognized it as the one she had worn so long! but it was evident she did not; her calm was unbroken by even so much as a start or tremor; she had the self-possession of a perfectly satisfied, beautiful, vain, and utterly heartless woman. the actual ceremony of marriage was soon over; then followed the mass, in which we, the newly-wedded pair, were compelled, in submission to the rule of the church, to receive the sacrament. i shuddered as the venerable priest gave me the sacred host. what had i to do with the inward purity and peace this memento of christ is supposed to leave in our souls? methought the crucified image in the chapel regarded me afresh with those pained eyes, and said, "even so dost thou seal thine own damnation!" yet she, the true murderess, the arch liar, received the sacrament with the face of a rapt angel--the very priest himself seemed touched by those upraised, candid, glorious eyes, the sweet lips so reverently parted, the absolute, reliable peace that rested on that white brow, like an aureole round the head of a saint! "if _i_ am damned, then is she thrice damned!" i said to myself, recklessly. "i dare say hell is wide enough for us to live apart when we get there." thus i consoled my conscience, and turned resolutely away from the painted appealing faces on the wall--the faces that in their various expressions of sorrow, resignation, pain, and death seemed now to be all pervaded by another look, that of astonishment--astonishment, so i fancied, that such a man as i, and such a woman as she, should be found in the width of the whole world, and should be permitted to kneel at god's altar without being struck dead for their blasphemy! ah, good saints, well may you be astonished! had you lived in our day you must have endured worse martyrdoms than the boiling oil or the wrenching rack! what you suffered was the mere physical pain of torn muscles and scorching flesh, pain that at its utmost could not last long; but your souls were clothed with majesty and power, and were glorious in the light of love, faith, hope, and charity with all men. we have reversed the position you occupied! we have partly learned, and are still learning, how to take care of our dearly beloved bodies, how to nourish and clothe them and guard them from cold and disease; but our souls, good saints, the souls that with you were everything--these we smirch, burn, and rack, torture and destroy--these we stamp upon till we crush out god's image therefrom--these we spit and jeer at, crucify and drown! there is the difference between you, the strong and wise of a fruitful olden time, and we, the miserable, puny weaklings of a sterile modern age. had you, sweet st. dorothy, or fair child-saint agnes, lived in this day, you would have felt something sharper than the executioner's sword; for being pure, you would have been dubbed the worst of women--being prayerful, you would have been called hypocrites--being faithful, you would have been suspected of all vileness--being loving, you would have been mocked at more bitterly than the soldiers of pontius pilate mocked christ; but you would have been free--free to indulge your own opinions, for ours is the age of liberty. yet how much better for you to have died than have lived till now! absorbed in strange, half-morose, half-speculative fancies, i scarcely heard the close of the solemn service. i was roused by a delicate touch from my wife, and i woke, as it were, with a start, to hear the sonorous, crashing chords of the wedding-march in "lohengrin" thundering through the air. all was over: my wife was mine indeed--mine most thoroughly--mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot of a double marriage--mine to do as i would with "till death should us part." how long, i gravely mused, how long before death could come to do us this great service? and straightway i began counting, counting certain spaces of time that must elapse before--i was still absorbed in this mental arithmetic, even while i mechanically offered my arm to my wife as we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage register. so occupied was i in my calculations that i nearly caught myself murmuring certain numbers aloud. i checked this, and recalling my thoughts by a strong effort, i strove to appear interested and delighted, as i walked down the aisle with my beautiful bride, through the ranks of admiring and eager spectators. on reaching the outer doors of the chapel several flower-girls emptied their full and fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, i bade one of my servants distribute a bag of coins i had brought for the purpose, knowing from former experience that it would be needed. to tread across such a heap of flowers required some care, many of the blossoms clinging to nina's velvet train--we therefore moved forward slowly. just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large laughing eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw down in my path a cluster of red roses. a sudden fury of impotent passion possessed me, and i crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently that my wife raised her delicate eyebrows in amazement, and the pressing people who stood round us, shrugged their shoulders, and gazed at one another with looks of utter bewilderment--while the girl who had thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured, "santissima madonna! mi fa paura!" i bit my lip with vexation, inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior. i laughed lightly in answer to nina's unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry. "it is nothing--a mere fancy of mine. i hate red roses! they look to me like human blood in flower!" she shuddered slightly. "what a horrible idea! how can you think of such a thing?" i made no response, but assisted her into the carriage with elaborate care and courtesy; then entering it myself, we drove together back to the hotel, where the wedding breakfast awaited us. this is always a feast of general uneasiness and embarrassment everywhere, even in the sunny, pleasure-loving south; every one is glad when it is over, and when the flowery, unmeaning speeches and exaggerated compliments are brought to a fitting and happy conclusion. among my assembled guests, all of whom belonged to the best and most distinguished families in naples, there was a pervading atmosphere of undoubted chilliness: the women were dull, being rendered jealous of the bride's beauty and the richness of her white velvets and jewels; the men were constrained, and could scarcely force themselves into even the appearance of cordiality--they evidently thought that, with such wealth as mine, i would have done much better to remain a bachelor. in truth, italians, and especially neapolitans, are by no means enthusiastic concerning the supposititious joys of marriage. they are apt to shake their heads, and to look upon it as a misfortune rather than a blessing. "l'altare e la tomba dell' amore," is a very common saying with us, and very commonly believed. it was a relief to us all when we rose from the splendidly appointed table, and separated for a few hours. we were to meet again at the ball, which was fixed to commence at nine o'clock in the evening. the cream of the event was to be tasted then--the final toasting of the bride was to take place then--then there would be music, mirth and dancing, and all the splendor of almost royal revelry. i escorted my wife with formal courtesy to a splendid apartment which had been prepared for her, for she had, as she told me, many things to do--as, for instance, to take off her bridal robes, to study every detail of her wondrous ball costume for the night, and to superintend her maid in the packing of her trunks for the next day's journey. the next day! i smiled grimly--i wondered how she would enjoy her trip! then i kissed her hand with the most profound respect and left her to repose--to refresh and prepare herself for the brilliant festivity of the evening. our marriage customs are not as coarse as those of some countries; a bridegroom in italy thinks it scarcely decent to persecute his bride with either his presence or his caresses as soon as the church has made her his. on the contrary, if ardent, he restrains his ardor--he forbears to intrude, he strives to keep up the illusion, the rose-colored light, or rather mist, of love as long as possible, and he has a wise, instinctive dread of becoming overfamiliar; well knowing that nothing kills romance so swiftly and surely as the bare blunt prose of close and constant proximity. and i, like other gentlemen of my rank and class, gave my twice-wedded wife her liberty--the last hours of liberty she would ever know. i left her to busy herself with the trifles she best loved--trifles of dress and personal adornment, for which many women barter away their soul's peace and honor, and divest themselves of the last shred of right and honest principle merely to outshine others of their own sex, and sow broadcast heart-burnings, petty envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites, where, if they did but choose, there might be a widely different harvest. it is easy to understand the feelings of marie stuart when she arrayed herself in her best garments for her execution: it was simply the heroism of supreme vanity, the desire to fascinate if possible the very headsman. one can understand any beautiful woman being as brave as she. harder than death itself would it have seemed to her had she been compelled to appear on the scaffold looking hideous. she was resolved to make the most of her charms so long as life lasted. i thought of that sweet-lipped, luscious-smiling queen as i parted from my wife for a few brief hours: royal and deeply injured lady though she was, she merited her fate, for she was treacherous--there can be no doubt of that. yet most people reading her her story pity her--i know not why. it is strange that so much of the world's sympathy is wasted on false women! i strolled into one of the broad loggie of the hotel, from whence i could see a portion of the piazza del popolo, and lighting a cigar, i leisurely watched the frolics of the crowd. the customary fooling proper to the day was going on, and no detail of it seemed to pall on the good-natured, easily amused folks who must have seen it all so often before. much laughter was being excited by the remarks of a vender of quack medicines, who was talking with extreme volubility to a number of gayly dressed girls and fishermen. i could not distinguish his words, but i judged he was selling the "elixir of love," from his absurd amatory gestures--an elixir compounded, no doubt, of a little harmless eau sucre. flags tossed on the breeze, trumpets brayed, drums beat; improvisatores twanged their guitars and mandolins loudly to attract attention, and failing in their efforts, swore at each other with the utmost joviality and heartiness; flower-girls and lemonade-sellers made the air ring with their conflicting cries: now and then a shower of chalky confetti flew out from adjacent windows, dusting with white powder the coats of the passers-by; clusters of flowers tied with favors of gay-colored ribbon were lavishly flung at the feet of bright-eyed peasant girls, who rejected or accepted them at pleasure, with light words of badinage or playful repartee; clowns danced and tumbled, dogs barked, church bells clanged, and through all the waving width of color and movement crept the miserable, shrinking forms of diseased and loathly beggars whining for a soldo, and clad in rags that barely covered their halting, withered limbs. it was a scene to bewilder the brain and dazzle the eyes, and i was just turning away from it out of sheer fatigue, when a sudden cessation of movement in the swaying, whirling crowd, and a slight hush, caused me to look out once more. i perceived the cause of the momentary stillness--a funeral cortege appeared, moving at a slow and solemn pace; as it passed across the square, heads were uncovered, and women crossed themselves devoutly. like a black shadowy snake it coiled through the mass of shifting color and brilliance--another moment, and it was gone. the depressing effect of its appearance was soon effaced--the merry crowds resumed their thousand and one freaks of folly, their shrieking, laughing and dancing, and all was as before. why not? the dead are soon forgotten; none knew that better than i! leaning my arms lazily on the edge of the balcony, i finished smoking my cigar. that glimpse of death in the midst of life had filled me with a certain satisfaction. strangely enough, my thoughts began to busy themselves with the old modes of torture that used to be legal, and that, after all, were not so unjust when practiced upon persons professedly vile. for instance, the iron coffin of lissa--that ingeniously contrived box in which the criminal was bound fast hand and foot, and then was forced to watch the huge lid descending slowly, slowly, slowly, half an inch at a time, till at last its ponderous weight crushed into a flat and mangled mass the writhing wretch within, who had for long agonized hours watched death steadily approaching. suppose that _i_ had such a coffin now! i stopped my train of reflection with a slight shudder. no, no; she whom i sought to punish was so lovely, such a softly colored, witching, gracious body, though tenanted by a wicked soul--she should keep her beauty! i would not destroy that--i would be satisfied with my plan as already devised. i threw away the end of my smoked-out cigar and entered my own rooms. calling vincenzo, who was now resigned and even eager to go to avellino, i gave him his final instructions, and placed in his charge the iron cash-box, which, unknown to him, contained , francs in notes and gold. this was the last good action i could do: it was a sufficient sum to set him up as a well-to-do farmer and fruit-grower in avellino with lilla and her little dowry combined. he also carried a sealed letter to signora monti, which i told him she was not to open till a week had elapsed; this letter explained the contents of the box and my wishes concerning it; it also asked the good woman to send to the villa romani for assunta and her helpless charge, poor old paralyzed giacomo, and to tend the latter as well as she could till his death, which i knew could not be far off. i had thought of everything as far as possible, and i could already foresee what a happy, peaceful home there would be in the little mountain town guarded by the monte vergine. lilla and vincenzo would wed, i knew; signora monti and assunta would console each other with their past memories and in the tending of lilla's children; for some little time, perhaps, they would talk of me and wonder sorrowfully where i had gone; then gradually they would forget me, even as i desired to be forgotten. yes; i had done all i could for those who had never wronged me. i had acquitted myself of my debt to vincenzo for his affection and fidelity; the rest of my way was clear. i had no more to do save the one thing, the one deed which had clamored so long for accomplishment. revenge, like a beckoning ghost, had led me on step by step for many weary days and months, which to me had seemed cycles of suffering; but now it paused--it faced me--and turning its blood-red eyes upon my soul said, "strike!" chapter xxxv. the ball opened brilliantly. the rooms were magnificently decorated, and the soft luster of a thousand lamps shone on a scene of splendor almost befitting the court of a king. some of the stateliest nobles in all italy were present, their breasts glittering with jeweled orders and ribbons of honor; some of the loveliest women to be seen anywhere in the world flitted across the polished floors, like poets' dreams of the gliding sylphs that haunt rivers and fountains by moonlight. but fairest where all were fair, peerless in the exuberance of her triumphant vanity, and in the absolute faultlessness of her delicate charms, was my wife--the bride of the day, the heroine of the night. never had she looked so surpassingly beautiful, and i, even i, felt my pulse beat quicker, and the blood course more hotly through my veins, as i beheld her, radiant, victorious, and smiling--a veritable queen of the fairies, as dainty as a drop of dew, as piercing to the eye as a flash of light. her dress was some wonderful mingling of misty lace, with the sheen of satin and glimmering showers of pearl; diamonds glittered on her bodice like sunlight on white foam; the brigand's jewels flashed gloriously on her round white throat and in her tiny shell-like ears, while the masses of her gold hair were coiled to the top of her small head and there caught by a priceless circlet of rose-brilliants--brilliants that i well remembered--they had belonged to my mother. yet more lustrous than the light of the gems she wore was the deep, ardent glory of her eyes, dark as night and luminous as stars; more delicate than the filmy robes that draped her was the pure, pearl-like whiteness of her neck, which was just sufficiently displayed to be graceful without suggesting immodesty. for italian women do not uncover their bosoms for the casual inspection of strangers, as is the custom of their english and german sisters; they know well enough that any lady venturing to wear a decollete dress would find it impossible to obtain admittance to a court ball at the palazzo quirinale. she would be looked upon as one of a questionable class, and no matter how high her rank and station, would run the risk of ejection from the doors, as on one occasion did unfortunately happen to an english peeress, who, ignorant of italian customs, went to an evening reception in rome arrayed in a very low bodice with straps instead of sleeves. her remonstrances were vain; she was politely but firmly refused admittance, though told she might gain her point by changing her costume, which i believe she wisely did. some of the grandes dames present at the ball that night wore dresses the like of which are seldom or never seen out of italy--robes sown with jewels, and thick with wondrous embroidery, such as have been handed down from generation to generation through hundreds of years. as an example of this, the duchess of marina's cloth of gold train, stitched with small rubies and seed-pearls, had formerly belonged to the family of lorenzo de medici. such garments as these, when they are part of the property of a great house, are worn only on particular occasions, perhaps once in a year; and then they are laid carefully by and sedulously protected from dust and moths and damp, receiving as much attention as the priceless pictures and books of a famous historical mansion. nothing ever designed by any great modern tailor or milliner can hope to compete with the magnificent workmanship and durable material of the festa dresses that are locked preciously away in the old oaken coffers of the greatest italian families--dresses that are beyond valuation, because of the romances and tragedies attached to them, and which, when worn, make all the costliest fripperies of to-day look flimsy and paltry beside them, like the attempts of a servant to dress as tastefully as her mistress. such glitter of gold and silver, such scintillations from the burning eyes of jewels, such cloud-like wreaths of floating laces, such subtle odors of rare and exquisite perfume, all things that most keenly prick and stimulate the senses were round me in fullest force this night--this one dazzling, supreme and terrible night, that was destined to burn into my brain like a seal of scorching fire. yes; till i die, that night will remain with me as though it were a breathing, sentient thing; and after death, who knows whether it may not uplift itself in some tangible, awful shape, and confront me with its flashing mock-luster, and the black heart of its true meaning in its menacing eyes, to take its drear place by the side of my abandoned soul through all eternity! i remember now how i shivered and started out of the bitter reverie into which i had fallen at the sound of my wife's low, laughing voice. "you must dance, cesare," she said, with a mischievous smile. "you are forgetting your duties. you should open the ball with me!" i rose at once mechanically. "what dance is it?" i asked, forcing a smile. "i fear you will find me but a clumsy partner." she pouted. "oh, surely not! you are not going to disgrace me--you really must try and dance properly just this once. it will look so stupid if you make any mistake. the band was going to play a quadrille; i would not have it, and told them to strike up the hungarian waltz instead. but i assure you i shall never forgive you if you waltz badly--nothing looks so awkward and absurd." i made no answer, but placed my arm round her waist and stood ready to begin. i avoided looking at her as much as possible, for it was growing more and more difficult with each moment that passed to hold the mastery over myself. i was consumed between hate and love. yes, love!--of an evil kind, i own, and in which there was no shred of reverence--filled me with a sort of foolish fury, which mingled itself with another and manlier craving, namely, to proclaim her vileness then and there before all her titled and admiring friends, and to leave her shamed in the dust of scorn, despised and abandoned. yet i knew well that were i to speak out--to declare my history and hers before that brilliant crowd--i should be accounted mad, and that for a woman such as she there existed no shame. the swinging measure of the slow hungarian waltz, that most witching of dances, danced perfectly only by those of the warm-blooded southern temperament, now commenced. it was played pianissimo, and stole through the room like the fluttering breath of a soft sea wind. i had always been an excellent waltzer, and my step had fitted in with that of nina as harmoniously as the two notes of a perfect chord. she found it so on this occasion, and glanced up with a look of gratified surprise as i bore her lightly with languorous, dreamlike ease of movement through the glittering ranks of our guests, who watched us admiringly as we circled the room two or three times. then--all present followed our lead, and in a couple of minutes the ball-room was like a moving flower-garden in full bloom, rich with swaying colors and rainbow-like radiance; while the music, growing stronger, and swelling out in marked and even time, echoed forth like the sound of clear-toned bells broken through by the singing of birds. my heart beat furiously, my brain reeled, my senses swam as i felt my wife's warm breath on my cheek; i clasped her waist more closely, i held her little gloved hand more firmly. she felt the double pressure, and, lifting her white eyelids fringed with those long dark lashes that gave such a sleepy witchery to her eyes, her lips parted in a little smile. "at last you love me!" she whispered. "at last, at last," i muttered, scarce knowing what i said. "had i not loved you at first, bellissima, i should not have been to you what i am to-night." a low ripple of laughter was her response. "i knew it," she murmured again, half breathlessly, as i drew her with swifter and more voluptuous motion into the vortex of the dancers. "you tried to be cold, but i knew i could make you love me--yes, love me passionately--and i was right." then with an outburst of triumphant vanity she added, "i believe you would die for me!" i bent over her more closely. my hot quick breath moved the feathery gold of her hair. "i have died for you," i said; "i have killed my old self for your sake." dancing still, encircled by my arms, and gliding along like a sea-nymph on moonlighted foam, she sighed restlessly. "tell me what you mean, amor mio," she asked, in the tenderest tone in the world. ah, god! that tender seductive cadence of her voice, how well i knew it!--how often had it lured away my strength, as the fabled siren's song had been wont to wreck the listening mariner. "i mean that you have changed me, sweetest!" i whispered, in fierce, hurried accents. "i have seemed old--for you to-night i will be young again--for you my chilled slow blood shall again be hot and quick as lava--for you my long-buried past shall rise in all its pristine vigor; for you i will be a lover, such as perhaps no woman ever had or ever will have again!" she heard, and nestled closer to me in the dance. my words pleased her. next to her worship of wealth her delight was to arouse the passions of men. she was very panther-like in her nature--her first tendency was to devour, her next to gambol with any animal she met, though her sleek, swift playfulness might mean death. she was by no means exceptional in this; there are many women like her. as the music of the waltz grew slower and slower, dropping down to a sweet and persuasive conclusion, i led my wife to her fauteuil, and resigned her to the care of a distinguished roman prince who was her next partner. then, unobserved, i slipped out to make inquiries concerning vincenzo. he had gone; one of the waiters at the hotel, a friend of his, had accompanied him and seen him into the train for avellino. he had looked in at the ball-room before leaving, and had watched me stand up to dance with my wife, then "with tears in his eyes"--so said the vivacious little waiter who had just returned from the station--he had started without daring to wish me good-bye. i heard this information of course with an apparent kindly indifference, but in my heart i felt a sudden vacancy, a drear, strange loneliness. with my faithful servant near me i had felt conscious of the presence of a friend, for friend he was in his own humble, unobtrusive fashion; but now i was alone--alone in a loneliness beyond all conceivable comparison--alone to do my work, without prevention or detection. i felt, as it were, isolated from humanity, set apart with my victim on some dim point of time, from which the rest of the world receded, where the searching eye of the creator alone could behold me. only she and i and god--these three were all that existed for me in the universe; between these three must justice be fulfilled. musingly, with downcast eyes, i returned to the ball-room. at the door a young girl faced me--she was the only daughter of a great neapolitan house. dressed in pure white, as all such maidens are, with a crown of snow-drops on her dusky hair, and her dimpled face lighted with laughter, she looked the very embodiment of early spring. she addressed me somewhat timidly, yet with all a child's frankness. "is not this delightful? i feel as if i were in fairy-land! do you know this is my first ball?" i smiled wearily. "ay, truly? and you are happy?" "oh, happiness is not the word--it is ecstasy! how i wish it could last forever! and--is it not strange?--i did not know i was beautiful till to-night." she said this with perfect simplicity, and a pleased smile radiated her fair features. i glanced at her with cold scrutiny. "ah! and some one has told you so." she blushed and laughed a little consciously. "yes; the great prince de majano. and he is too noble to say what is not true, so i must be 'la piu bella donzella,' as he said, must i not?" i touched the snow-drops that she wore in a white cluster at her breast. "look at your flowers, child," i said, earnestly. "see how they begin to droop in this heated air. the poor things! how glad they would feel could they again grow in the cool wet moss of the woodlands, waving their little bells to the wholesome, fresh wind! would they revive now, think you, for your great prince de majano if he told them they were fair? so with your life and heart, little one--pass them through the scorching fire of flattery, and their purity must wither even as these fragile blossoms. and as for beauty--are you more beautiful than she?" and i pointed slightly to my wife, who was at that moment courtesying to her partner in the stately formality of the first quadrille. my young companion looked, and her clear eyes darkened enviously. "ah, no, no! but if i wore such lace and satin and pearls, and had such jewels, i might perhaps be more like her!" i sighed bitterly. the poison had already entered this child's soul. i spoke brusquely. "pray that you may never be like her," i said, with somber sternness, and not heeding her look of astonishment. "you are young--you cannot yet have thrown off religion. well, when you go home to-night, and kneel beside your little bed, made holy by the cross above it and your mother's blessing--pray--pray with all your strength that you may never resemble in the smallest degree that exquisite woman yonder! so may you be spared her fate." i paused, for the girl's eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear. i looked at her, and laughed abruptly and harshly. "i forgot," i said; "the lady is my wife--i should have thought of that! i was speaking of--another whom you do not know. pardon me! when i am fatigued my memory wanders. pay no attention to my foolish remarks. enjoy yourself, my child, but do not believe all the pretty speeches of the prince de majano. a rivederci!" and smiling a forced smile i left her, and mingled with the crowd of my guests, greeting one here, another there, jesting lightly, paying unmeaning compliments to the women who expected them, and striving to distract my thoughts with the senseless laughter and foolish chatter of the glittering cluster of society butterflies, all the while desperately counting the tedious minutes, and wondering whether my patience, so long on the rack, would last out its destined time. as i made my way through the brilliant assemblage, luziano salustri, the poet, greeted me with a grave smile. "i have had little time to congratulate you, conte," he said, in those mellifluous accents of his which were like his own improvised music, "but i assure you i do so with all my heart. even in my most fantastic dreams i have never pictured a fairer heroine of a life's romance than the lady who is now the countess oliva." i silently bowed my thanks. "i am of a strange temperament, i suppose," he resumed. "to-night this ravishing scene of beauty and splendor makes me sad at heart, i know not why. it seems too brilliant, too dazzling. i would as soon go home and compose a dirge as anything." i laughed satirically. "why not do it?" i said. "you are not the first person who, being present at a marriage, has, with perverse incongruity, meditated on a funeral!" a wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes. "i have thought once or twice," he remarked in a low tone, "of that misguided young man ferrari. a pity, was it not, that the quarrel occurred between you?" "a pity indeed!" i replied, brusquely. then taking him by the arm i turned him round so that he faced my wife, who was standing not far off. "but look at the--the--angel i have married! is she not a fair cause for a dispute even unto death? fy on thee, luziano!--why think of ferrari? he is not the first man who has been killed for the sake of a woman, nor will he be the last!" salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two. then he added with his own bright smile: "still, amico, it would have been much better if it had ended in coffee and cognac. myself, i would rather shoot a man with an epigram than a leaden bullet! by the way, do you remember our talking of cain and abel that night?" "perfectly." "i have wondered since," he continued half merrily, half seriously, "whether the real cause of their quarrel has ever been rightly told. i should not be at all surprised if one of these days some savant does not discover a papyrus containing a missing page of holy writ, which will ascribe the reason of the first bloodshed to a love affair. perhaps there were wood nymphs in those days, as we are assured there were giants, and some dainty dryad might have driven the first pair of human brothers to desperation by her charms! what say you?" "it is more than probable," i answered, lightly. "make a poem of it, salustri; people will say you have improved on the bible!" and i left him with a gay gesture to join other groups, and to take my part in the various dances which were now following quickly on one another. the supper was fixed to take place at midnight. at the first opportunity i had, i looked at the time. quarter to eleven!--my heart beat quickly, the blood rushed to my temples and surged noisily in my ears. the hour i had waited for so long and so eagerly had come! at last! at last! * * * * * slowly and with a hesitating step i approached my wife. she was resting after her exertions in the dance, and reclined languidly in a low velvet chair, chatting gayly with that very prince de majano whose honeyed compliments had partly spoiled the budding sweet nature of the youngest girl in the room. apologizing for interrupting the conversation, i lowered my voice to a persuasive tenderness as i addressed her. "cara, sposina mia! permit me to remind you of your promise." what a radiant look she gave me! "i am all impatience to fulfill it! tell me when--and how?" "almost immediately. you know the private passage through which we entered the hotel this morning on our return from church?" "perfectly." "well, meet me there in twenty minutes. we must avoid being observed as we pass out. but," and i touched her delicate dress, "you will wear something warmer than this?" "i have a long sable cloak that will do," she replied, brightly. "we are not going far?" "no, not far." "we shall return in time for supper, of course?" i bent my head. "naturally!" her eyes danced mirthfully. "how romantic it seems! a moonlight stroll with you will be charming! who shall say you are not a sentimental bridegroom? is there a bright moon?" "i believe so." "cosa bellissima!" and she laughed sweetly. "i look forward to the trip! in twenty minutes then i shall be with you at the place you name, cesare; in the meanwhile the marchese gualdro claims me for this mazurka." and she turned with her bewitching grace of manner to the marchese, who at that moment advanced with his courteous bow and fascinating smile, and i watched them as they glided forward together in the first figure of the elegant polish dance, in which all lovely women look their loveliest. then, checking the curse that rose to my lips, i hurried away. up to my own room i rushed with feverish haste, full of impatience to be rid of the disguise i had worn so long. within a few minutes i stood before my mirror, transformed into my old self as nearly as it was possible to be. i could not alter the snowy whiteness of my hair, but a few deft quick strokes of the razor soon divested me of the beard that had given me so elderly an aspect, and nothing remained but the mustache curling slightly up at the corners of the lip, as i had worn it in past days. i threw aside the dark glasses, and my eyes, densely brilliant, and fringed with the long lashes that had always been their distinguishing feature, shone with all the luster of strong and vigorous youth. i straightened myself up to my full height, i doubled my fist and felt it hard as iron; i laughed aloud in the triumphant power of my strong manhood. i thought of the old rag-dealing jew--"you could kill anything easily." ay, so i could!--even without the aid of the straight swift steel of the milanese dagger which i now drew from its sheath and regarded steadfastly, while i carefully felt the edge of the blade from hilt to point. should i take it with me? i hesitated. yes! it might be needed. i slipped it safely and secretly into my vest. and now the proofs--the proofs! i had them all ready to my hand, and gathered them quickly together; first the things that had been buried with me--the gold chain on which hung the locket containing the portraits of my wife and child, the purse and card-case which nina herself had given me, the crucifix the monk had laid on my breast in the coffin. the thought of that coffin moved me to a stern smile--that splintered, damp, and moldering wood must speak for itself by and by. lastly i took the letters sent me by the marquis d'avencourt--the beautiful, passionate love epistles she had written to guido ferrari in rome. now, was that all? i thoroughly searched both my rooms, ransacking every corner. i had destroyed everything that could give the smallest clew to my actions; i left nothing save furniture and small valuables, a respectable present enough in their way, to the landlord of the hotel. i glanced again at myself in the mirror. yes; i was once more fabio romani, in spite of my white hair; no one that had ever known me intimately could doubt my identity. i had changed my evening dress for a rough, every-day suit, and now over this i threw my long almaviva cloak, which draped me from head to foot. i kept its folds well up about my mouth and chin, and pulled on a soft slouched hat, with the brim far down over my eyes. there was nothing unusual in such a costume; it was common enough to many neapolitans who have learned to dread the chill night winds that blow down from the lofty apennines in early spring. thus attired, too, i knew my features would be almost invisible to her more especially as the place of our rendezvous was a long dim entresol lighted only by a single oil-lamp, a passage that led into the garden, one that was only used for private purposes, having nothing to do with the ordinary modes of exit and entrance to and from the hotel. into this hall i now hurried with an eager step; it was deserted; she was not there. impatiently i waited--the minutes seemed hours! sounds of music floated toward me from the distant ball-room--the dreamy, swinging measure of a viennese waltz. i could almost hear the flying feet of the dancers. i was safe from all observation where i stood--the servants were busy preparing the grand marriage supper, and all the inhabitants of the hotel were absorbed in watching the progress of the brilliant and exceptional festivities of the night. would she never come? suppose, after all, she should escape me! i trembled at the idea, then put it from me with a smile at my own folly. no, her punishment was just, and in her case the fates were inflexible. so i thought and felt. i paced up and down feverishly; i could count the thick, heavy throbs of my own heart. how long the moments seemed! would she never come? ah! at last! i caught the sound of a rustling robe and a light step--a breath of delicate fragrance was wafted on the air like the odor of falling orange-blossoms. i turned, and saw her approaching. with swift grace she ran up to me as eagerly as a child, her heavy cloak of rich russian sable falling back from her shoulders and displaying her glittering dress, the dark fur of the hood heightening by contrast the fairness of her lovely flushed face, so that it looked like the face of one of correggio's angels framed in ebony and velvet. she laughed, and her eyes flashed saucily. "did i keep you waiting, caro mio?" she whispered; and standing on tiptoe she kissed the hand with which i held my cloak muffled about me. "how tall you look in that almaviva! i am so sorry i am a little late, but that last waltz was so exquisite i could not resist it; only i wish you had danced it with me." "you honor me by the wish," i said, keeping one arm about her waist and drawing her toward the door that opened into the garden. "tell me, how did you manage to leave the ball-room?" "oh, easily. i slipped away from my partner at the end of the waltz, and told him i should return immediately. then i ran upstairs to my room, got my cloak--and here i am." and she laughed again. she was evidently in the highest spirits. "you are very good to come with me at all, mia bella," i murmured as gently as i could; "it is kind of you to thus humor my fancy. did you see your maid? does she know where you are going?" "she? oh, no, she was not in my room at all. she is a great coquette, you know; i dare say she is amusing herself with the waiters in the kitchen. poor thing! i hope she enjoys it." i breathed freely; we were so far undiscovered. no one had as yet noticed our departure--no one had the least clew to my intentions, i opened the door of the passage noiselessly, and we passed out. wrapping my wife's cloak more closely about her with much apparent tenderness, i led her quickly across the garden. there was no one in sight--we were entirely unobserved. on reaching the exterior gate of the inclosure i left her for a moment, while i summoned a carriage, a common fiacre. she expressed some surprise on seeing the vehicle. "i thought we were not going far?" she said. i reassured her on this point, telling her that i only desired to spare her all possible fatigue. satisfied with this explanation, she suffered me to assist her into the carriage. i followed her, and calling to the driver, "a la villa guarda," we rattled away over the rough uneven stones of the back streets of the city. "la villa guarda!" exclaimed nina. "where is that?" "it is an old house," i replied, "situated near the place i spoke to you of, where the jewels are." "oh!" and apparently contented, she nestled back in the carriage, permitting her head to rest lightly on my shoulder. i drew her closer to me, my heart beating with a fierce, terrible joy. "mine--mine at last!" i whispered in her ear. "mine forever!" she turned her face upward and smiled victoriously; her cool fragrant lips met my burning, eager ones in a close, passionate kiss. yes, i kissed her now--why should i not? she was as much mine as any purchased slave, and merited less respect than a sultan's occasional female toy. and as she chose to caress me, i let her do so: i allowed her to think me utterly vanquished by the battery of her charms. yet whenever i caught an occasional glimpse of her face as we drove along in the semi-darkness, i could not help wondering at the supreme vanity of the woman! her self-satisfaction was so complete, and, considering her approaching fate, so tragically absurd! she was entirely delighted with herself, her dress, and her conquest--as she thought--of me. who could measure the height of the dazzling visions she indulged in; who could fathom the depths of her utter selfishness! seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all--society knows i speak the truth--well dressed, for by the latter virtue alone is a woman allowed any precedence nowadays--would not all the less fortunate and lovely of her sex feel somewhat envious? ah, yes; they would and they do; but believe me, the selfish feminine thing, whose only sincere worship is offered at the shrines of fashion and folly, is of all creatures the one whose life is to be despised and never desired, and whose death makes no blank even in the circles of her so-called best friends. i knew well enough that there was not a soul in naples who was really attached to my wife--not one who would miss her, no, not even a servant--though she, in her superb self-conceit, imagined herself to be the adored beauty of the city. those who had indeed loved her she had despised, neglected, and betrayed. musingly i looked down upon her as she rested back in the carriage, encircled by my arm, while now and then a little sigh of absolute delight in herself broke from her lips--but we spoke scarcely at all. hate has almost as little to say as love! the night was persistently stormy, though no rain fell--the gale had increased in strength, and the white moon only occasionally glared out from the masses of white and gray cloud that rushed like flying armies across the sky, and her fitful light shone dimly, as though she were a spectral torch glimmering through a forest of shadow. now and again bursts of music, or the blare of discordant trumpets, reached our ears from the more distant thoroughfares where the people were still celebrating the feast of giovedi grasso, or the tinkle of passing mandolins chimed in with the rolling wheels of our carriage; but in a few moments we were out of reach of even such sounds as these. we passed the outer suburbs of the city and were soon on the open road. the man i had hired drove fast; he knew nothing of us, he was probably anxious to get back quickly to the crowded squares and illuminated quarters where the principal merriment of the evening was going on, and no doubt thought i showed but a poor taste in requiring to be driven away, even for a short distance, out of naples on such a night of feasting and folly. he stopped at last; the castellated turrets of the villa i had named were faintly visible among the trees; he jumped down from his box and came to us. "shall i drive up to the house?" he asked, looking as though he would rather be spared this trouble. "no," i answered, indifferently, "you need not. the distance is short, we will walk." and i stepped out into the road and paid him his money. "you seem anxious to get back to the city, my friend," i said, half jocosely. "si, davvero!" he replied, with decision, "i hope to get many a good fare from the count oliva's marriage-ball to-night." "ah! he is a rich fellow, that count," i said, as i assisted my wife to alight, keeping her cloak well muffled round her so that this common fellow should not perceive the glitter of her costly costume; "i wish i were he!" the man grinned and nodded emphatically. he had no suspicion of my identity. he took me, in all probability, for one of those "gay gallants" so common in naples, who, on finding at some public entertainment a "dama" to their taste, hurry her off, carefully cloaked and hooded, to a mysterious nook known only to themselves, where they can complete the romance of the evening entirely to their own satisfaction. bidding me a lively buona notte, he sprung on his box again, jerked his horse's head violently round with a volley of oaths, and drove away at a rattling pace. nina, standing on the road beside me, looked after him with a bewildered air. "could he not have waited to take us back?" she asked. "no," i answered, brusquely; "we shall return by a different route. come." and passing my arm round her, i led her onward. she shivered slightly, and there was a sound of querulous complaint in her voice as she said: "have we to go much further, cesare?" "three minutes, walk will bring us to our destination," i replied, briefly, adding in a softer tone, "are you cold?" "a little," and she gathered her sables more closely about her and pressed nearer to my side. the capricious moon here suddenly leaped forth like the pale ghost of a frenzied dancer, standing tiptoe on the edge of a precipitous chasm of black clouds. her rays, pallidly green and cold, fell full on the dreary stretch of land before us, touching up with luminous distinctness those white mysterious milestones of the campo santo which mark where the journeys of men, women, and children began and where they left off, but never explain in what new direction they are now traveling. my wife saw and stopped, trembling violently. "what place is this?" she asked, nervously. in all her life she had never visited a cemetery--she had too great a horror of death. "it is where i keep all my treasures," i answered, and my voice sounded strange and harsh in my own ears, while i tightened my grasp of her full, warm waist. "come with me, my beloved!" and in spite of my efforts, my tone was one of bitter mockery. "with me you need have no fear! come." and i led her on, too powerless to resist my force, too startled to speak--on, on, on, over the rank dewy grass and unmarked ancient graves--on, till the low frowning gate of the house of my dead ancestors faced me--on, on, on, with the strength of ten devils in my arm as i held her--on, on, on, to her just doom! chapter xxxvi. the moon had retreated behind a dense wall of cloud, and the landscape was enveloped in semi-darkness. reaching the door of the vault, i unlocked it; it opened instantly, and fell back with a sudden clang. she whom i held fast with my iron grip shrunk back, and strove to release herself from my grasp. "where are you going?" she demanded, in a faint tone. "i--i am afraid!" "of what?"--i asked, endeavoring to control the passionate vibrations of my voice and to speak unconcernedly. "because it is dark? we shall have a light directly--you will see--you--you," and to my own surprise i broke into a loud and violent laugh. "you have no cause to be frightened! come!" and i lifted her swiftly and easily over the stone step of the entrance and set her safely inside. inside at last, thank heaven! i shut the great gate upon us both and locked it! again that strange undesired laugh broke from my lips involuntarily, and the echoes of the charnel house responded to it with unearthly and ghastly distinctness. nina clung to me in the dense gloom. "why do you laugh like that?" she cried, loudly and impatiently. "it sounds horrible." i checked myself by a strong effort. "does it? i am sorry--very sorry! i laugh because--because, cara mia, our moonlight ramble is so pleasant--and amusing--is it not?" and i caught her to my heart and kissed her roughly. "now," i whispered, "i will carry you--the steps are too rough for your little feet--dear, dainty, white little feet! i will carry you, you armful of sweetness!--yes, carry you safely down into the fairy grotto where the jewels are--such jewels, and all for you--my love, my wife!" and i raised her from the ground as though she were a young, frail child. whether she tried to resist me or not i cannot now remember. i bore her down the moldering stairway, setting my foot on each crooked step with the firmness of one long familiar with the place. but my brain reeled--rings of red fire circled in the darkness before my eyes; every artery in my body seemed strained to bursting; the pent-up agony and fury of my soul were such that i thought i should go mad or drop down dead ere i gained the end of my long desire. as i descended i felt her clinging to me; her hands were cold and clammy on my neck, as though she were chilled to the blood with terror. at last i reached the lowest step--i touched the floor of the vault. i set my precious burden down. releasing my clasp of her, i remained for a moment inactive, breathing heavily. she caught my arm--she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "what place is this? where is the light you spoke of?" i made no answer. i moved from her side, and taking matches from my pocket, i lighted up six large candles which i had fixed in various corners of the vault the night previously. dazzled by the glare after the intense darkness, she did not at once perceive the nature of the place in which she stood. i watched her, myself still wrapped in the heavy cloak and hat that so effectually disguised my features. what a sight she was in that abode of corruption! lovely, delicate, and full of life, with the shine of her diamonds gleaming from under the folds of rich fur that shrouded her, and the dark hood falling back as though to display the sparkling wonder of her gold hair. suddenly, and with a violent shock, she realized the gloom of her surroundings--the yellow flare of the waxen torches showed her the stone niches, the tattered palls, the decaying trophies of armor, the drear shapes of worm-eaten coffins, and with a shriek of horror she rushed to me where i stood, as immovable as a statue clad in coat of mail, and throwing her arms about me clung to me in a frenzy of fear. "take me away, take me away!" she moaned, hiding her face against my breast. "'tis a vault--oh, santissima madonna!--a place for the dead! quick--quick! take me out to the air--let us go home--home--" she broke off abruptly, her alarm increasing at my utter silence. she gazed up at me with wild wet eyes. "cesare! cesare! speak! what ails you? why have you brought me here? touch me--kiss me! say something--anything--only speak!" and her bosom heaved convulsively; she sobbed with terror. i put her from me with a firm hand. i spoke in measured accents, tinged with some contempt. "hush, i pray you! this is no place for an hysterical scena. consider where you are! you have guessed aright--this is a vault--your own mausoleum, fair lady!--if i mistake not--the burial-place of the romani family." at these words her sobs ceased, as though they had been frozen in her throat; she stared at me in speechless fear and wonder. "here," i went on with methodical deliberation, "here lie all the great ancestors of your husband's family, heroes and martyrs in their day. here will your own fair flesh molder. here," and my voice grew deeper and more resolute, "here, six months ago, your husband himself, fabio romani, was buried." she uttered no sound, but gazed at me like some beautiful pagan goddess turned to stone by the furies. having spoken thus far i was silent, watching the effect of what i had said, for i sought to torture the very nerves of her base soul. at last her dry lips parted--her voice was hoarse and indistinct. "you must be mad!" she said, with smothered anger and horror in her tone. then seeing me still immovable, she advanced and caught my hand half commandingly, half coaxingly. i did not resist her. "come," she implored, "come away at once!" and she glanced about her with a shudder. "let us leave this horrible place; as for the jewels, if you keep them here, they may stay here; i would not wear them for the world! come." i interrupted her, holding her hand in a fierce grasp; i turned her abruptly toward a dark object lying on the ground near us--my own coffin broken asunder. i drew her close to it. "look!" i said in a thrilling whisper, "what is this? examine it well: it is a coffin of flimsiest wood, a cholera coffin! what says this painted inscription? nay, do not start! it bears your husband's name; he was buried in it. then how comes it to be open? where is he?" i felt her sway under me; a new and overwhelming terror had taken instant possession of her, her limbs refused to support her, she sunk on her knees. mechanically and feebly she repeated the words after me-- "where is he? where is he?" "ay!" and my voice rang out through the hollow vault, its passion restrained no more. "where is he?--the poor fool, the miserable, credulous dupe, whose treacherous wife played the courtesan under his very roof, while he loved and blindly trusted her? where is he? here, here!" and i seized her hands and forced her up from her kneeling posture. "i promised you should see me as i am! i swore to grow young to-night for your sake!--now i keep my word! look at me, nina!--look at me, my twice-wedded wife!--look at me!--do you not know your husband?" and throwing my dark habiliments from me, i stood before her undisguised! as though some defacing disease had swept over her at my words and look, so her beauty suddenly vanished. her face became drawn and pinched and almost old--her lips turned blue, her eyes grew glazed, and strained themselves from their sockets to stare at me; her very hands looked thin and ghost-like as she raised them upward with a frantic appealing gesture; there was a sort of gasping rattle in her throat as she drew herself away from me with a convulsive gesture of aversion, and crouched on the floor as though she sought to sink through it and thus avoid my gaze. "oh, no, no, no!" she moaned, wildly, "not fabio!--no, it cannot be--fabio is dead--dead! and you!--you are mad!--this is some cruel jest of yours--some trick to frighten me!" she broke off breathlessly, and her large, terrified eyes wandered to mine again with a reluctant and awful wonder. she attempted to arise from her crouching position; i approached, and assisted her to do so with ceremonious politeness. she trembled violently at my touch, and slowly staggering to her feet, she pushed back her hair from her forehead and regarded me fixedly with a searching, anguished look, first of doubt, then of dread, and lastly of convinced and hopeless certainty, for she suddenly covered her eyes with her hands as though to shut out some repulsive object and broke into a low wailing sound like that of one in bitter physical pain. i laughed scornfully. "well, do you know me at last?" i cried. "'tis true i have somewhat altered. this hair of mine was black, if you remember--it is white enough now, blanched by the horrors of a living death such as you cannot imagine, but which," and i spoke more slowly and impressively, "you may possibly experience ere long. yet in spite of this change i think you know me! that is well. i am glad your memory serves you thus far!" a low sound that was half a sob and half a cry broke from her. "oh, no, no!" she muttered, again, incoherently--"it cannot be! it must be false--it is some vile plot--it cannot be true! true! oh, heaven! it would be too cruel, too horrible!" i strode up to her. i drew her hands away from her eyes and grasped them tightly in my own. "hear me!" i said, in clear, decisive tones. "i have kept silence, god knows, with a long patience, but now--now i can speak. yes! you thought me dead--you had every reason to think so, you had every proof to believe so. how happy my supposed death made you! what a relief it was to you!--what an obstruction removed from your path! but--i was buried alive!" she uttered a faint shriek of terror, and looking wildly about her, strove to wrench her hands from my clasp. i held them more closely. "ay, think of it, wife of mine!--you to whom luxury has been second nature, think of this poor body straightened in a helpless swoon, packed and pressed into yonder coffin and nailed up fast, shut out from the blessed light and air, as one would have thought, forever! who could have dreamed that life still lingered in me--life still strong enough to split asunder the boards that inclosed me, and leave them shattered, as you see them now!" she shuddered and glanced with aversion toward the broken coffin, and again tried to loosen her hands from mine. she looked at me with a burning anger in her face. "let me go!" she panted. "madman! liar!--let me go!" i released her instantly and stood erect, regarding her fixedly. "i am no madman," i said, composedly; "and you know as well as i do that i speak the truth. when i escaped from that coffin i found myself a prisoner in this very vault--this house of my perished ancestry, where, if old legends could be believed, the very bones that are stored up here would start and recoil from your presence as pollution to the dead, whose creed was honor." the sound of her sobbing breath ceased suddenly; she fixed her eyes on mine; they glittered defiantly. "for one long awful night," i resumed, "i suffered here. i might have starved--or perished of thirst. i thought no agony could surpass what i endured! but i was mistaken: there was a sharper torment in store for me. i discovered a way of escape; with grateful tears i thanked god for my rescue, for liberty, for life! oh, what a fool was i! how could i dream that my death was so desired!--how could i know that i had better far have died than have returned to such a home!" her lips moved, but she uttered no word; she shivered as though with intense cold. i drew nearer to her. "perhaps you doubt my story?" she made no answer. a rapid impulse of fury possessed me. "speak!" i cried, fiercely, "or by the god above us i will make you! speak!" and i drew the dagger i carried from my vest. "speak the truth for once--'twill be difficult to you who love lies--but this time i must be answered! tell me, do you know me? do you or do you not believe that i am indeed your husband--your living husband, fabio romani?" she gasped for breath. the sight of my infuriated figure--the glitter of the naked steel before her eyes--the suddenness of my action, the horror of her position, all terrified her into speech. she flung herself down before me in an attitude of abject entreaty. she found her voice at last. "mercy! mercy!" she cried. "oh, god! you will not kill me? anything--anything but death; i am too young to die! yes, yes; i know you are fabio--fabio, my husband, fabio, whom i thought dead--fabio--oh!" and she sobbed convulsively. "you said you loved me to-day--when you married me! why did you marry me? i was your wife already--why--why? oh, horrible, horrible! i see--i understand it all now! but do not, do not kill me, fabio--i am afraid to die!" and she hid her face at my feet and groveled there. as quickly calmed as i had been suddenly furious, i put back the dagger. i smoothed my voice and spoke with mocking courtesy. "pray do not alarm yourself," i said, coolly. "i have not the slightest intention of killing you! i am no vulgar murderer, yielding to mere brute instincts. you forget: a neapolitan has hot passions, but he also has finesse, especially in matters of vengeance. i brought you here to tell you of my existence, and to confront you with the proofs of it. rise, i beg of you, we have plenty of time to talk; with a little patience i shall make things clear to you--rise!" she obeyed me, lifting herself up reluctantly with a long, shuddering sigh. as she stood upright i laughed contemptuously. "what! no love words for me?" i cried, "not one kiss, not one smile, not one word of welcome? you say you know me--well!--are you not glad to see your husband?--you, who were such an inconsolable widow?" a strange quiver passed over her face--she wrung her hands together hard, but she said no word. "listen!" i said, "there is more to tell. when i broke loose from the grasp of death, when i came home--i found my vacant post already occupied. i arrived in time to witness a very pretty pastoral play. the scene was the ilex avenue--the actors, you, my wife, and guido, my friend!" she raised her head and uttered a low exclamation of fear. i advanced a step or two and spoke more rapidly. "you hear? there was moonlight, and the song of nightingales--yes; the stage effects were perfect! _i_ watched the progress of the comedy--with what emotions you may imagine. i learned much that was news to me. i became aware that for a lady of your large heart and sensitive feelings one husband was not sufficient"--here i laid my hand on her shoulder and gazed into her face, while her eyes, dilated with terror, stared hopelessly up to mine--"and that within three little months of your marriage to me you provided yourself with another. nay, no denial can serve you! guido ferrari was husband to you in all things but the name. i mastered the situation--i rose to the emergency. trick for trick, comedy for comedy! you know the rest. as the count oliva you can not deny that i acted well! for the second time i courted you, but not half so eagerly as you courted me! for the second time i have married you! who shall deny that you are most thoroughly mine--mine, body and soul, till death do us part!" and i loosened my grasp of her: she writhed from me like some glittering wounded serpent. the tears had dried on her cheeks, her features were rigid and wax-like as the features of a corpse; only her dark eyes shone, and these seemed preternaturally large, and gleamed with an evil luster. i moved a little away, and turning my own coffin on its side, i sat down upon it as indifferently as though it were an easy-chair in a drawing-room. glancing at her then, i saw a wavering light upon her face. some idea had entered into her mind. she moved gradually from the wall where she leaned, watching me fearfully as she did so. i made no attempt to stir from the seat i occupied. slowly, slowly, still keeping her eyes on me, she glided step by step onward and passed me--then with a sudden rush she reached the stairway and bounded up it with the startled haste of a hunted deer. i smiled to myself. i heard her shaking the iron gateway to and fro with all her feeble strength; she called aloud for help several times. only the sullen echoes of the vault answered her, and the wild whistle of the wind as it surged through the trees of the cemetery. at last she screamed furiously, as a savage cat might scream--the rustle of her silken robes came swiftly sweeping down the steps, and with a spring like that of a young tigress she confronted me, the blood now burning wrathfully in her face, and transforming it back to something of its old beauty. "unlock that door!" she cried, with a furious stamp of her foot. "assassin! traitor! i hate you! i always hated you! unlock the door, i tell you! you dare not disobey me; you have no right to murder me!" i looked at her coldly; the torrent of her words was suddenly checked, something in my expression daunted her; she trembled and shrunk back. "no right!" i said, mockingly. "i differ from you! a man once married has some right over his wife, but a man twice married to the same woman has surely gained a double authority! and as for 'dare not!' there is nothing i 'dare not' do to-night." and with that i rose and approached her. a torrent of passionate indignation boiled in my veins; i seized her two white arms and held her fast. "you talk of murder!" i muttered, fiercely. "you--you who have remorselessly murdered two men! their blood be on your head! for though i live, i am but the moving corpse of the man i was--hope, faith, happiness, peace--all things good and great in me have been slain by you. and as for guido--" she interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry. "he loved me! guido loved me!" "ay, he loved you, oh, devil in the shape of a woman! he loved you! come here, here!" and in a fury i could not restrain i dragged her, almost lifted her along to one corner of the vault, where the light of the torches scarcely illumined the darkness, and there i pointed upward. "above our very heads--to the left of where we stand--the brave strong body of your lover lies, festering slowly in the wet mould, thanks to you!--the fair, gallant beauty of it all marred by the red-mouthed worms--the thick curls of hair combed through by the crawling feet of vile insects--the poor frail heart pierced by a gaping wound--" "you killed him; you--you are to blame," she moaned, restlessly, striving to turn her face away from me. "_i_ killed him? no, no, not i, but you! he died when he learned your treachery--when he knew you were false to him for the sake of wedding a supposed wealthy stranger--my pistol-shot but put him out of torment. you! you were glad of his death--as glad as when you thought of mine! you talk of murder! oh, vilest among women! if i could murder you twenty times over, what then? your sins outweigh all punishment!" and i flung her from me with a gesture of contempt and loathing. this time my words had struck home. she cowered before me in horror--her sables were loosened and scarcely protected her, the richness of her ball costume was fully displayed, and the diamonds on her bosom heaved restlessly up and down as she panted with excitement, rage and fear. "i do not see," she muttered, sullenly, "why you should blame me! i am no worse than other women!" "no worse! no worse!" i cried. "shame, shame upon you that thus outrage your sex! learn for once what men think of unfaithful wives--for may be you are ignorant. the novels you have read in your luxurious, idle hours have perhaps told you that infidelity is no sin--merely a little social error easily condoned, or set right by the divorce court. yes! modern books and modern plays teach you so: in them the world swerves upside down, and vice looks like virtue. but _i_ will tell you what may seem to you a strange and wonderful thing! there is no mean animal, no loathsome object, no horrible deformity of nature so utterly repulsive to a true man as a faithless wife! the cowardly murderer who lies in wait for his victim behind some dark door, and stabs him in the back as he passes by unarmed--he, i say, is more to be pardoned than the woman who takes a husband's name, honor, position, and reputation among his fellows, and sheltering herself with these, passes her beauty promiscuously about like some coarse article of commerce, that goes to the highest bidder! ay, let your french novels and books of their type say what they will--infidelity is a crime, a low, brutal crime, as bad if not worse than murder, and deserves as stern a sentence!" a sudden spirit of defiant insolence possessed her. she drew herself erect, and her level brows knitted in a dark frown. "sentence!" she exclaimed, imperiously. "how dare you judge me! what harm have i done? if i am beautiful, is that my fault? if men are fools, can _i_ help it? you loved me--guido loved me--could _i_ prevent it? i cared nothing for him, and less for you!" "i know it," i said, bitterly. "love was never part of your nature! our lives were but cups of wine for your false lips to drain; once the flavor pleased you, but now--now, think you not the dregs taste somewhat cold?" she shrunk at my glance--her head drooped, and drawing near a projecting stone in the wall, she sat down upon it, pressing one hand to her heart. "no heart, no conscience, no memory!" i cried. "great heaven! that such a thing should live and call itself woman! the lowest beast of the field has more compassion for its kind! listen: before guido died he knew me, even as my child, neglected by you, in her last agony knew her father. she being innocent, passed in peace; but he!--imagine if you can, the wrenching torture in which he perished, knowing all! how his parted spirit must curse you!" she raised her hands to her head and pushed away the light curls from her brow. there was a starving, hunted, almost furious look in her eyes, but she fixed them steadily on me. "see," i went on--"here are more proofs of the truth of my story. these things were buried with me," and i threw into her lap as she sat before me the locket and chain, the card-case and purse she herself had given me. "you will no doubt recognize them. this--" and i showed her the monk's crucifix--"this was laid on my breast in the coffin. it may be useful to you--you can pray to it presently!" she interrupted me with a gesture of her hand; she spoke as though in a dream. "you escaped from this vault?" she said, in a low tone, looking from right to left with searching eagerness. "tell me how--and--where?" i laughed scornfully, guessing her thoughts. "it matters little," i replied. "the passage i discovered is now closed and fast cemented. i have seen to that myself! no other living creature left here can escape as i did. escape is impossible." a stifled cry broke from her; she threw herself at my feet, letting the things i had given her as proofs of my existence fall heedlessly on the floor. "fabio! fabio!" she cried, "save me, pity me! take me out to the light--the air--let me live! drag me through naples--let all the crowd see me dishonored, brand me with the worst of names, make of me a common outcast--only let me feel the warm life throbbing in my veins! i will do anything, say anything, be anything--only let me live! i loath the cold and darkness--the horrible--horrible ways of death!" she shuddered violently and clung to me afresh. "i am so young! and after all, am i so vile? there are women who count their lovers by the score, and yet they are not blamed; why should i suffer more than they?" "why, why?" i echoed, fiercely. "because for once a husband takes the law into his own hands--for once a wronged man insists on justice--for once he dares to punish the treachery that blackens his honor! were there more like me there would be fewer like you! a score of lovers! 'tis not your fault that you had but one! i have something else to say which concerns you. not content with fooling two men, you tried the same amusement on a supposed third. ay, you wince at that! while you thought me to be the count oliva--while you were betrothed to me in that character, you wrote to guido ferrari in rome. very charming letters! here they are," and i flung them down to her. "i have no further use for them--i have read them all!" she let them lie where they fell; she still crouched at my feet, and her restless movements loosened her cloak so far that it hung back from her shoulders, showing the jewels that flashed on her white neck and arms like points of living light. i touched the circlet of diamonds in her hair--i snatched it from her. "these are mine!" i cried, "as much as this signet i wear, which was your love-gift to guido ferrari, and which you afterward returned to me, its rightful owner. these are my mother's gems--how dared you wear them? the stones _i_ gave you are your only fitting ornaments--they are stolen goods, filched by the blood-stained hands of the blackest brigand in sicily! i promised you more like them; behold them!"--and i threw open the coffin-shaped chest containing the remainder of carmelo neri's spoils. it occupied a conspicuous position near where i stood, and i had myself arranged its interior so that the gold ornaments and precious stones should be the first things to meet her eyes. "you see now," i went on, "where the wealth of the supposed count oliva came from. i found this treasure hidden here on the night of my burial--little did i think then what dire need i should have for its usage! it has served me well; it is not yet exhausted; the remainder is at your service!" chapter xxxvii. at these words she rose from her knees and stood upright. making an effort to fasten her cloak with her trembling hands, she moved hesitatingly toward the brigand's coffin and leaned over it, looking in with a faint light of hope as well as curiosity in her haggard face. i watched her in vague wonderment--she had grown old so suddenly. the peach-like bloom and delicacy of her flesh had altogether disappeared--her skin appeared drawn and dry as though parched in tropical heat. her hair was disordered, and fell about her in clustering showers of gold--that, and her eyes, were the only signs of youth about her. a sudden wave of compassion swept over my soul. "oh wife!" i exclaimed--"wife that i so ardently loved--wife that i would have died for indeed, had you bade me!--why did you betray me? i thought you truth itself--ay! and if you had but waited for one day after you thought me dead, and then chosen guido for your lover, i tell you, so large was my tenderness, i would have pardoned you! though risen from the grave, i would have gone away and made no sign--yes if you had waited--if you had wept for me ever so little! but when your own lips confessed your crime--when i knew that within three months of our marriage-day you had fooled me--when i learned that my love, my name, my position, my honor, were used as mere screens to shelter your intrigue with the man i called friend!--god! what creature of mortal flesh and blood could forgive such treachery? i am no more than others--but i loved you--and in proportion to my love, so is the greatness of my wrongs!" she listened--she advanced a little toward me--a faint smile dawned on her pallid lips--she whispered: "fabio! fabio!" i looked at her--unconsciously my voice dropped into a cadence of intense melancholy softened by tenderness. "ay--fabio! what wouldst thou with a ghost of him? does it not seem strange to thee--that hated name?--thou, nina, whom i loved as few men love women--thou who gavest me no love at all--thou, who hast broken my heart and made me what i am!" a hard, heavy sob rose in my throat and choked my utterance. i was young; and the cruel waste and destruction of my life seemed at that moment more than i could bear. she heard me, and the smile brightened more warmly on her countenance. she came close to me--half timidly yet coaxingly she threw one arm about my neck--her bosom heaved quickly. "fabio," she murmured--"fabio, forgive me! i spoke in haste--i do not hate thee! come! i will make amends for all thy suffering--i will love thee--i will be true to thee, i will be all thine! see! thou knowest i have not lost my beauty!" and she clung to me with passion, raising her lips to mine, while with her large inquiring eyes she searched my face for the reply to her words. i gazed down upon her with sorrowful sternness. "beauty? mere food for worms--i care not for it! of what avail is a fair body tenanted by a fiendish soul? forgiveness?--you ask too late! a wrong like mine can never be forgiven." there ensued a silence. she still embraced me, but her eyes roved over me as though she searched for some lost thing. the wind tore furiously among the branches of the cypresses outside, and screamed through the small holes and crannies of the stone-work, rattling the iron gate at the summit of the stairway with a clanking sound, as though the famous brigand chief had escaped with all his chains upon him, and were clamoring for admittance to recover his buried property. suddenly her face lightened with an expression of cunning intensity--and before i could perceive her intent--with swift agility she snatched from my vest the dagger i carried! "too late!" she cried, with a wild laugh. "no; not too late! die--wretch!" for one second the bright steel flashed in the wavering light as she poised it in act to strike--the next, i had caught her murderous hand and forced it down, and was struggling with her for the mastery of the weapon. she held it with a desperate grip--she fought with me breathlessly, clinging to me with all her force--she reminded me of that ravenous unclean bird with which i had had so fierce a combat on the night of my living burial. for some brief moments she was possessed of supernatural strength--she sprung and tore at my clothes, keeping the poniard fast in her clutch. at last i thrust her down, panting and exhausted, with fury flashing in her eyes--i wrenched the steel from her hand and brandished it above her. "who talks of murder now?" i cried, in bitter derision. "oh, what a joy you have lost! what triumph for you, could you have stabbed me to the heart and left me here dead indeed! what a new career of lies would have been yours! how sweetly you would have said your prayers with the stain of my blood upon your soul! ay! you would have fooled the world to the end, and died in the odor of sanctity. and you dared to ask my forgiveness--" i stopped short--a strange, bewildered expression suddenly passed over her face--she looked about her in a dazed, vague way--then her gaze became suddenly fixed, and she pointed toward a dark corner and shuddered. "hush--hush!" she said, in a low, terrified whisper. "look! how still he stands! how pale he seems! do not speak--do not move--hush! he must not hear your voice--i will go to him and tell him all--all--" she rose and stretched out her arms with a gesture of entreaty: "guido! guido!" with a sudden chilled awe at my heart i looked toward the spot that thus riveted her attention--all was shrouded in deep gloom. she caught my arm. "kill him!" she whispered, fiercely--"kill him, and then i will love you! ah!" and with an exclamation of fear she began to retire swiftly backward as though confronted by some threatening figure. "he is coming--nearer! no, no, guido! you shall not touch me--you dare not--fabio is dead and i am free--free!" she paused--her wild eyes gazed upward--did she see some horror there? she put up both hands as though to shield herself from some impending blow, and uttering a loud cry she fell prone on the stone floor insensible. or dead? i balanced this question indifferently, as i looked down upon her inanimate form. the flavor of vengeance was hot in my mouth, and filled me with delirious satisfaction. true, i had been glad, when my bullet whizzing sharply through the air had carried death to guido, but my gladness had been mingled with ruthfulness and regret. now, not one throb of pity stirred me--not the faintest emotion of tenderness, ferrari's sin was great, but she tempted him--her crime outweighed his. and now--there she lay white and silent--in a swoon that was like death--that might be death for aught i knew--or cared! had her lover's ghost indeed appeared before the eyes of her guilty conscience? i did not doubt it--i should scarcely have been startled had i seen the poor pale shadow of him by my side, as i musingly gazed upon the fair fallen body of the traitress who had wantonly wrecked both our lives. "ay, guido," i muttered, half aloud--"dost see the work? thou art avenged, frail spirit--avenged as well as i--part thou in peace from earth and its inhabitants!--haply thou shalt cleanse in pure fire the sins of thy lower nature, and win a final pardon; but for her--is hell itself black enough to match her soul?" and i slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, i thought, with a grim resolve--to leave her! possibly she was dead--if not--why then she soon would be! i paused irresolute--the wild wind battered ceaselessly at the iron gateway, and wailed as though with a hundred voices of aerial creatures, lamenting. the torches were burning low, the darkness of the vault deepened. its gloom concerned me little--i had grown familiar with its unsightly things, its crawling spiders, its strange uncouth beetles, the clusters of blue fungi on its damp walls. the scurrying noises made by bats and owls, who, scared by the lighted candles, were hiding themselves in holes and corners of refuge, startled me not at all--i was well accustomed to such sounds. in my then state of mind, an emperor's palace were less fair to me than this brave charnel house--this stone-mouthed witness of my struggle back to life and all life's misery. the deep-toned bell outside the cemetery struck one! we had been absent nearly two hours from the brilliant assemblage left at the hotel. no doubt we were being searched for everywhere--it mattered not! they would not come to seek us here. i went on resolutely toward the stair--as i placed my foot on the firm step of the ascent, my wife stirred from her recumbent position--her swoon had passed. she did not perceive me where i stood, ready to depart--she murmured something to herself in a low voice, and taking in her hand the falling tresses of her own hair she seemed to admire its color and texture, for she stroked it and restroked it and finally broke into a gay laugh--a laugh so out of all keeping with her surroundings, that it startled me more than her attempt to murder me. she presently stood up with all her own lily-like grace and fairy majesty; and smiling as though she were a pleased child, she began to arrange her disordered dress with elaborate care. i paused wonderingly and watched her. she went to the brigand's chest of treasure and proceeded to examine its contents--laces, silver and gold embroideries, antique ornaments, she took carefully in her hands, seeming mentally to calculate their cost and value. jewels that were set as necklaces, bracelets and other trinkets of feminine wear she put on, one after the other, till her neck and arms were loaded--and literally blazed with the myriad scintillations of different-colored gems. i marveled at her strange conduct, but did not as yet guess its meaning. i moved away from the staircase and drew imperceptibly nearer to her--hark! what was that? a strange, low rumbling like a distant earthquake, followed by a sharp cracking sound; i stopped to listen attentively. a furious gust of wind rushed round the mausoleum shrieking wildly like some devil in anger, and the strong draught flying through the gateway extinguished two of the flaring candles. my wife, entirely absorbed in counting over carmelo neri's treasures, apparently saw and heard nothing. suddenly she broke into another laugh--a chuckling, mirthless laugh such as might come from the lips of the aged and senile. the sound curdled the blood in my veins--it was the laugh of a mad-woman! with an earnest, distinct voice i called to her: "nina! nina!" she turned toward me still smiling--her eyes were bright, her face had regained its habitual color, and as she stood in the dim light, with her rich tresses falling about her, and the clustering gems massed together in a glittering fire against her white skin, she looked unnaturally, wildly beautiful. she nodded to me, half graciously, half haughtily, but gave me no answer. moved with quick pity i called again: "nina!" she laughed again--the same terrible laugh. "si, si! son' bella, son' bellissima!" she murmured. "e tu, guido mio? tu m'ami?" then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried: "ascolta!" and began to sing clearly though feebly: "ti saluto, rosignuolo! nel tuo duolo--ti saluto! sei l'amante della rosa che morendo si fa sposa!" as the old familiar melody echoed through the dreary vault, my bitter wrath against her partially lessened; with the swiftness of my southern temperament a certain compassion stirred my soul. she was no longer quite the same woman who had wronged and betrayed me--she had the helplessness and fearful innocence of madness--in that condition i could not have hurt a hair of her head. i stepped hastily forward--i resolved to take her out of the vault--after all i would not leave her thus--but as i approached, she withdrew from me, and with an angry stamp of her foot motioned me backward, while a dark frown knitted her fair brows. "who are you?" she cried, imperiously. "you are dead, quite dead! how dare you come out of your grave!" and she stared at me defiantly--then suddenly clasping her hands as though in ecstasy, and seeming to address some invisible being at her side, she said, in low, delighted tones: "he is dead, guido! are you not glad?" she paused, apparently expecting some reply, for she looked about her wonderingly, and continued--"you did not answer me--are you afraid? why are you so pale and stern? have you just come back from rome? what have you heard? that i am false?--oh, no! i will love you still--ah! i forgot! you also are dead, guido! i remember now--you cannot hurt me any more--i am free--and quite happy!" smiling, she continued her song: "ti saluto, sol di maggio col two raggio ti saluto! sei l'apollo del passato sei l'amore incoronato!" again--again!--that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. what could it be? "l'amore incoronato!" hummed nina fitfully, as she plunged her round, jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. "si, si! che morendo si fa sposa--che morendo si fa sposa--ah!" this last was an exclamation of pleasure; she had found some toy that charmed her--it was the old mirror set in its frame of pearls. the possession of this object seemed to fill her with extraordinary joy, and she evidently retained no consciousness of where she was, for she sat down on the upturned coffin, which had held my living body, with absolute indifference. still singing softly to herself, she gazed lovingly at her own reflection, and fingered the jewels she wore, arranging and rearranging them in various patterns with one hand, while in the other she raised the looking-glass in the flare of the candles which lighted up its quaint setting. a strange and awful picture she made there--gazing with such lingering tenderness on the portrait of her own beauty--while surrounded by the moldering coffins that silently announced how little such beauty was worth--playing with jewels, the foolish trinkets of life, in the abode of skeletons, where the password is death! thinking thus, i gazed at her, as one might gaze at a dead body--not loathingly any more, but only mournfully. my vengeance was satiated. i could not wage war against this vacantly smiling mad creature, out of whom the spirit of a devilish intelligence and cunning had been torn, and who therefore was no longer the same woman. her loss of wit should compensate for my loss of love. i determined to try and attract her attention again. i opened my lips to speak--but before the words could form themselves, that odd rumbling noise again broke on my ears--this time with a loud reverberation that rolled overhead like the thunder of artillery. before i could imagine the reason of it--before i could advance one step toward my wife, who still sat on the upturned coffin, smiling at herself in the mirror--before i could utter a word or move an inch, a tremendous crash resounded through the vault, followed by a stinging shower of stones, dust, and pulverized mortar! i stepped backward amazed, bewildered--speechless--instinctively shutting my eyes--when i opened them again all was darkness--all was silence! only the wind howled outside more frantically than ever--a sweeping gust whirled through the vault, blowing some dead leaves against my face, and i heard the boughs of trees creaking noisily in the fury of the storm. hush!--was that a faint moan? quivering in every limb, and sick with a nameless dread, i sought in my pocket for matches--i found them. then with an effort, mastering the shuddering revulsion of my nerves, i struck a light. the flame was so dim that for an instant i could see nothing. i called loudly: "nina!" there was no answer. one of the extinguished candles was near me; i lighted it with trembling hands and held it aloft--then i uttered a wild shriek of horror! oh, god of inexorable justice, surely thy vengeance was greater than mine! an enormous block of stone, dislodged by the violence of the storm, had fallen from the roof of the vault; fallen sheer down over the very place where she had sat a minute or two before, fantastically smiling! crushed under the huge mass--crushed into the very splinters of my own empty coffin, she lay--and yet--and yet--i could see nothing, save one white hand protruding--the hand on which the marriage-ring glittered mockingly! even as i looked, that hand quivered violently--beat the ground--and then--was still! it was horrible. in dreams i see that quivering white hand now, the jewels on it sparkling with derisive luster. it appeals, it calls, it threatens, it prays! and when my time comes to die, it will beckon me to my grave! a portion of her costly dress was visible--my eyes lighted on this--and i saw a slow stream of blood oozing thickly from beneath the stone--the ponderous stone that no man could have moved an inch--the stone that sealed her awful sepulcher! great heaven! how fast the crimson stream of life trickled!--staining the snowy lace of her garment with a dark and dreadful hue! staggering feebly like a drunken man--half delirious with anguish--i approached and touched that small white hand that lay stiffly on the ground--i bent my head--i almost kissed it, but some strange revulsion rose in my soul and forbade the act! in a stupor of dull agony i sought and found the crucifix of the monk cipriano that had fallen to the floor--i closed the yet warm finger-tips around it and left it thus; an unnatural, terrible calmness froze the excitement of my strained nerves. "'tis all i can do for thee!" i muttered, incoherently. "may christ forgive thee, though i cannot!" and covering my eyes to shut out the sight before me i turned away. i hurried in a sort of frenzy toward the stairway--on reaching the lowest step i extinguished the torch i carried. some impulse made me glance back--and i saw what i see now--what i shall always see till i die! an aperture had been made through the roof of the vault by the fall of the great stone, and through this the fitful moon poured down a long ghostly ray. the green glimmer, like a spectral lamp, deepened the surrounding darkness, only showing up with fell distinctness one object--that slender protruding wrist and hand, whiter than alpine snow! i gazed at it wildly--the gleam of the jewels down there hurt my eyes--the shine of the silver crucifix clasped in those little waxen fingers dazzled my brain--and with a frantic cry of unreasoning terror, i rushed up the steps with a maniac speed--opened the iron gate through which she would pass no more, and stood at liberty in the free air, face to face with a wind as tempestuous as my own passions. with what furious haste i shut the entrance to the vault! with what fierce precaution i locked and doubled-locked it! nay, so little did i realize that she was actually dead, that i caught myself saying aloud--"safe--safe at last! she cannot escape--i have closed the secret passage--no one will hear her cries--she will struggle a little, but it will soon be over--she will never laugh any more--never kiss--never love--never tell lies for the fooling of men!--she is buried as i was--buried alive!" muttering thus to myself with a sort of sobbing incoherence, i turned to meet the snarl of the savage blast of the night, with my brain reeling, my limbs weak and trembling--with the heavens and earth rocking before me like a wild sea--with the flying moon staring aghast through the driving clouds--with all the universe, as it were, in a broken and shapeless chaos about me; even so i went forth to meet my fate--and left her! * * * * * unrecognized, untracked, i departed from naples. wrapped in my cloak, and stretched in a sort of heavy stupor on the deck of the "rondinella," my appearance apparently excited no suspicion in the mind of the skipper, old antonio bardi, with whom my friend andrea had made terms for my voyage, little aware of the real identity of the passenger he recommended. the morning was radiantly beautiful--the sparkling waves rose high on tiptoe to kiss the still boisterous wind--the sunlight broke in a wide smile of springtide glory over the world! with the burden of my agony upon me--with the utter exhaustion of my overwrought nerves, i beheld all things as in a feverish dream--the laughing light, the azure ripple of waters--the receding line of my native shores--everything was blurred, indistinct, and unreal to me, though my soul, argus-eyed, incessantly peered down, down into those darksome depths where she lay, silent forever. for now i knew she was dead. fate had killed her--not i. all unrepentant as she was, triumphing in her treachery to the last, even in her madness, still i would have saved her, though she strove to murder me. yet it was well the stone had fallen--who knows!--if she had lived--i strove not to think of her, and drawing the key of the vault from my pocket, i let it drop with a sudden splash into the waves. all was over--no one pursued me--no one inquired whither i went. i arrived at civita vecchia unquestioned; from thence i travelled to leghorn, where i embarked on board a merchant trading vessel bound for south america. thus i lost myself to the world; thus i became, as it were, buried alive for the second time. i am safely sepulchered in these wild woods, and i seek no escape. wearing the guise of a rough settler, one who works in common with others, hewing down tough parasites and poisonous undergrowths in order to effect a clearing through these pathless solitudes, none can trace in the strong stern man, with the care-worn face and white hair, any resemblance to the once popular and wealthy count oliva, whose disappearance, so strange and sudden, was for a time the talk of all italy. for, on one occasion when visiting the nearest town, i saw an article in a newspaper, headed "mysterious occurrence in naples," and i read every word of it with a sensation of dull amusement. from it i learned that the count oliva was advertised for. his abrupt departure, together with that of his newly married wife, formerly contessa romani, on the very night of their wedding, had created the utmost excitement in the city. the landlord of the hotel where he stayed was prosecuting inquiries--so was the count's former valet, one vincenzo flamma. any information would be gratefully received by the police authorities. if within twelve months no news were obtained, the immense properties of the romani family, in default of existing kindred, would be handed over to the crown. there was much more to the same effect, and i read it with the utmost indifference. why do they not search the romani vault?--i thought gloomily--they would find some authentic information there! but i know the neapolitans well; they are timorous and superstitious; they would as soon hug a pestilence as explore a charnel house. one thing gladdened me; it was the projected disposal of my fortune. the crown, the kingdom of italy, was surely as noble an heir as a man could have! i returned to my woodland hut with a strange peace on my soul. as i told you at first, i am a dead man--the world, with its busy life and aims, has naught to do with me. the tall trees, the birds, the whispering grasses are my friends and my companions--they, and they only, are sometimes the silent witnesses of the torturing fits of agony that every now and then overwhelm me with bitterness. for i suffer always. that is natural. revenge is sweet!--but who shall paint the horrors of memory? my vengeance now recoils upon my own head. i do not complain of this--it is the law of compensation--it is just. i blame no one--save her, the woman who wrought my wrong. dead as she is i do not forgive her; i have tried to, but i cannot! do men ever truly forgive the women who ruin their lives? i doubt it. as for me, i feel that the end is not yet--that when my soul is released from its earthly prison, i shall still be doomed in some drear dim way to pursue her treacherous flitting spirit over the black chasms of a hell darker than dante's--she in the likeness of a wandering flame--i as her haunting shadow; she, flying before me in coward fear--i, hasting after her in relentless wrath--and this forever and ever! but i ask no pity--i need none. i punished the guilty, and in doing so suffered more than they--that is as it must always be. i have no regret and no remorse; only one thing troubles me--one little thing--a mere foolish fancy! it comes upon me in the night, when the large-faced moon looks at me from heaven. for the moon is grand in this climate; she is like a golden-robed empress of all the worlds as she sweeps in lustrous magnificence through the dense violet skies. i shut out her radiance as much as i can; i close the blind at the narrow window of my solitary forest cabin; and yet do what i will, one wide ray creeps in always--one ray that eludes all my efforts to expel it. under the door it comes, or through some unguessed cranny in the wood-work. i have in vain tried to find the place of its entrance. the color of the moonlight in this climate is of a mellow amber--so i cannot understand why that pallid ray that visits me so often, should be green--a livid, cold, watery green; and in it, like a lily in an emerald pool, i see a little white hand on which the jewels cluster thick like drops of dew! the hand moves--it lifts itself--the small fingers point at me threateningly--they quiver--and then--they beckon me slowly, solemnly, commandingly onward!--onward!--to some infinite land of awful mysteries where light and love shall dawn for me no more. the end *project gutenberg is proud to cooperate with the world library* in the presentation of the complete works of william shakespeare for your reading for education and entertainment. however, this is neither shareware nor public domain. . .and under the library of the future conditions of this presentation. . .no charges may be made for *any* access to this material. you are encouraged!! to give it away to anyone you like, but no charges are allowed!! the complete works of william shakespeare the tragedy of romeo and juliet the library of the future complete works of william shakespeare library of the future is a trademark (tm) of world library inc. <<this electronic version of the complete works of william shakespeare is copyright - by world library, inc., and is provided by project gutenberg etext of carnegie mellon university with permission. electronic and machine readable copies may be distributed so long as such copies ( ) are for your or others personal use only, and ( ) are not distributed or used commercially. prohibited commercial distribution includes by any service that charges for download time or for membership.>> the tragedy of romeo and juliet by william shakespeare dramatis personae chorus. escalus, prince of verona. paris, a young count, kinsman to the prince. montague, heads of two houses at variance with each other. capulet, heads of two houses at variance with each other. an old man, of the capulet family. romeo, son to montague. tybalt, nephew to lady capulet. mercutio, kinsman to the prince and friend to romeo. benvolio, nephew to montague, and friend to romeo tybalt, nephew to lady capulet. friar laurence, franciscan. friar john, franciscan. balthasar, servant to romeo. abram, servant to montague. sampson, servant to capulet. gregory, servant to capulet. peter, servant to juliet's nurse. an apothecary. three musicians. an officer. lady montague, wife to montague. lady capulet, wife to capulet. juliet, daughter to capulet. nurse to juliet. citizens of verona; gentlemen and gentlewomen of both houses; maskers, torchbearers, pages, guards, watchmen, servants, and attendants. scene.--verona; mantua. the prologue enter chorus. chor. two households, both alike in dignity, in fair verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. from forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows doth with their death bury their parents' strife. the fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, and the continuance of their parents' rage, which, but their children's end, naught could remove, is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; the which if you with patient ears attend, what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [exit.] act i. scene i. verona. a public place. enter sampson and gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house of capulet. samp. gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. greg. no, for then we should be colliers. samp. i mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. greg. ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar. samp. i strike quickly, being moved. greg. but thou art not quickly moved to strike. samp. a dog of the house of montague moves me. greg. to move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. samp. a dog of that house shall move me to stand. i will take the wall of any man or maid of montague's. greg. that shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. samp. 'tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. therefore i will push montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall. greg. the quarrel is between our masters and us their men. samp. 'tis all one. i will show myself a tyrant. when i have fought with the men, i will be cruel with the maids- i will cut off their heads. greg. the heads of the maids? samp. ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. take it in what sense thou wilt. greg. they must take it in sense that feel it. samp. me they shall feel while i am able to stand; and 'tis known i am a pretty piece of flesh. greg. 'tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor-john. draw thy tool! here comes two of the house of montagues. enter two other servingmen [abram and balthasar]. samp. my naked weapon is out. quarrel! i will back thee. greg. how? turn thy back and run? samp. fear me not. greg. no, marry. i fear thee! samp. let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. greg. i will frown as i pass by, and let them take it as they list. samp. nay, as they dare. i will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them, if they bear it. abr. do you bite your thumb at us, sir? samp. i do bite my thumb, sir. abr. do you bite your thumb at us, sir? samp. [aside to gregory] is the law of our side if i say ay? greg. [aside to sampson] no. samp. no, sir, i do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but i bite my thumb, sir. greg. do you quarrel, sir? abr. quarrel, sir? no, sir. samp. but if you do, sir, am for you. i serve as good a man as you. abr. no better. samp. well, sir. enter benvolio. greg. [aside to sampson] say 'better.' here comes one of my master's kinsmen. samp. yes, better, sir. abr. you lie. samp. draw, if you be men. gregory, remember thy swashing blow. they fight. ben. part, fools! [beats down their swords.] put up your swords. you know not what you do. enter tybalt. tyb. what, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? turn thee benvolio! look upon thy death. ben. i do but keep the peace. put up thy sword, or manage it to part these men with me. tyb. what, drawn, and talk of peace? i hate the word as i hate hell, all montagues, and thee. have at thee, coward! they fight. enter an officer, and three or four citizens with clubs or partisans. officer. clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down! citizens. down with the capulets! down with the montagues! enter old capulet in his gown, and his wife. cap. what noise is this? give me my long sword, ho! wife. a crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword? cap. my sword, i say! old montague is come and flourishes his blade in spite of me. enter old montague and his wife. mon. thou villain capulet!- hold me not, let me go. m. wife. thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. enter prince escalus, with his train. prince. rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, profaners of this neighbour-stained steel- will they not hear? what, ho! you men, you beasts, that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins! on pain of torture, from those bloody hands throw your mistempered weapons to the ground and hear the sentence of your moved prince. three civil brawls, bred of an airy word by thee, old capulet, and montague, have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets and made verona's ancient citizens cast by their grave beseeming ornaments to wield old partisans, in hands as old, cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate. if ever you disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. for this time all the rest depart away. you, capulet, shall go along with me; and, montague, come you this afternoon, to know our farther pleasure in this case, to old freetown, our common judgment place. once more, on pain of death, all men depart. exeunt [all but montague, his wife, and benvolio]. mon. who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? speak, nephew, were you by when it began? ben. here were the servants of your adversary and yours, close fighting ere i did approach. i drew to part them. in the instant came the fiery tybalt, with his sword prepar'd; which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, he swung about his head and cut the winds, who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn. while we were interchanging thrusts and blows, came more and more, and fought on part and part, till the prince came, who parted either part. m. wife. o, where is romeo? saw you him to-day? right glad i am he was not at this fray. ben. madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun peer'd forth the golden window of the east, a troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; where, underneath the grove of sycamore that westward rooteth from the city's side, so early walking did i see your son. towards him i made; but he was ware of me and stole into the covert of the wood. i- measuring his affections by my own, which then most sought where most might not be found, being one too many by my weary self- pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his, and gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. mon. many a morning hath he there been seen, with tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; but all so soon as the all-cheering sun should in the furthest east bean to draw the shady curtains from aurora's bed, away from light steals home my heavy son and private in his chamber pens himself, shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight and makes himself an artificial night. black and portentous must this humour prove unless good counsel may the cause remove. ben. my noble uncle, do you know the cause? mon. i neither know it nor can learn of him ben. have you importun'd him by any means? mon. both by myself and many other friend; but he, his own affections' counsellor, is to himself- i will not say how true- but to himself so secret and so close, so far from sounding and discovery, as is the bud bit with an envious worm ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air or dedicate his beauty to the sun. could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, we would as willingly give cure as know. enter romeo. ben. see, where he comes. so please you step aside, i'll know his grievance, or be much denied. mon. i would thou wert so happy by thy stay to hear true shrift. come, madam, let's away, exeunt [montague and wife]. ben. good morrow, cousin. rom. is the day so young? ben. but new struck nine. rom. ay me! sad hours seem long. was that my father that went hence so fast? ben. it was. what sadness lengthens romeo's hours? rom. not having that which having makes them short. ben. in love? rom. out- ben. of love? rom. out of her favour where i am in love. ben. alas that love, so gentle in his view, should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! rom. alas that love, whose view is muffled still, should without eyes see pathways to his will! where shall we dine? o me! what fray was here? yet tell me not, for i have heard it all. here's much to do with hate, but more with love. why then, o brawling love! o loving hate! o anything, of nothing first create! o heavy lightness! serious vanity! misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! still-waking sleep, that is not what it is this love feel i, that feel no love in this. dost thou not laugh? ben. no, coz, i rather weep. rom. good heart, at what? ben. at thy good heart's oppression. rom. why, such is love's transgression. griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest with more of thine. this love that thou hast shown doth add more grief to too much of mine own. love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears. what is it else? a madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. farewell, my coz. ben. soft! i will go along. an if you leave me so, you do me wrong. rom. tut! i have lost myself; i am not here: this is not romeo, he's some other where. ben. tell me in sadness, who is that you love? rom. what, shall i groan and tell thee? ben. groan? why, no; but sadly tell me who. rom. bid a sick man in sadness make his will. ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! in sadness, cousin, i do love a woman. ben. i aim'd so near when i suppos'd you lov'd. rom. a right good markman! and she's fair i love. ben. a right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. rom. well, in that hit you miss. she'll not be hit with cupid's arrow. she hath dian's wit, and, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, from love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. she will not stay the siege of loving terms, nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. o, she's rich in beauty; only poor that, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. ben. then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? rom. she hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; for beauty, starv'd with her severity, cuts beauty off from all posterity. she is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, to merit bliss by making me despair. she hath forsworn to love, and in that vow do i live dead that live to tell it now. ben. be rul'd by me: forget to think of her. rom. o, teach me how i should forget to think! ben. by giving liberty unto thine eyes. examine other beauties. rom. 'tis the way to call hers (exquisite) in question more. these happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows, being black puts us in mind they hide the fair. he that is strucken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost. show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where i may read who pass'd that passing fair? farewell. thou canst not teach me to forget. ben. i'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. exeunt. scene ii. a street. enter capulet, county paris, and [servant] -the clown. cap. but montague is bound as well as i, in penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, i think, for men so old as we to keep the peace. par. of honourable reckoning are you both, and pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long. but now, my lord, what say you to my suit? cap. but saying o'er what i have said before: my child is yet a stranger in the world, she hath not seen the change of fourteen years; let two more summers wither in their pride ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. par. younger than she are happy mothers made. cap. and too soon marr'd are those so early made. the earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; she is the hopeful lady of my earth. but woo her, gentle paris, get her heart; my will to her consent is but a part. an she agree, within her scope of choice lies my consent and fair according voice. this night i hold an old accustom'd feast, whereto i have invited many a guest, such as i love; and you among the store, one more, most welcome, makes my number more. at my poor house look to behold this night earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light. such comfort as do lusty young men feel when well apparell'd april on the heel of limping winter treads, even such delight among fresh female buds shall you this night inherit at my house. hear all, all see, and like her most whose merit most shall be; which, on more view of many, mine, being one, may stand in number, though in reck'ning none. come, go with me. [to servant, giving him a paper] go, sirrah, trudge about through fair verona; find those persons out whose names are written there, and to them say, my house and welcome on their pleasure stay- exeunt [capulet and paris]. serv. find them out whose names are written here? it is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but i am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. i must to the learned. in good time! enter benvolio and romeo. ben. tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; one pain is lessoned by another's anguish; turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; one desperate grief cures with another's languish. take thou some new infection to thy eye, and the rank poison of the old will die. rom. your plantain leaf is excellent for that. ben. for what, i pray thee? rom. for your broken shin. ben. why, romeo, art thou mad? rom. not mad, but bound more than a madman is; shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipp'd and tormented and- god-den, good fellow. serv. god gi' go-den. i pray, sir, can you read? rom. ay, mine own fortune in my misery. serv. perhaps you have learned it without book. but i pray, can you read anything you see? rom. ay, if i know the letters and the language. serv. ye say honestly. rest you merry! rom. stay, fellow; i can read. he reads. 'signior martino and his wife and daughters; county anselmo and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of vitruvio; signior placentio and his lovely nieces; mercutio and his brother valentine; mine uncle capulet, his wife, and daughters; my fair niece rosaline and livia; signior valentio and his cousin tybalt; lucio and the lively helena.' [gives back the paper.] a fair assembly. whither should they come? serv. up. rom. whither? serv. to supper, to our house. rom. whose house? serv. my master's. rom. indeed i should have ask'd you that before. serv. now i'll tell you without asking. my master is the great rich capulet; and if you be not of the house of montagues, i pray come and crush a cup of wine. rest you merry! exit. ben. at this same ancient feast of capulet's sups the fair rosaline whom thou so lov'st; with all the admired beauties of verona. go thither, and with unattainted eye compare her face with some that i shall show, and i will make thee think thy swan a crow. rom. when the devout religion of mine eye maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; and these, who, often drown'd, could never die, transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! one fairer than my love? the all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. ben. tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, herself pois'd with herself in either eye; but in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd your lady's love against some other maid that i will show you shining at this feast, and she shall scant show well that now seems best. rom. i'll go along, no such sight to be shown, but to rejoice in splendour of my own. [exeunt.] scene iii. capulet's house. enter capulet's wife, and nurse. wife. nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me. nurse. now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old, i bade her come. what, lamb! what ladybird! god forbid! where's this girl? what, juliet! enter juliet. jul. how now? who calls? nurse. your mother. jul. madam, i am here. what is your will? wife. this is the matter- nurse, give leave awhile, we must talk in secret. nurse, come back again; i have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel. thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. nurse. faith, i can tell her age unto an hour. wife. she's not fourteen. nurse. i'll lay fourteen of my teeth- and yet, to my teen be it spoken, i have but four- she is not fourteen. how long is it now to lammastide? wife. a fortnight and odd days. nurse. even or odd, of all days in the year, come lammas eve at night shall she be fourteen. susan and she (god rest all christian souls!) were of an age. well, susan is with god; she was too good for me. but, as i said, on lammas eve at night shall she be fourteen; that shall she, marry; i remember it well. 'tis since the earthquake now eleven years; and she was wean'd (i never shall forget it), of all the days of the year, upon that day; for i had then laid wormwood to my dug, sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. my lord and you were then at mantua. nay, i do bear a brain. but, as i said, when it did taste the wormwood on the nipple of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, to see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'twas no need, i trow, to bid me trudge. and since that time it is eleven years, for then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood, she could have run and waddled all about; for even the day before, she broke her brow; and then my husband (god be with his soul! 'a was a merry man) took up the child. 'yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; wilt thou not, jule?' and, by my holidam, the pretty wretch left crying, and said 'ay.' to see now how a jest shall come about! i warrant, an i should live a thousand yeas, i never should forget it. 'wilt thou not, jule?' quoth he, and, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'ay.' wife. enough of this. i pray thee hold thy peace. nurse. yes, madam. yet i cannot choose but laugh to think it should leave crying and say 'ay.' and yet, i warrant, it bad upon it brow a bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone; a perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face? thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; wilt thou not, jule?' it stinted, and said 'ay.' jul. and stint thou too, i pray thee, nurse, say i. nurse. peace, i have done. god mark thee to his grace! thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er i nurs'd. an i might live to see thee married once, i have my wish. wife. marry, that 'marry' is the very theme i came to talk of. tell me, daughter juliet, how stands your disposition to be married? jul. it is an honour that i dream not of. nurse. an honour? were not i thine only nurse, i would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. wife. well, think of marriage now. younger than you, here in verona, ladies of esteem, are made already mothers. by my count, i was your mother much upon these years that you are now a maid. thus then in brief: the valiant paris seeks you for his love. nurse. a man, young lady! lady, such a man as all the world- why he's a man of wax. wife. verona's summer hath not such a flower. nurse. nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower. wife. what say you? can you love the gentleman? this night you shall behold him at our feast. read o'er the volume of young paris' face, and find delight writ there with beauty's pen; examine every married lineament, and see how one another lends content; and what obscur'd in this fair volume lies find written in the margent of his eyes, this precious book of love, this unbound lover, to beautify him only lacks a cover. the fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride for fair without the fair within to hide. that book in many's eyes doth share the glory, that in gold clasps locks in the golden story; so shall you share all that he doth possess, by having him making yourself no less. nurse. no less? nay, bigger! women grow by men wife. speak briefly, can you like of paris' love? jul. i'll look to like, if looking liking move; but no more deep will i endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly. enter servingman. serv. madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in extremity. i must hence to wait. i beseech you follow straight. wife. we follow thee. exit [servingman]. juliet, the county stays. nurse. go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. exeunt. scene iv. a street. enter romeo, mercutio, benvolio, with five or six other maskers; torchbearers. rom. what, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? or shall we on without apology? ben. the date is out of such prolixity. we'll have no cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, bearing a tartar's painted bow of lath, scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper; nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke after the prompter, for our entrance; but, let them measure us by what they will, we'll measure them a measure, and be gone. rom. give me a torch. i am not for this ambling. being but heavy, i will bear the light. mer. nay, gentle romeo, we must have you dance. rom. not i, believe me. you have dancing shoes with nimble soles; i have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground i cannot move. mer. you are a lover. borrow cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound. rom. i am too sore enpierced with his shaft to soar with his light feathers; and so bound i cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. under love's heavy burthen do i sink. mer. and, to sink in it, should you burthen love- too great oppression for a tender thing. rom. is love a tender thing? it is too rough, too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn. mer. if love be rough with you, be rough with love. prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. give me a case to put my visage in. a visor for a visor! what care i what curious eye doth quote deformities? here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. ben. come, knock and enter; and no sooner in but every man betake him to his legs. rom. a torch for me! let wantons light of heart tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; for i am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase, i'll be a candle-holder and look on; the game was ne'er so fair, and i am done. mer. tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word! if thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st up to the ears. come, we burn daylight, ho! rom. nay, that's not so. mer. i mean, sir, in delay we waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. take our good meaning, for our judgment sits five times in that ere once in our five wits. rom. and we mean well, in going to this masque; but 'tis no wit to go. mer. why, may one ask? rom. i dreamt a dream to-night. mer. and so did i. rom. well, what was yours? mer. that dreamers often lie. rom. in bed asleep, while they do dream things true. mer. o, then i see queen mab hath been with you. she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, the cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; her traces, of the smallest spider's web; her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, not half so big as a round little worm prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; her chariot is an empty hazelnut, made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. and in this state she 'gallops night by night through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; o'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; o'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; o'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry mab with blisters plagues, because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit; and sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, then dreams he of another benefice. sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes, spanish blades, of healths five fadom deep; and then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two and sleeps again. this is that very mab that plats the manes of horses in the night and bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs, which once untangled much misfortune bodes this is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear, making them women of good carriage. this is she- rom. peace, peace, mercutio, peace! thou talk'st of nothing. mer. true, i talk of dreams; which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy; which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconstant than the wind, who wooes even now the frozen bosom of the north and, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, turning his face to the dew-dropping south. ben. this wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. supper is done, and we shall come too late. rom. i fear, too early; for my mind misgives some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels and expire the term of a despised life, clos'd in my breast, by some vile forfeit of untimely death. but he that hath the steerage of my course direct my sail! on, lusty gentlemen! ben. strike, drum. they march about the stage. [exeunt.] scene v. capulet's house. servingmen come forth with napkins. . serv. where's potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher! . serv. when good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. . serv. away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert, look to the plate. good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the porter let in susan grindstone and nell. anthony, and potpan! . serv. ay, boy, ready. . serv. you are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and sought for, in the great chamber. . serv. we cannot be here and there too. cheerly, boys! be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. exeunt. enter the maskers, enter, [with servants,] capulet, his wife, juliet, tybalt, and all the guests and gentlewomen to the maskers. cap. welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you. ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she i'll swear hath corns. am i come near ye now? welcome, gentlemen! i have seen the day that i have worn a visor and could tell a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, such as would please. 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone! you are welcome, gentlemen! come, musicians, play. a hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. music plays, and they dance. more light, you knaves! and turn the tables up, and quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin capulet, for you and i are past our dancing days. how long is't now since last yourself and i were in a mask? . cap. by'r lady, thirty years. cap. what, man? 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much! 'tis since the nuptial of lucentio, come pentecost as quickly as it will, some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd. . cap. 'tis more, 'tis more! his son is elder, sir; his son is thirty. cap. will you tell me that? his son was but a ward two years ago. rom. [to a servingman] what lady's that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight? serv. i know not, sir. rom. o, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! it seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an ethiop's ear- beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! so shows a snowy dove trooping with crows as yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. the measure done, i'll watch her place of stand and, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! for i ne'er saw true beauty till this night. tyb. this, by his voice, should be a montague. fetch me my rapier, boy. what, dares the slave come hither, cover'd with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity? now, by the stock and honour of my kin, to strike him dead i hold it not a sin. cap. why, how now, kinsman? wherefore storm you so? tyb. uncle, this is a montague, our foe; a villain, that is hither come in spite to scorn at our solemnity this night. cap. young romeo is it? tyb. 'tis he, that villain romeo. cap. content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. 'a bears him like a portly gentleman, and, to say truth, verona brags of him to be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth. i would not for the wealth of all this town here in my house do him disparagement. therefore be patient, take no note of him. it is my will; the which if thou respect, show a fair presence and put off these frowns, an ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. tyb. it fits when such a villain is a guest. i'll not endure him. cap. he shall be endur'd. what, goodman boy? i say he shall. go to! am i the master here, or you? go to! you'll not endure him? god shall mend my soul! you'll make a mutiny among my guests! you will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! tyb. why, uncle, 'tis a shame. cap. go to, go to! you are a saucy boy. is't so, indeed? this trick may chance to scathe you. i know what. you must contrary me! marry, 'tis time.- well said, my hearts!- you are a princox- go! be quiet, or- more light, more light!- for shame! i'll make you quiet; what!- cheerly, my hearts! tyb. patience perforce with wilful choler meeting makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. i will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall. exit. rom. if i profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. jul. good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. rom. have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? jul. ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r. rom. o, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! they pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. jul. saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. rom. then move not while my prayer's effect i take. thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [kisses her.] jul. then have my lips the sin that they have took. rom. sin from my lips? o trespass sweetly urg'd! give me my sin again. [kisses her.] jul. you kiss by th' book. nurse. madam, your mother craves a word with you. rom. what is her mother? nurse. marry, bachelor, her mother is the lady of the house. and a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. i nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal. i tell you, he that can lay hold of her shall have the chinks. rom. is she a capulet? o dear account! my life is my foe's debt. ben. away, be gone; the sport is at the best. rom. ay, so i fear; the more is my unrest. cap. nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; we have a trifling foolish banquet towards. is it e'en so? why then, i thank you all. i thank you, honest gentlemen. good night. more torches here! [exeunt maskers.] come on then, let's to bed. ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late; i'll to my rest. exeunt [all but juliet and nurse]. jul. come hither, nurse. what is yond gentleman? nurse. the son and heir of old tiberio. jul. what's he that now is going out of door? nurse. marry, that, i think, be young petruchio. jul. what's he that follows there, that would not dance? nurse. i know not. jul. go ask his name.- if he be married, my grave is like to be my wedding bed. nurse. his name is romeo, and a montague, the only son of your great enemy. jul. my only love, sprung from my only hate! too early seen unknown, and known too late! prodigious birth of love it is to me that i must love a loathed enemy. nurse. what's this? what's this? jul. a rhyme i learnt even now of one i danc'd withal. one calls within, 'juliet.' nurse. anon, anon! come, let's away; the strangers all are gone. exeunt. prologue enter chorus. chor. now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, and young affection gapes to be his heir; that fair for which love groan'd for and would die, with tender juliet match'd, is now not fair. now romeo is belov'd, and loves again, alike bewitched by the charm of looks; but to his foe suppos'd he must complain, and she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks. being held a foe, he may not have access to breathe such vows as lovers use to swear, and she as much in love, her means much less to meet her new beloved anywhere; but passion lends them power, time means, to meet, temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. exit. act ii. scene i. a lane by the wall of capulet's orchard. enter romeo alone. rom. can i go forward when my heart is here? turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. [climbs the wall and leaps down within it.] enter benvolio with mercutio. ben. romeo! my cousin romeo! romeo! mer. he is wise, and, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. ben. he ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall. call, good mercutio. mer. nay, i'll conjure too. romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! appear thou in the likeness of a sigh; speak but one rhyme, and i am satisfied! cry but 'ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove'; speak to my gossip venus one fair word, one nickname for her purblind son and heir, young adam cupid, he that shot so trim when king cophetua lov'd the beggar maid! he heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not; the ape is dead, and i must conjure him. i conjure thee by rosaline's bright eyes. by her high forehead and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, and the demesnes that there adjacent lie, that in thy likeness thou appear to us! ben. an if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. mer. this cannot anger him. 'twould anger him to raise a spirit in his mistress' circle of some strange nature, letting it there stand till she had laid it and conjur'd it down. that were some spite; my invocation is fair and honest: in his mistress' name, i conjure only but to raise up him. ben. come, he hath hid himself among these trees to be consorted with the humorous night. blind is his love and best befits the dark. mer. if love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. now will he sit under a medlar tree and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit as maids call medlars when they laugh alone. o, romeo, that she were, o that she were an open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear! romeo, good night. i'll to my truckle-bed; this field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. come, shall we go? ben. go then, for 'tis in vain 'to seek him here that means not to be found. exeunt. scene ii. capulet's orchard. enter romeo. rom. he jests at scars that never felt a wound. enter juliet above at a window. but soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun! arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she. be not her maid, since she is envious. her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. cast it off. it is my lady; o, it is my love! o that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she says nothing. what of that? her eye discourses; i will answer it. i am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks. two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. what if her eyes were there, they in her head? the brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night. see how she leans her cheek upon her hand! o that i were a glove upon that hand, that i might touch that cheek! jul. ay me! rom. she speaks. o, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air. jul. o romeo, romeo! wherefore art thou romeo? deny thy father and refuse thy name! or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and i'll no longer be a capulet. rom. [aside] shall i hear more, or shall i speak at this? jul. 'tis but thy name that is my enemy. thou art thyself, though not a montague. what's montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. o, be some other name! what's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. so romeo would, were he not romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. romeo, doff thy name; and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself. rom. i take thee at thy word. call me but love, and i'll be new baptiz'd; henceforth i never will be romeo. jul. what man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, so stumblest on my counsel? rom. by a name i know not how to tell thee who i am. my name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. had i it written, i would tear the word. jul. my ears have yet not drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utterance, yet i know the sound. art thou not romeo, and a montague? rom. neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. jul. how cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? the orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here. rom. with love's light wings did i o'erperch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt. therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. jul. if they do see thee, they will murther thee. rom. alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet, and i am proof against their enmity. jul. i would not for the world they saw thee here. rom. i have night's cloak to hide me from their sight; and but thou love me, let them find me here. my life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. jul. by whose direction found'st thou out this place? rom. by love, that first did prompt me to enquire. he lent me counsel, and i lent him eyes. i am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, i would adventure for such merchandise. jul. thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. fain would i dwell on form- fain, fain deny what i have spoke; but farewell compliment! dost thou love me, i know thou wilt say 'ay'; and i will take thy word. yet, if thou swear'st, thou mayst prove false. at lovers' perjuries, they say jove laughs. o gentle romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. or if thou thinkest i am too quickly won, i'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. in truth, fair montague, i am too fond, and therefore thou mayst think my haviour light; but trust me, gentleman, i'll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange. i should have been more strange, i must confess, but that thou overheard'st, ere i was ware, my true-love passion. therefore pardon me, and not impute this yielding to light love, which the dark night hath so discovered. rom. lady, by yonder blessed moon i swear, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops- jul. o, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable. rom. what shall i swear by? jul. do not swear at all; or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and i'll believe thee. rom. if my heart's dear love- jul. well, do not swear. although i joy in thee, i have no joy of this contract to-night. it is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden; too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say 'it lightens.' sweet, good night! this bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet. good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast! rom. o, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? jul. what satisfaction canst thou have to-night? rom. th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. jul. i gave thee mine before thou didst request it; and yet i would it were to give again. rom. would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? jul. but to be frank and give it thee again. and yet i wish but for the thing i have. my bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more i give to thee, the more i have, for both are infinite. i hear some noise within. dear love, adieu! [nurse] calls within. anon, good nurse! sweet montague, be true. stay but a little, i will come again. [exit.] rom. o blessed, blessed night! i am afeard, being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial. enter juliet above. jul. three words, dear romeo, and good night indeed. if that thy bent of love be honourable, thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, by one that i'll procure to come to thee, where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; and all my fortunes at thy foot i'll lay and follow thee my lord throughout the world. nurse. (within) madam! jul. i come, anon.- but if thou meanest not well, i do beseech thee- nurse. (within) madam! jul. by-and-by i come.- to cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. to-morrow will i send. rom. so thrive my soul- jul. a thousand times good night! exit. rom. a thousand times the worse, to want thy light! love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; but love from love, towards school with heavy looks. enter juliet again, [above]. jul. hist! romeo, hist! o for a falconer's voice to lure this tassel-gentle back again! bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; else would i tear the cave where echo lies, and make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine with repetition of my romeo's name. romeo! rom. it is my soul that calls upon my name. how silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! jul. romeo! rom. my dear? jul. at what o'clock to-morrow shall i send to thee? rom. by the hour of nine. jul. i will not fail. 'tis twenty years till then. i have forgot why i did call thee back. rom. let me stand here till thou remember it. jul. i shall forget, to have thee still stand there, rememb'ring how i love thy company. rom. and i'll still stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home but this. jul. 'tis almost morning. i would have thee gone- and yet no farther than a wanton's bird, that lets it hop a little from her hand, like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, and with a silk thread plucks it back again, so loving-jealous of his liberty. rom. i would i were thy bird. jul. sweet, so would i. yet i should kill thee with much cherishing. good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, that i shall say good night till it be morrow. [exit.] rom. sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! would i were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! hence will i to my ghostly father's cell, his help to crave and my dear hap to tell. exit scene iii. friar laurence's cell. enter friar, [laurence] alone, with a basket. friar. the grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light; and flecked darkness like a drunkard reels from forth day's path and titan's fiery wheels. non, ere the sun advance his burning eye the day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, i must up-fill this osier cage of ours with baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. the earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. what is her burying gave, that is her womb; and from her womb children of divers kind we sucking on her natural bosom find; many for many virtues excellent, none but for some, and yet all different. o, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities; for naught so vile that on the earth doth live but to the earth some special good doth give; nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use, revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, and vice sometime's by action dignified. within the infant rind of this small flower poison hath residence, and medicine power; for this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. two such opposed kings encamp them still in man as well as herbs- grace and rude will; and where the worser is predominant, full soon the canker death eats up that plant. enter romeo. rom. good morrow, father. friar. benedicite! what early tongue so sweet saluteth me? young son, it argues a distempered head so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, and where care lodges sleep will never lie; but where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. therefore thy earliness doth me assure thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature; or if not so, then here i hit it right- our romeo hath not been in bed to-night. rom. that last is true-the sweeter rest was mine. friar. god pardon sin! wast thou with rosaline? rom. with rosaline, my ghostly father? no. i have forgot that name, and that name's woe. friar. that's my good son! but where hast thou been then? rom. i'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again. i have been feasting with mine enemy, where on a sudden one hath wounded me that's by me wounded. both our remedies within thy help and holy physic lies. i bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, my intercession likewise steads my foe. friar. be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. rom. then plainly know my heart's dear love is set on the fair daughter of rich capulet; as mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, and all combin'd, save what thou must combine by holy marriage. when, and where, and how we met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, i'll tell thee as we pass; but this i pray, that thou consent to marry us to-day. friar. holy saint francis! what a change is here! is rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, so soon forsaken? young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. jesu maria! what a deal of brine hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for rosaline! how much salt water thrown away in waste, to season love, that of it doth not taste! the sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears. lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. if e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, thou and these woes were all for rosaline. and art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then: women may fall when there's no strength in men. rom. thou chid'st me oft for loving rosaline. friar. for doting, not for loving, pupil mine. rom. and bad'st me bury love. friar. not in a grave to lay one in, another out to have. rom. i pray thee chide not. she whom i love now doth grace for grace and love for love allow. the other did not so. friar. o, she knew well thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. but come, young waverer, come go with me. in one respect i'll thy assistant be; for this alliance may so happy prove to turn your households' rancour to pure love. rom. o, let us hence! i stand on sudden haste. friar. wisely, and slow. they stumble that run fast. exeunt. scene iv. a street. enter benvolio and mercutio. mer. where the devil should this romeo be? came he not home to-night? ben. not to his father's. i spoke with his man. mer. why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad. ben. tybalt, the kinsman to old capulet, hath sent a letter to his father's house. mer. a challenge, on my life. ben. romeo will answer it. mer. any man that can write may answer a letter. ben. nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. mer. alas, poor romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter tybalt? ben. why, what is tybalt? mer. more than prince of cats, i can tell you. o, he's the courageous captain of compliments. he fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay. ben. the what? mer. the pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- these new tuners of accent! 'by jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!' why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? o, their bones, their bones! enter romeo. ben. here comes romeo! here comes romeo! mer. without his roe, like a dried herring. o flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! now is he for the numbers that petrarch flowed in. laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), dido a dowdy, cleopatra a gypsy, helen and hero hildings and harlots, this be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. signior romeo, bon jour! there's a french salutation to your french slop. you gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. rom. good morrow to you both. what counterfeit did i give you? mer. the slip, sir, the slip. can you not conceive? rom. pardon, good mercutio. my business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. mer. that's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. rom. meaning, to cursy. mer. thou hast most kindly hit it. rom. a most courteous exposition. mer. nay, i am the very pink of courtesy. rom. pink for flower. mer. right. rom. why, then is my pump well-flower'd. mer. well said! follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular. rom. o single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness! mer. come between us, good benvolio! my wits faint. rom. swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or i'll cry a match. mer. nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, i am done; for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, i am sure, i have in my whole five. was i with you there for the goose? rom. thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose. mer. i will bite thee by the ear for that jest. rom. nay, good goose, bite not! mer. thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. rom. and is it not, then, well serv'd in to a sweet goose? mer. o, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad! rom. i stretch it out for that word 'broad,' which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. mer. why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. for this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. ben. stop there, stop there! mer. thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. ben. thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. mer. o, thou art deceiv'd! i would have made it short; for i was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. rom. here's goodly gear! enter nurse and her man [peter]. mer. a sail, a sail! ben. two, two! a shirt and a smock. nurse. peter! peter. anon. nurse. my fan, peter. mer. good peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face of the two. nurse. god ye good morrow, gentlemen. mer. god ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. nurse. is it good-den? mer. 'tis no less, i tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. nurse. out upon you! what a man are you! rom. one, gentlewoman, that god hath made for himself to mar. nurse. by my troth, it is well said. 'for himself to mar,' quoth 'a? gentlemen, can any of you tell me where i may find the young romeo? rom. i can tell you; but young romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him. i am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. nurse. you say well. mer. yea, is the worst well? very well took, i' faith! wisely, wisely. nurse. if you be he, sir, i desire some confidence with you. ben. she will endite him to some supper. mer. a bawd, a bawd, a bawd! so ho! rom. what hast thou found? mer. no hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent he walks by them and sings. an old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar, is very good meat in lent; but a hare that is hoar is too much for a score when it hoars ere it be spent. romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither. rom. i will follow you. mer. farewell, ancient lady. farewell, [sings] lady, lady, lady. exeunt mercutio, benvolio. nurse. marry, farewell! i pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? rom. a gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. nurse. an 'a speak anything against me, i'll take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if i cannot, i'll find those that shall. scurvy knave! i am none of his flirt-gills; i am none of his skains-mates. and thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! peter. i saw no man use you at his pleasure. if i had, my weapon should quickly have been out, i warrant you. i dare draw as soon as another man, if i see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. nurse. now, afore god, i am so vexed that every part about me quivers. scurvy knave! pray you, sir, a word; and, as i told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out. what she bid me say, i will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. rom. nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. i protest unto thee- nurse. good heart, and i faith i will tell her as much. lord, lord! she will be a joyful woman. rom. what wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me. nurse. i will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as i take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. rom. bid her devise some means to come to shrift this afternoon; and there she shall at friar laurence' cell be shriv'd and married. here is for thy pains. nurse. no, truly, sir; not a penny. rom. go to! i say you shall. nurse. this afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there. rom. and stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall. within this hour my man shall be with thee and bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, which to the high topgallant of my joy must be my convoy in the secret night. farewell. be trusty, and i'll quit thy pains. farewell. commend me to thy mistress. nurse. now god in heaven bless thee! hark you, sir. rom. what say'st thou, my dear nurse? nurse. is your man secret? did you ne'er hear say, two may keep counsel, putting one away? rom. i warrant thee my man's as true as steel. nurse. well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. lord, lord! when 'twas a little prating thing- o, there is a nobleman in town, one paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. i anger her sometimes, and tell her that paris is the properer man; but i'll warrant you, when i say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. doth not rosemary and romeo begin both with a letter? rom. ay, nurse; what of that? both with an r. nurse. ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. r is for the- no; i know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. rom. commend me to thy lady. nurse. ay, a thousand times. [exit romeo.] peter! peter. anon. nurse. peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. exeunt. scene v. capulet's orchard. enter juliet. jul. the clock struck nine when i did send the nurse; in half an hour she 'promis'd to return. perchance she cannot meet him. that's not so. o, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts, which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams driving back shadows over low'ring hills. therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, and therefore hath the wind-swift cupid wings. now is the sun upon the highmost hill of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve is three long hours; yet she is not come. had she affections and warm youthful blood, she would be as swift in motion as a ball; my words would bandy her to my sweet love, and his to me, but old folks, many feign as they were dead- unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. enter nurse [and peter]. o god, she comes! o honey nurse, what news? hast thou met with him? send thy man away. nurse. peter, stay at the gate. [exit peter.] jul. now, good sweet nurse- o lord, why look'st thou sad? though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; if good, thou shamest the music of sweet news by playing it to me with so sour a face. nurse. i am aweary, give me leave awhile. fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunce have i had! jul. i would thou hadst my bones, and i thy news. nay, come, i pray thee speak. good, good nurse, speak. nurse. jesu, what haste! can you not stay awhile? do you not see that i am out of breath? jul. how art thou out of breath when thou hast breath to say to me that thou art out of breath? the excuse that thou dost make in this delay is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. is thy news good or bad? answer to that. say either, and i'll stay the circumstance. let me be satisfied, is't good or bad? nurse. well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. romeo? no, not he. though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. he is not the flower of courtesy, but, i'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. go thy ways, wench; serve god. what, have you din'd at home? jul. no, no. but all this did i know before. what says he of our marriage? what of that? nurse. lord, how my head aches! what a head have i! it beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. my back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back! beshrew your heart for sending me about to catch my death with jauncing up and down! jul. i' faith, i am sorry that thou art not well. sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? nurse. your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, i warrant, a virtuous- where is your mother? jul. where is my mother? why, she is within. where should she be? how oddly thou repliest! 'your love says, like an honest gentleman, "where is your mother?"' nurse. o god's lady dear! are you so hot? marry come up, i trow. is this the poultice for my aching bones? henceforward do your messages yourself. jul. here's such a coil! come, what says romeo? nurse. have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? jul. i have. nurse. then hie you hence to friar laurence' cell; there stays a husband to make you a wife. now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: they'll be in scarlet straight at any news. hie you to church; i must another way, to fetch a ladder, by the which your love must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark. i am the drudge, and toil in your delight; but you shall bear the burthen soon at night. go; i'll to dinner; hie you to the cell. jul. hie to high fortune! honest nurse, farewell. exeunt. scene vi. friar laurence's cell. enter friar [laurence] and romeo. friar. so smile the heavens upon this holy act that after-hours with sorrow chide us not! rom. amen, amen! but come what sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short minute gives me in her sight. do thou but close our hands with holy words, then love-devouring death do what he dare- it is enough i may but call her mine. friar. these violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness and in the taste confounds the appetite. therefore love moderately: long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. enter juliet. here comes the lady. o, so light a foot will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. a lover may bestride the gossamer that idles in the wanton summer air, and yet not fall; so light is vanity. jul. good even to my ghostly confessor. friar. romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. jul. as much to him, else is his thanks too much. rom. ah, juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath this neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue unfold the imagin'd happiness that both receive in either by this dear encounter. jul. conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance, not of ornament. they are but beggars that can count their worth; but my true love is grown to such excess cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. friar. come, come with me, and we will make short work; for, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone till holy church incorporate two in one. [exeunt.] act iii. scene i. a public place. enter mercutio, benvolio, and men. ben. i pray thee, good mercutio, let's retire. the day is hot, the capulets abroad. and if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. mer. thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says 'god send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. ben. am i like such a fellow? mer. come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. ben. and what to? mer. nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. thou hast quarrell'd with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! ben. an i were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. mer. the fee simple? o simple! enter tybalt and others. ben. by my head, here come the capulets. mer. by my heel, i care not. tyb. follow me close, for i will speak to them. gentlemen, good den. a word with one of you. mer. and but one word with one of us? couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. tyb. you shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. mer. could you not take some occasion without giving tyb. mercutio, thou consortest with romeo. mer. consort? what, dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. zounds, consort! ben. we talk here in the public haunt of men. either withdraw unto some private place and reason coldly of your grievances, or else depart. here all eyes gaze on us. mer. men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. i will not budge for no man's pleasure, enter romeo. tyb. well, peace be with you, sir. here comes my man. mer. but i'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower! your worship in that sense may call him man. tyb. romeo, the love i bear thee can afford no better term than this: thou art a villain. rom. tybalt, the reason that i have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. villain am i none. therefore farewell. i see thou knowest me not. tyb. boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. rom. i do protest i never injur'd thee, but love thee better than thou canst devise till thou shalt know the reason of my love; and so good capulet, which name i tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied. mer. o calm, dishonourable, vile submission! alla stoccata carries it away. [draws.] tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk? tyb. what wouldst thou have with me? mer. good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. that i mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. tyb. i am for you. [draws.] rom. gentle mercutio, put thy rapier up. mer. come, sir, your passado! [they fight.] rom. draw, benvolio; beat down their weapons. gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! tybalt, mercutio, the prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in verona streets. hold, tybalt! good mercutio! tybalt under romeo's arm thrusts mercutio in, and flies [with his followers]. mer. i am hurt. a plague o' both your houses! i am sped. is he gone and hath nothing? ben. what, art thou hurt? mer. ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. marry, 'tis enough. where is my page? go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [exit page.] rom. courage, man. the hurt cannot be much. mer. no, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. i am peppered, i warrant, for this world. a plague o' both your houses! zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! why the devil came you between us? i was hurt under your arm. rom. i thought all for the best. mer. help me into some house, benvolio, or i shall faint. a plague o' both your houses! they have made worms' meat of me. i have it, and soundly too. your houses! [exit. [supported by benvolio]. rom. this gentleman, the prince's near ally, my very friend, hath got this mortal hurt in my behalf- my reputation stain'd with tybalt's slander- tybalt, that an hour hath been my kinsman. o sweet juliet, thy beauty hath made me effeminate and in my temper soft'ned valour's steel enter benvolio. ben. o romeo, romeo, brave mercutio's dead! that gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth. rom. this day's black fate on moe days doth depend; this but begins the woe others must end. enter tybalt. ben. here comes the furious tybalt back again. rom. alive in triumph, and mercutio slain? away to heaven respective lenity, and fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! now, tybalt, take the 'villain' back again that late thou gavest me; for mercutio's soul is but a little way above our heads, staying for thine to keep him company. either thou or i, or both, must go with him. tyb. thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, shalt with him hence. rom. this shall determine that. they fight. tybalt falls. ben. romeo, away, be gone! the citizens are up, and tybalt slain. stand not amaz'd. the prince will doom thee death if thou art taken. hence, be gone, away! rom. o, i am fortune's fool! ben. why dost thou stay? exit romeo. enter citizens. citizen. which way ran he that kill'd mercutio? tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he? ben. there lies that tybalt. citizen. up, sir, go with me. i charge thee in the prince's name obey. enter prince [attended], old montague, capulet, their wives, and [others]. prince. where are the vile beginners of this fray? ben. o noble prince. i can discover all the unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. there lies the man, slain by young romeo, that slew thy kinsman, brave mercutio. cap. wife. tybalt, my cousin! o my brother's child! o prince! o husband! o, the blood is spill'd of my dear kinsman! prince, as thou art true, for blood of ours shed blood of montague. o cousin, cousin! prince. benvolio, who began this bloody fray? ben. tybalt, here slain, whom romeo's hand did stay. romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink how nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal your high displeasure. all this- uttered with gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- could not take truce with the unruly spleen of tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts with piercing steel at bold mercutio's breast; who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, and, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats cold death aside and with the other sends it back to tybalt, whose dexterity retorts it. romeo he cries aloud, 'hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, his agile arm beats down their fatal points, and 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm an envious thrust from tybalt hit the life of stout mercutio, and then tybalt fled; but by-and-by comes back to romeo, who had but newly entertain'd revenge, and to't they go like lightning; for, ere i could draw to part them, was stout tybalt slain; and, as he fell, did romeo turn and fly. this is the truth, or let benvolio die. cap. wife. he is a kinsman to the montague; affection makes him false, he speaks not true. some twenty of them fought in this black strife, and all those twenty could but kill one life. i beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give. romeo slew tybalt; romeo must not live. prince. romeo slew him; he slew mercutio. who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? mon. not romeo, prince; he was mercutio's friend; his fault concludes but what the law should end, the life of tybalt. prince. and for that offence immediately we do exile him hence. i have an interest in your hate's proceeding, my blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; but i'll amerce you with so strong a fine that you shall all repent the loss of mine. i will be deaf to pleading and excuses; nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. therefore use none. let romeo hence in haste, else, when he is found, that hour is his last. bear hence this body, and attend our will. mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. exeunt. scene ii. capulet's orchard. enter juliet alone. jul. gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, towards phoebus' lodging! such a wagoner as phaeton would whip you to the west and bring in cloudy night immediately. spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, that runaway eyes may wink, and romeo leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen. lovers can see to do their amorous rites by their own beauties; or, if love be blind, it best agrees with night. come, civil night, thou sober-suited matron, all in black, and learn me how to lose a winning match, play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, with thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, think true love acted simple modesty. come, night; come, romeo; come, thou day in night; for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; give me my romeo; and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. o, i have bought the mansion of a love, but not possess'd it; and though i am sold, not yet enjoy'd. so tedious is this day as is the night before some festival to an impatient child that hath new robes and may not wear them. o, here comes my nurse, enter nurse, with cords. and she brings news; and every tongue that speaks but romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. now, nurse, what news? what hast thou there? the cords that romeo bid thee fetch? nurse. ay, ay, the cords. [throws them down.] jul. ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands nurse. ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! we are undone, lady, we are undone! alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! jul. can heaven be so envious? nurse. romeo can, though heaven cannot. o romeo, romeo! who ever would have thought it? romeo! jul. what devil art thou that dost torment me thus? this torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. hath romeo slain himself? say thou but 'i,' and that bare vowel 'i' shall poison more than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. i am not i, if there be such an 'i'; or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'i.' if he be slain, say 'i'; or if not, 'no.' brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. nurse. i saw the wound, i saw it with mine eyes, (god save the mark!) here on his manly breast. a piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, all in gore-blood. i swounded at the sight. jul. o, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! to prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty! vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, and thou and romeo press one heavy bier! nurse. o tybalt, tybalt, the best friend i had! o courteous tybalt! honest gentleman that ever i should live to see thee dead! jul. what storm is this that blows so contrary? is romeo slaught'red, and is tybalt dead? my dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! for who is living, if those two are gone? nurse. tybalt is gone, and romeo banished; romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. jul. o god! did romeo's hand shed tybalt's blood? nurse. it did, it did! alas the day, it did! jul. o serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! despised substance of divinest show! just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- a damned saint, an honourable villain! o nature, what hadst thou to do in hell when thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend in mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound? o, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace! nurse. there's no trust, no faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, all forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. ah, where's my man? give me some aqua vitae. these griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. shame come to romeo! jul. blister'd be thy tongue for such a wish! he was not born to shame. upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; for 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd sole monarch of the universal earth. o, what a beast was i to chide at him! nurse. will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin? jul. shall i speak ill of him that is my husband? ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name when i, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? but wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? that villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! your tributary drops belong to woe, which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. my husband lives, that tybalt would have slain; and tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. all this is comfort; wherefore weep i then? some word there was, worser than tybalt's death, that murd'red me. i would forget it fain; but o, it presses to my memory like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'tybalt is dead, and romeo- banished.' that 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' hath slain ten thousand tybalts. tybalt's death was woe enough, if it had ended there; or, if sour woe delights in fellowship and needly will be rank'd with other griefs, why followed not, when she said 'tybalt's dead,' thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, which modern lamentation might have mov'd? but with a rearward following tybalt's death, 'romeo is banished'- to speak that word is father, mother, tybalt, romeo, juliet, all slain, all dead. 'romeo is banished'- there is no end, no limit, measure, bound, in that word's death; no words can that woe sound. where is my father and my mother, nurse? nurse. weeping and wailing over tybalt's corse. will you go to them? i will bring you thither. jul. wash they his wounds with tears? mine shall be spent, when theirs are dry, for romeo's banishment. take up those cords. poor ropes, you are beguil'd, both you and i, for romeo is exil'd. he made you for a highway to my bed; but i, a maid, die maiden-widowed. come, cords; come, nurse. i'll to my wedding bed; and death, not romeo, take my maidenhead! nurse. hie to your chamber. i'll find romeo to comfort you. i wot well where he is. hark ye, your romeo will be here at night. i'll to him; he is hid at laurence' cell. jul. o, find him! give this ring to my true knight and bid him come to take his last farewell. exeunt. scene iii. friar laurence's cell. enter friar [laurence]. friar. romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, and thou art wedded to calamity. enter romeo. rom. father, what news? what is the prince's doom what sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand that i yet know not? friar. too familiar is my dear son with such sour company. i bring thee tidings of the prince's doom. rom. what less than doomsday is the prince's doom? friar. a gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- not body's death, but body's banishment. rom. ha, banishment? be merciful, say 'death'; for exile hath more terror in his look, much more than death. do not say 'banishment.' friar. hence from verona art thou banished. be patient, for the world is broad and wide. rom. there is no world without verona walls, but purgatory, torture, hell itself. hence banished is banish'd from the world, and world's exile is death. then 'banishment' is death misterm'd. calling death 'banishment,' thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe and smilest upon the stroke that murders me. friar. o deadly sin! o rude unthankfulness! thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, and turn'd that black word death to banishment. this is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. rom. 'tis torture, and not mercy. heaven is here, where juliet lives; and every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her; but romeo may not. more validity, more honourable state, more courtship lives in carrion flies than romeo. they may seize on the white wonder of dear juliet's hand and steal immortal blessing from her lips, who, even in pure and vestal modesty, still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; but romeo may not- he is banished. this may flies do, when i from this must fly; they are free men, but i am banished. and sayest thou yet that exile is not death? hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, no sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, but 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? o friar, the damned use that word in hell; howling attends it! how hast thou the heart, being a divine, a ghostly confessor, a sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, to mangle me with that word 'banished'? friar. thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. rom. o, thou wilt speak again of banishment. friar. i'll give thee armour to keep off that word; adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, to comfort thee, though thou art banished. rom. yet 'banished'? hang up philosophy! unless philosophy can make a juliet, displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, it helps not, it prevails not. talk no more. friar. o, then i see that madmen have no ears. rom. how should they, when that wise men have no eyes? friar. let me dispute with thee of thy estate. rom. thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. wert thou as young as i, juliet thy love, an hour but married, tybalt murdered, doting like me, and like me banished, then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, and fall upon the ground, as i do now, taking the measure of an unmade grave. knock [within]. friar. arise; one knocks. good romeo, hide thyself. rom. not i; unless the breath of heartsick groans, mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. knock. friar. hark, how they knock! who's there? romeo, arise; thou wilt be taken.- stay awhile!- stand up; knock. run to my study.- by-and-by!- god's will, what simpleness is this.- i come, i come! knock. who knocks so hard? whence come you? what's your will nurse. [within] let me come in, and you shall know my errand. i come from lady juliet. friar. welcome then. enter nurse. nurse. o holy friar, o, tell me, holy friar where is my lady's lord, where's romeo? friar. there on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. nurse. o, he is even in my mistress' case, just in her case! friar. o woeful sympathy! piteous predicament! nurse. even so lies she, blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. stand up, stand up! stand, an you be a man. for juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! why should you fall into so deep an o? rom. (rises) nurse- nurse. ah sir! ah sir! well, death's the end of all. rom. spakest thou of juliet? how is it with her? doth not she think me an old murtherer, now i have stain'd the childhood of our joy with blood remov'd but little from her own? where is she? and how doth she! and what says my conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? nurse. o, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; and now falls on her bed, and then starts up, and tybalt calls; and then on romeo cries, and then down falls again. rom. as if that name, shot from the deadly level of a gun, did murther her; as that name's cursed hand murder'd her kinsman. o, tell me, friar, tell me, in what vile part of this anatomy doth my name lodge? tell me, that i may sack the hateful mansion. [draws his dagger.] friar. hold thy desperate hand. art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art; thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote the unreasonable fury of a beast. unseemly woman in a seeming man! or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! thou hast amaz'd me. by my holy order, i thought thy disposition better temper'd. hast thou slain tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself? and slay thy lady that in thy life lives, by doing damned hate upon thyself? why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet in thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, and usest none in that true use indeed which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. thy noble shape is but a form of wax digressing from the valour of a man; thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, misshapen in the conduct of them both, like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, and thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. what, rouse thee, man! thy juliet is alive, for whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. there art thou happy. tybalt would kill thee, but thou slewest tybalt. there art thou happy too. the law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend and turns it to exile. there art thou happy. a pack of blessings light upon thy back; happiness courts thee in her best array; but, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. but look thou stay not till the watch be set, for then thou canst not pass to mantua, where thou shalt live till we can find a time to blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back with twenty hundred thousand times more joy than thou went'st forth in lamentation. go before, nurse. commend me to thy lady, and bid her hasten all the house to bed, which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. romeo is coming. nurse. o lord, i could have stay'd here all the night to hear good counsel. o, what learning is! my lord, i'll tell my lady you will come. rom. do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. nurse. here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. exit. rom. how well my comfort is reviv'd by this! friar. go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: either be gone before the watch be set, or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. sojourn in mantua. i'll find out your man, and he shall signify from time to time every good hap to you that chances here. give me thy hand. 'tis late. farewell; good night. rom. but that a joy past joy calls out on me, it were a grief so brief to part with thee. farewell. exeunt. scene iv. capulet's house enter old capulet, his wife, and paris. cap. things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily that we have had no time to move our daughter. look you, she lov'd her kinsman tybalt dearly, and so did i. well, we were born to die. 'tis very late; she'll not come down to-night. i promise you, but for your company, i would have been abed an hour ago. par. these times of woe afford no tune to woo. madam, good night. commend me to your daughter. lady. i will, and know her mind early to-morrow; to-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. cap. sir paris, i will make a desperate tender of my child's love. i think she will be rul'd in all respects by me; nay more, i doubt it not. wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; acquaint her here of my son paris' love and bid her (mark you me?) on wednesday next- but, soft! what day is this? par. monday, my lord. cap. monday! ha, ha! well, wednesday is too soon. thursday let it be- a thursday, tell her she shall be married to this noble earl. will you be ready? do you like this haste? we'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; for hark you, tybalt being slain so late, it may be thought we held him carelessly, being our kinsman, if we revel much. therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, and there an end. but what say you to thursday? par. my lord, i would that thursday were to-morrow. cap. well, get you gone. a thursday be it then. go you to juliet ere you go to bed; prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. farewell, my lord.- light to my chamber, ho! afore me, it is so very very late that we may call it early by-and-by. good night. exeunt scene v. capulet's orchard. enter romeo and juliet aloft, at the window. jul. wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day. it was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. believe me, love, it was the nightingale. rom. it was the lark, the herald of the morn; no nightingale. look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. i must be gone and live, or stay and die. jul. yond light is not daylight; i know it, i. it is some meteor that the sun exhales to be to thee this night a torchbearer and light thee on the way to mantua. therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. rom. let me be ta'en, let me be put to death. i am content, so thou wilt have it so. i'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'tis but the pale reflex of cynthia's brow; nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads. i have more care to stay than will to go. come, death, and welcome! juliet wills it so. how is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day. jul. it is, it is! hie hence, be gone, away! it is the lark that sings so out of tune, straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. some say the lark makes sweet division; this doth not so, for she divideth us. some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; o, now i would they had chang'd voices too, since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day! o, now be gone! more light and light it grows. rom. more light and light- more dark and dark our woes! enter nurse. nurse. madam! jul. nurse? nurse. your lady mother is coming to your chamber. the day is broke; be wary, look about. jul. then, window, let day in, and let life out. [exit.] rom. farewell, farewell! one kiss, and i'll descend. he goeth down. jul. art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? i must hear from thee every day in the hour, for in a minute there are many days. o, by this count i shall be much in years ere i again behold my romeo! rom. farewell! i will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings, love, to thee. jul. o, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? rom. i doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our time to come. jul. o god, i have an ill-divining soul! methinks i see thee, now thou art below, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. rom. and trust me, love, in my eye so do you. dry sorrow drinks our blood. adieu, adieu! exit. jul. o fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle. if thou art fickle, what dost thou with him that is renown'd for faith? be fickle, fortune, for then i hope thou wilt not keep him long but send him back. lady. [within] ho, daughter! are you up? jul. who is't that calls? it is my lady mother. is she not down so late, or up so early? what unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? enter mother. lady. why, how now, juliet? jul. madam, i am not well. lady. evermore weeping for your cousin's death? what, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? an if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. therefore have done. some grief shows much of love; but much of grief shows still some want of wit. jul. yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. lady. so shall you feel the loss, but not the friend which you weep for. jul. feeling so the loss, i cannot choose but ever weep the friend. lady. well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death as that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. jul. what villain, madam? lady. that same villain romeo. jul. [aside] villain and he be many miles asunder.- god pardon him! i do, with all my heart; and yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. lady. that is because the traitor murderer lives. jul. ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. would none but i might venge my cousin's death! lady. we will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. then weep no more. i'll send to one in mantua, where that same banish'd runagate doth live, shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram that he shall soon keep tybalt company; and then i hope thou wilt be satisfied. jul. indeed i never shall be satisfied with romeo till i behold him- dead- is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd. madam, if you could find out but a man to bear a poison, i would temper it; that romeo should, upon receipt thereof, soon sleep in quiet. o, how my heart abhors to hear him nam'd and cannot come to him, to wreak the love i bore my cousin tybalt upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! lady. find thou the means, and i'll find such a man. but now i'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. jul. and joy comes well in such a needy time. what are they, i beseech your ladyship? lady. well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; one who, to put thee from thy heaviness, hath sorted out a sudden day of joy that thou expects not nor i look'd not for. jul. madam, in happy time! what day is that? lady. marry, my child, early next thursday morn the gallant, young, and noble gentleman, the county paris, at saint peter's church, shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. jul. now by saint peter's church, and peter too, he shall not make me there a joyful bride! i wonder at this haste, that i must wed ere he that should be husband comes to woo. i pray you tell my lord and father, madam, i will not marry yet; and when i do, i swear it shall be romeo, whom you know i hate, rather than paris. these are news indeed! lady. here comes your father. tell him so yourself, and see how he will take it at your hands. enter capulet and nurse. cap. when the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, but for the sunset of my brother's son it rains downright. how now? a conduit, girl? what, still in tears? evermore show'ring? in one little body thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: for still thy eyes, which i may call the sea, do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, who, raging with thy tears and they with them, without a sudden calm will overset thy tempest-tossed body. how now, wife? have you delivered to her our decree? lady. ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. i would the fool were married to her grave! cap. soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. how? will she none? doth she not give us thanks? is she not proud? doth she not count her blest, unworthy as she is, that we have wrought so worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? jul. not proud you have, but thankful that you have. proud can i never be of what i hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love. cap. how, how, how, how, choplogic? what is this? 'proud'- and 'i thank you'- and 'i thank you not'- and yet 'not proud'? mistress minion you, thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, but fettle your fine joints 'gainst thursday next to go with paris to saint peter's church, or i will drag thee on a hurdle thither. out, you green-sickness carrion i out, you baggage! you tallow-face! lady. fie, fie! what, are you mad? jul. good father, i beseech you on my knees, hear me with patience but to speak a word. cap. hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! i tell thee what- get thee to church a thursday or never after look me in the face. speak not, reply not, do not answer me! my fingers itch. wife, we scarce thought us blest that god had lent us but this only child; but now i see this one is one too much, and that we have a curse in having her. out on her, hilding! nurse. god in heaven bless her! you are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. cap. and why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue, good prudence. smatter with your gossips, go! nurse. i speak no treason. cap. o, god-i-god-en! nurse. may not one speak? cap. peace, you mumbling fool! utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, for here we need it not. lady. you are too hot. cap. god's bread i it makes me mad. day, night, late, early, at home, abroad, alone, in company, waking or sleeping, still my care hath been to have her match'd; and having now provided a gentleman of princely parentage, of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts, proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man- and then to have a wretched puling fool, a whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, to answer 'i'll not wed, i cannot love; i am too young, i pray you pardon me'! but, an you will not wed, i'll pardon you. graze where you will, you shall not house with me. look to't, think on't; i do not use to jest. thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: an you be mine, i'll give you to my friend; an you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, for, by my soul, i'll ne'er acknowledge thee, nor what is mine shall never do thee good. trust to't. bethink you. i'll not be forsworn. exit. jul. is there no pity sitting in the clouds that sees into the bottom of my grief? o sweet my mother, cast me not away! delay this marriage for a month, a week; or if you do not, make the bridal bed in that dim monument where tybalt lies. lady. talk not to me, for i'll not speak a word. do as thou wilt, for i have done with thee. exit. jul. o god!- o nurse, how shall this be prevented? my husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. how shall that faith return again to earth unless that husband send it me from heaven by leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me. alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems upon so soft a subject as myself! what say'st thou? hast thou not a word of joy? some comfort, nurse. nurse. faith, here it is. romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing that he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. then, since the case so stands as now it doth, i think it best you married with the county. o, he's a lovely gentleman! romeo's a dishclout to him. an eagle, madam, hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye as paris hath. beshrew my very heart, i think you are happy in this second match, for it excels your first; or if it did not, your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were as living here and you no use of him. jul. speak'st thou this from thy heart? nurse. and from my soul too; else beshrew them both. jul. amen! nurse. what? jul. well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. go in; and tell my lady i am gone, having displeas'd my father, to laurence' cell, to make confession and to be absolv'd. nurse. marry, i will; and this is wisely done. exit. jul. ancient damnation! o most wicked fiend! is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue which she hath prais'd him with above compare so many thousand times? go, counsellor! thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. i'll to the friar to know his remedy. if all else fail, myself have power to die. exit. act iv. scene i. friar laurence's cell. enter friar, [laurence] and county paris. friar. on thursday, sir? the time is very short. par. my father capulet will have it so, and i am nothing slow to slack his haste. friar. you say you do not know the lady's mind. uneven is the course; i like it not. par. immoderately she weeps for tybalt's death, and therefore have i little talk'd of love; for venus smiles not in a house of tears. now, sir, her father counts it dangerous that she do give her sorrow so much sway, and in his wisdom hastes our marriage to stop the inundation of her tears, which, too much minded by herself alone, may be put from her by society. now do you know the reason of this haste. friar. [aside] i would i knew not why it should be slow'd.- look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. enter juliet. par. happily met, my lady and my wife! jul. that may be, sir, when i may be a wife. par. that may be must be, love, on thursday next. jul. what must be shall be. friar. that's a certain text. par. come you to make confession to this father? jul. to answer that, i should confess to you. par. do not deny to him that you love me. jul. i will confess to you that i love him. par. so will ye, i am sure, that you love me. jul. if i do so, it will be of more price, being spoke behind your back, than to your face. par. poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. jul. the tears have got small victory by that, for it was bad enough before their spite. par. thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. jul. that is no slander, sir, which is a truth; and what i spake, i spake it to my face. par. thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. jul. it may be so, for it is not mine own. are you at leisure, holy father, now, or shall i come to you at evening mass friar. my leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. my lord, we must entreat the time alone. par. god shield i should disturb devotion! juliet, on thursday early will i rouse ye. till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. exit. jul. o, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! friar. ah, juliet, i already know thy grief; it strains me past the compass of my wits. i hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, on thursday next be married to this county. jul. tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, unless thou tell me how i may prevent it. if in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, do thou but call my resolution wise and with this knife i'll help it presently. god join'd my heart and romeo's, thou our hands; and ere this hand, by thee to romeo's seal'd, shall be the label to another deed, or my true heart with treacherous revolt turn to another, this shall slay them both. therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife shall play the empire, arbitrating that which the commission of thy years and art could to no issue of true honour bring. be not so long to speak. i long to die if what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. friar. hold, daughter. i do spy a kind of hope, which craves as desperate an execution as that is desperate which we would prevent. if, rather than to marry county paris thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, then is it likely thou wilt undertake a thing like death to chide away this shame, that cop'st with death himself to scape from it; and, if thou dar'st, i'll give thee remedy. jul. o, bid me leap, rather than marry paris, from off the battlements of yonder tower, or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, or shut me nightly in a charnel house, o'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, with reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; or bid me go into a new-made grave and hide me with a dead man in his shroud- things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- and i will do it without fear or doubt, to live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. friar. hold, then. go home, be merry, give consent to marry paris. wednesday is to-morrow. to-morrow night look that thou lie alone; let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. take thou this vial, being then in bed, and this distilled liquor drink thou off; when presently through all thy veins shall run a cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse shall keep his native progress, but surcease; no warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; the roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade to paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall like death when he shuts up the day of life; each part, depriv'd of supple government, shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; and in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, and then awake as from a pleasant sleep. now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes to rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. then, as the manner of our country is, in thy best robes uncovered on the bier thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault where all the kindred of the capulets lie. in the mean time, against thou shalt awake, shall romeo by my letters know our drift; and hither shall he come; and he and i will watch thy waking, and that very night shall romeo bear thee hence to mantua. and this shall free thee from this present shame, if no inconstant toy nor womanish fear abate thy valour in the acting it. jul. give me, give me! o, tell not me of fear! friar. hold! get you gone, be strong and prosperous in this resolve. i'll send a friar with speed to mantua, with my letters to thy lord. jul. love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. farewell, dear father. exeunt. scene ii. capulet's house. enter father capulet, mother, nurse, and servingmen, two or three. cap. so many guests invite as here are writ. [exit a servingman.] sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. serv. you shall have none ill, sir; for i'll try if they can lick their fingers. cap. how canst thou try them so? serv. marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. cap. go, begone. exit servingman. we shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. what, is my daughter gone to friar laurence? nurse. ay, forsooth. cap. well, be may chance to do some good on her. a peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. enter juliet. nurse. see where she comes from shrift with merry look. cap. how now, my headstrong? where have you been gadding? jul. where i have learnt me to repent the sin of disobedient opposition to you and your behests, and am enjoin'd by holy laurence to fall prostrate here to beg your pardon. pardon, i beseech you! henceforward i am ever rul'd by you. cap. send for the county. go tell him of this. i'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. jul. i met the youthful lord at laurence' cell and gave him what becomed love i might, not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. cap. why, i am glad on't. this is well. stand up. this is as't should be. let me see the county. ay, marry, go, i say, and fetch him hither. now, afore god, this reverend holy friar, all our whole city is much bound to him. jul. nurse, will you go with me into my closet to help me sort such needful ornaments as you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? mother. no, not till thursday. there is time enough. cap. go, nurse, go with her. we'll to church to-morrow. exeunt juliet and nurse. mother. we shall be short in our provision. 'tis now near night. cap. tush, i will stir about, and all things shall be well, i warrant thee, wife. go thou to juliet, help to deck up her. i'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. i'll play the housewife for this once. what, ho! they are all forth; well, i will walk myself to county paris, to prepare him up against to-morrow. my heart is wondrous light, since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. exeunt. scene iii. juliet's chamber. enter juliet and nurse. jul. ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, i pray thee leave me to myself to-night; for i have need of many orisons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. enter mother. mother. what, are you busy, ho? need you my help? jul. no, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries as are behooffull for our state to-morrow. so please you, let me now be left alone, and let the nurse this night sit up with you; for i am sure you have your hands full all in this so sudden business. mother. good night. get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. exeunt [mother and nurse.] jul. farewell! god knows when we shall meet again. i have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins that almost freezes up the heat of life. i'll call them back again to comfort me. nurse!- what should she do here? my dismal scene i needs must act alone. come, vial. what if this mixture do not work at all? shall i be married then to-morrow morning? no, no! this shall forbid it. lie thou there. lays down a dagger. what if it be a poison which the friar subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd because he married me before to romeo? i fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, for he hath still been tried a holy man. i will not entertain so bad a thought. how if, when i am laid into the tomb, i wake before the time that romeo come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! shall i not then be stifled in the vault, to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, and there die strangled ere my romeo comes? or, if i live, is it not very like the horrible conceit of death and night, together with the terror of the place- as in a vault, an ancient receptacle where for this many hundred years the bones of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; where bloody tybalt, yet but green in earth, lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, at some hours in the night spirits resort- alack, alack, is it not like that i, so early waking- what with loathsome smells, and shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, that living mortals, hearing them, run mad- o, if i wake, shall i not be distraught, environed with all these hideous fears, and madly play with my forefathers' joints, and pluck the mangled tybalt from his shroud., and, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone as with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? o, look! methinks i see my cousin's ghost seeking out romeo, that did spit his body upon a rapier's point. stay, tybalt, stay! romeo, i come! this do i drink to thee. she [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. scene iv. capulet's house. enter lady of the house and nurse. lady. hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. nurse. they call for dates and quinces in the pastry. enter old capulet. cap. come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow'd, the curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. look to the bak'd meats, good angelica; spare not for cost. nurse. go, you cot-quean, go, get you to bed! faith, you'll be sick to-morrow for this night's watching. cap. no, not a whit. what, i have watch'd ere now all night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. lady. ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; but i will watch you from such watching now. exeunt lady and nurse. cap. a jealous hood, a jealous hood! enter three or four [fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. what is there? now, fellow, fellow. things for the cook, sir; but i know not what. cap. make haste, make haste. [exit fellow.] sirrah, fetch drier logs. call peter; he will show thee where they are. fellow. i have a head, sir, that will find out logs and never trouble peter for the matter. cap. mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! thou shalt be loggerhead. [exit fellow.] good faith, 'tis day. the county will be here with music straight, for so he said he would. play music. i hear him near. nurse! wife! what, ho! what, nurse, i say! enter nurse. go waken juliet; go and trim her up. i'll go and chat with paris. hie, make haste, make haste! the bridegroom he is come already: make haste, i say. [exeunt.] scene v. juliet's chamber. [enter nurse.] nurse. mistress! what, mistress! juliet! fast, i warrant her, she. why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-abed! why, love, i say! madam! sweetheart! why, bride! what, not a word? you take your pennyworths now! sleep for a week; for the next night, i warrant, the county paris hath set up his rest that you shall rest but little. god forgive me! marry, and amen. how sound is she asleep! i needs must wake her. madam, madam, madam! ay, let the county take you in your bed! he'll fright you up, i' faith. will it not be? [draws aside the curtains.] what, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? i must needs wake you. lady! lady! lady! alas, alas! help, help! my lady's dead! o weraday that ever i was born! some aqua-vitae, ho! my lord! my lady! enter mother. mother. what noise is here? nurse. o lamentable day! mother. what is the matter? nurse. look, look! o heavy day! mother. o me, o me! my child, my only life! revive, look up, or i will die with thee! help, help! call help. enter father. father. for shame, bring juliet forth; her lord is come. nurse. she's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! alack the day! mother. alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! cap. ha! let me see her. out alas! she's cold, her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; life and these lips have long been separated. death lies on her like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field. nurse. o lamentable day! mother. o woful time! cap. death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. enter friar [laurence] and the county [paris], with musicians. friar. come, is the bride ready to go to church? cap. ready to go, but never to return. o son, the night before thy wedding day hath death lain with thy wife. see, there she lies, flower as she was, deflowered by him. death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; my daughter he hath wedded. i will die and leave him all. life, living, all is death's. par. have i thought long to see this morning's face, and doth it give me such a sight as this? mother. accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! most miserable hour that e'er time saw in lasting labour of his pilgrimage! but one, poor one, one poor and loving child, but one thing to rejoice and solace in, and cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight! nurse. o woe? o woful, woful, woful day! most lamentable day, most woful day that ever ever i did yet behold! o day! o day! o day! o hateful day! never was seen so black a day as this. o woful day! o woful day! par. beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! most detestable death, by thee beguil'd, by cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! o love! o life! not life, but love in death cap. despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now to murther, murther our solemnity? o child! o child! my soul, and not my child! dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, and with my child my joys are buried! friar. peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not in these confusions. heaven and yourself had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, and all the better is it for the maid. your part in her you could not keep from death, but heaven keeps his part in eternal life. the most you sought was her promotion, for 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd; and weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? o, in this love, you love your child so ill that you run mad, seeing that she is well. she's not well married that lives married long, but she's best married that dies married young. dry up your tears and stick your rosemary on this fair corse, and, as the custom is, in all her best array bear her to church; for though fond nature bids us all lament, yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. cap. all things that we ordained festival turn from their office to black funeral- our instruments to melancholy bells, our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; and all things change them to the contrary. friar. sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; and go, sir paris. every one prepare to follow this fair corse unto her grave. the heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; move them no more by crossing their high will. exeunt. manent musicians [and nurse]. . mus. faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. nurse. honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! for well you know this is a pitiful case. [exit.] . mus. ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. enter peter. pet. musicians, o, musicians, 'heart's ease,' 'heart's ease'! o, an you will have me live, play 'heart's ease.' . mus. why 'heart's ease'', pet. o, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'my heart is full of woe.' o, play me some merry dump to comfort me. . mus. not a dump we! 'tis no time to play now. pet. you will not then? . mus. no. pet. i will then give it you soundly. . mus. what will you give us? pet. no money, on my faith, but the gleek. i will give you the minstrel. . mus. then will i give you the serving-creature. pet. then will i lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. i will carry no crotchets. i'll re you, i'll fa you. do you note me? . mus. an you re us and fa us, you note us. . mus. pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. pet. then have at you with my wit! i will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. answer me like men. 'when griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind oppress, then music with her silver sound'- why 'silver sound'? why 'music with her silver sound'? what say you, simon catling? . mus. marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. pet. pretty! what say you, hugh rebeck? . mus. i say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver. pet. pretty too! what say you, james soundpost? . mus. faith, i know not what to say. pet. o, i cry you mercy! you are the singer. i will say for you. it is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no gold for sounding. 'then music with her silver sound with speedy help doth lend redress.' [exit. . mus. what a pestilent knave is this same? . mus. hang him, jack! come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. exeunt. act v. scene i. mantua. a street. enter romeo. rom. if i may trust the flattering truth of sleep my dreams presage some joyful news at hand. my bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, and all this day an unaccustom'd spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. i dreamt my lady came and found me dead (strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!) and breath'd such life with kisses in my lips that i reviv'd and was an emperor. ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, when but love's shadows are so rich in joy! enter romeo's man balthasar, booted. news from verona! how now, balthasar? dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? how doth my lady? is my father well? how fares my juliet? that i ask again, for nothing can be ill if she be well. man. then she is well, and nothing can be ill. her body sleeps in capel's monument, and her immortal part with angels lives. i saw her laid low in her kindred's vault and presently took post to tell it you. o, pardon me for bringing these ill news, since you did leave it for my office, sir. rom. is it e'en so? then i defy you, stars! thou knowest my lodging. get me ink and paper and hire posthorses. i will hence to-night. man. i do beseech you, sir, have patience. your looks are pale and wild and do import some misadventure. rom. tush, thou art deceiv'd. leave me and do the thing i bid thee do. hast thou no letters to me from the friar? man. no, my good lord. rom. no matter. get thee gone and hire those horses. i'll be with thee straight. exit [balthasar]. well, juliet, i will lie with thee to-night. let's see for means. o mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men! i do remember an apothecary, and hereabouts 'a dwells, which late i noted in tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, culling of simples. meagre were his looks, sharp misery had worn him to the bones; and in his needy shop a tortoise hung, an alligator stuff'd, and other skins of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves a beggarly account of empty boxes, green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses were thinly scattered, to make up a show. noting this penury, to myself i said, 'an if a man did need a poison now whose sale is present death in mantua, here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' o, this same thought did but forerun my need, and this same needy man must sell it me. as i remember, this should be the house. being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. what, ho! apothecary! enter apothecary. apoth. who calls so loud? rom. come hither, man. i see that thou art poor. hold, there is forty ducats. let me have a dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear as will disperse itself through all the veins that the life-weary taker mall fall dead, and that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath as violently as hasty powder fir'd doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. apoth. such mortal drugs i have; but mantua's law is death to any he that utters them. rom. art thou so bare and full of wretchedness and fearest to die? famine is in thy cheeks, need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: the world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; the world affords no law to make thee rich; then be not poor, but break it and take this. apoth. my poverty but not my will consents. rom. i pay thy poverty and not thy will. apoth. put this in any liquid thing you will and drink it off, and if you had the strength of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. rom. there is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, doing more murther in this loathsome world, than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. i sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. farewell. buy food and get thyself in flesh. come, cordial and not poison, go with me to juliet's grave; for there must i use thee. exeunt. scene ii. verona. friar laurence's cell. enter friar john to friar laurence. john. holy franciscan friar, brother, ho! enter friar laurence. laur. this same should be the voice of friar john. welcome from mantua. what says romeo? or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. john. going to find a barefoot brother out, one of our order, to associate me here in this city visiting the sick, and finding him, the searchers of the town, suspecting that we both were in a house where the infectious pestilence did reign, seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, so that my speed to mantua there was stay'd. laur. who bare my letter, then, to romeo? john. i could not send it- here it is again- nor get a messenger to bring it thee, so fearful were they of infection. laur. unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood, the letter was not nice, but full of charge, of dear import; and the neglecting it may do much danger. friar john, go hence, get me an iron crow and bring it straight unto my cell. john. brother, i'll go and bring it thee. exit. laur. now, must i to the monument alone. within this three hours will fair juliet wake. she will beshrew me much that romeo hath had no notice of these accidents; but i will write again to mantua, and keep her at my cell till romeo come- poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! exit. scene iii. verona. a churchyard; in it the monument of the capulets. enter paris and his page with flowers and [a torch]. par. give me thy torch, boy. hence, and stand aloof. yet put it out, for i would not be seen. under yond yew tree lay thee all along, holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. so shall no foot upon the churchyard tread (being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves) but thou shalt hear it. whistle then to me, as signal that thou hear'st something approach. give me those flowers. do as i bid thee, go. page. [aside] i am almost afraid to stand alone here in the churchyard; yet i will adventure. [retires.] par. sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed i strew (o woe! thy canopy is dust and stones) which with sweet water nightly i will dew; or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans. the obsequies that i for thee will keep nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and weep. whistle boy. the boy gives warning something doth approach. what cursed foot wanders this way to-night to cross my obsequies and true love's rite? what, with a torch? muffle me, night, awhile. [retires.] enter romeo, and balthasar with a torch, a mattock, and a crow of iron. rom. give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. hold, take this letter. early in the morning see thou deliver it to my lord and father. give me the light. upon thy life i charge thee, whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof and do not interrupt me in my course. why i descend into this bed of death is partly to behold my lady's face, but chiefly to take thence from her dead finger a precious ring- a ring that i must use in dear employment. therefore hence, be gone. but if thou, jealous, dost return to pry in what i farther shall intend to do, by heaven, i will tear thee joint by joint and strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. the time and my intents are savage-wild, more fierce and more inexorable far than empty tigers or the roaring sea. bal. i will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. rom. so shalt thou show me friendship. take thou that. live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow. bal. [aside] for all this same, i'll hide me hereabout. his looks i fear, and his intents i doubt. [retires.] rom. thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth, thus i enforce thy rotten jaws to open, and in despite i'll cram thee with more food. romeo opens the tomb. par. this is that banish'd haughty montague that murd'red my love's cousin- with which grief it is supposed the fair creature died- and here is come to do some villanous shame to the dead bodies. i will apprehend him. stop thy unhallowed toil, vile montague! can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? condemned villain, i do apprehend thee. obey, and go with me; for thou must die. rom. i must indeed; and therefore came i hither. good gentle youth, tempt not a desp'rate man. fly hence and leave me. think upon these gone; let them affright thee. i beseech thee, youth, but not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. o, be gone! by heaven, i love thee better than myself, for i come hither arm'd against myself. stay not, be gone. live, and hereafter say a madman's mercy bid thee run away. par. i do defy thy, conjuration and apprehend thee for a felon here. rom. wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy! they fight. page. o lord, they fight! i will go call the watch. [exit. paris falls.] par. o, i am slain! if thou be merciful, open the tomb, lay me with juliet. [dies.] rom. in faith, i will. let me peruse this face. mercutio's kinsman, noble county paris! what said my man when my betossed soul did not attend him as we rode? i think he told me paris should have married juliet. said he not so? or did i dream it so? or am i mad, hearing him talk of juliet to think it was so? o, give me thy hand, one writ with me in sour misfortune's book! i'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. a grave? o, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth, for here lies juliet, and her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light. death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [lays him in the tomb.] how oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry! which their keepers call a lightning before death. o, how may i call this a lightning? o my love! my wife! death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. thou art not conquer'd. beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death's pale flag is not advanced there. tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? o, what more favour can i do to thee than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain to sunder his that was thine enemy? forgive me, cousin.' ah, dear juliet, why art thou yet so fair? shall i believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour? for fear of that i still will stay with thee and never from this palace of dim night depart again. here, here will i remain with worms that are thy chambermaids. o, here will i set up my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh. eyes, look your last! arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, o you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death! come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide! thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark! here's to my love! [drinks.] o true apothecary! thy drugs are quick. thus with a kiss i die. falls. enter friar [laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade. friar. saint francis be my speed! how oft to-night have my old feet stumbled at graves! who's there? bal. here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. friar. bliss be upon you! tell me, good my friend, what torch is yond that vainly lends his light to grubs and eyeless skulls? as i discern, it burneth in the capels' monument. bal. it doth so, holy sir; and there's my master, one that you love. friar. who is it? bal. romeo. friar. how long hath he been there? bal. full half an hour. friar. go with me to the vault. bal. i dare not, sir. my master knows not but i am gone hence, and fearfully did menace me with death if i did stay to look on his intents. friar. stay then; i'll go alone. fear comes upon me. o, much i fear some ill unthrifty thing. bal. as i did sleep under this yew tree here, i dreamt my master and another fought, and that my master slew him. friar. romeo! alack, alack, what blood is this which stains the stony entrance of this sepulchre? what mean these masterless and gory swords to lie discolour'd by this place of peace? [enters the tomb.] romeo! o, pale! who else? what, paris too? and steep'd in blood? ah, what an unkind hour is guilty of this lamentable chance! the lady stirs. juliet rises. jul. o comfortable friar! where is my lord? i do remember well where i should be, and there i am. where is my romeo? friar. i hear some noise. lady, come from that nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. a greater power than we can contradict hath thwarted our intents. come, come away. thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; and paris too. come, i'll dispose of thee among a sisterhood of holy nuns. stay not to question, for the watch is coming. come, go, good juliet. i dare no longer stay. jul. go, get thee hence, for i will not away. exit [friar]. what's here? a cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? poison, i see, hath been his timeless end. o churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? i will kiss thy lips. haply some poison yet doth hang on them to make me die with a restorative. [kisses him.] thy lips are warm! chief watch. [within] lead, boy. which way? yea, noise? then i'll be brief. o happy dagger! [snatches romeo's dagger.] this is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die. she stabs herself and falls [on romeo's body]. enter [paris's] boy and watch. boy. this is the place. there, where the torch doth burn. chief watch. 'the ground is bloody. search about the churchyard. go, some of you; whoe'er you find attach. [exeunt some of the watch.] pitiful sight! here lies the county slain; and juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, who here hath lain this two days buried. go, tell the prince; run to the capulets; raise up the montagues; some others search. [exeunt others of the watch.] we see the ground whereon these woes do lie, but the true ground of all these piteous woes we cannot without circumstance descry. enter [some of the watch,] with romeo's man [balthasar]. . watch. here's romeo's man. we found him in the churchyard. chief watch. hold him in safety till the prince come hither. enter friar [laurence] and another watchman. . watch. here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. we took this mattock and this spade from him as he was coming from this churchyard side. chief watch. a great suspicion! stay the friar too. enter the prince [and attendants]. prince. what misadventure is so early up, that calls our person from our morning rest? enter capulet and his wife [with others]. cap. what should it be, that they so shriek abroad? wife. the people in the street cry 'romeo,' some 'juliet,' and some 'paris'; and all run, with open outcry, toward our monument. prince. what fear is this which startles in our ears? chief watch. sovereign, here lies the county paris slain; and romeo dead; and juliet, dead before, warm and new kill'd. prince. search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. chief watch. here is a friar, and slaughter'd romeo's man, with instruments upon them fit to open these dead men's tombs. cap. o heavens! o wife, look how our daughter bleeds! this dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house is empty on the back of montague, and it missheathed in my daughter's bosom! wife. o me! this sight of death is as a bell that warns my old age to a sepulchre. enter montague [and others]. prince. come, montague; for thou art early up to see thy son and heir more early down. mon. alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night! grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. what further woe conspires against mine age? prince. look, and thou shalt see. mon. o thou untaught! what manners is in this, to press before thy father to a grave? prince. seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, till we can clear these ambiguities and know their spring, their head, their true descent; and then will i be general of your woes and lead you even to death. meantime forbear, and let mischance be slave to patience. bring forth the parties of suspicion. friar. i am the greatest, able to do least, yet most suspected, as the time and place doth make against me, of this direful murther; and here i stand, both to impeach and purge myself condemned and myself excus'd. prince. then say it once what thou dost know in this. friar. i will be brief, for my short date of breath is not so long as is a tedious tale. romeo, there dead, was husband to that juliet; and she, there dead, that romeo's faithful wife. i married them; and their stol'n marriage day was tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city; for whom, and not for tybalt, juliet pin'd. you, to remove that siege of grief from her, betroth'd and would have married her perforce to county paris. then comes she to me and with wild looks bid me devise some mean to rid her from this second marriage, or in my cell there would she kill herself. then gave i her (so tutored by my art) a sleeping potion; which so took effect as i intended, for it wrought on her the form of death. meantime i writ to romeo that he should hither come as this dire night to help to take her from her borrowed grave, being the time the potion's force should cease. but he which bore my letter, friar john, was stay'd by accident, and yesternight return'd my letter back. then all alone at the prefixed hour of her waking came i to take her from her kindred's vault; meaning to keep her closely at my cell till i conveniently could send to romeo. but when i came, some minute ere the time of her awaking, here untimely lay the noble paris and true romeo dead. she wakes; and i entreated her come forth and bear this work of heaven with patience; but then a noise did scare me from the tomb, and she, too desperate, would not go with me, but, as it seems, did violence on herself. all this i know, and to the marriage her nurse is privy; and if aught in this miscarried by my fault, let my old life be sacrific'd, some hour before his time, unto the rigour of severest law. prince. we still have known thee for a holy man. where's romeo's man? what can he say in this? bal. i brought my master news of juliet's death; and then in post he came from mantua to this same place, to this same monument. this letter he early bid me give his father, and threat'ned me with death, going in the vault, if i departed not and left him there. prince. give me the letter. i will look on it. where is the county's page that rais'd the watch? sirrah, what made your master in this place? boy. he came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; and bid me stand aloof, and so i did. anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; and by-and-by my master drew on him; and then i ran away to call the watch. prince. this letter doth make good the friar's words, their course of love, the tidings of her death; and here he writes that he did buy a poison of a poor pothecary, and therewithal came to this vault to die, and lie with juliet. where be these enemies? capulet, montage, see what a scourge is laid upon your hate, that heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! and i, for winking at you, discords too, have lost a brace of kinsmen. all are punish'd. cap. o brother montague, give me thy hand. this is my daughter's jointure, for no more can i demand. mon. but i can give thee more; for i will raise her statue in pure gold, that whiles verona by that name is known, there shall no figure at such rate be set as that of true and faithful juliet. cap. as rich shall romeo's by his lady's lie- poor sacrifices of our enmity! prince. a glooming peace this morning with it brings. the sun for sorrow will not show his head. go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; some shall be pardon'd, and some punished; for never was a story of more woe than this of juliet and her romeo. exeunt omnes. the end the last stetson by john fox jr. i. a midsummer freshet was running over old gabe bunch's water-wheel into the cumberland. inside the mill steve marcum lay in one dark corner with a slouched hat over his face. the boy isom was emptying a sack of corn into the hopper. old gabe was speaking his mind. always the miller had been a man of peace; and there was one time when he thought the old stetson-lewallen feud was done. that was when rome stetson, the last but one of his name, and jasper lewallen, the last but one of his, put their guns down and fought with bare fists on a high ledge above old gabe's mill one morning at daybreak. the man who was beaten was to leave the mountains; the other was to stay at home and have peace. steve marcum, a stetson, heard the sworn terms and saw the fight. jasper was fairly whipped; and when rome let him up he proved treacherous and ran for his gun. rome ran too, but stumbled and fell. jasper whirled with his winchester and was about to kill rome where he lay, when a bullet came from somewhere and dropped him back to the ledge again. both steve marcum and rome stetson said they had not fired the shot; neither would say who had. some thought one man was lying, some thought the other was, and jasper's death lay between the two. state troops came then, under the governor's order, from the blue grass, and rome had to drift down the river one night in old gabe's canoe and on out of the mountains for good. martha lewallen, who, though jasper's sister, and the last of the name, loved and believed rome, went with him. marcums and braytons who had taken sides in the fight hid in the bushes around hazlan, or climbed over into virginia. a railroad started up the cumberland. "furriners came in to buy wild lands and get out timber." civilization began to press over the mountains and down on hazlan, as it had pressed in on breathitt, the seat of another feud, in another county. in breathitt the feud was long past, and with good reason old gabe thought that it was done in hazlan. but that autumn a panic started over from england. it stopped the railroad far down the cumberland; it sent the "furriners" home, and drove civilization back. marcums and braytons came in from hiding, and drifted one by one to the old fighting-ground. in time they took up the old quarrel, and with steve marcum and steve brayton as leaders, the old stetson-lewallen feud went on, though but one soul was left in the mountains of either name. that was isom, a pale little fellow whom rome had left in old gabe's care; and he, though a stetson and a half-brother to rome, was not counted, because he was only a boy and a foundling, and because his ways were queer. there was no open rupture, no organized division--that might happen no more. the mischief was individual now, and ambushing was more common. certain men were looking for each other, and it was a question of "draw-in' quick 'n' shootin' quick" when the two met by accident, or of getting the advantage "from the bresh." in time steve marcum had come face to face with old steve brayton in hazlan, and the two steves, as they were known, drew promptly. marcum was in the dust when the smoke cleared away; and now, after three months in bed, he was just out again. he had come down to the mill to see isom. this was the miller's first chance for remonstrance, and, as usual, he began to lay it down that every man who had taken a human life must sooner or later pay for it with his own. it was an old story to isom, and, with a shake of impatience, he turned out the door of the mill, and left old gabe droning on under his dusty hat to steve, who, being heavy with "moonshine," dropped asleep. outside the sun was warm, the flood was calling from the dam, and the boy's petulance was gone at once. for a moment he stood on the rude platform watching the tide; then he let one bare foot into the water, and, with a shiver of delight, dropped from the boards. in a moment his clothes were on the ground behind a laurel thicket, and his slim white body was flashing like a faun through the reeds and bushes up stream. a hundred yards away the creek made a great loop about a wet thicket of pine and rhododendron, and he turned across the bushy neck. creeping through the gnarled bodies of rhododendron, he dropped suddenly behind the pine, and lay flat in the black earth. ten yards through the dusk before him was the half-bent figure of a man letting an old army haversack slip from one shoulder; and isom watched him hide it with a rifle under a bush, and go noiselessly on towards the road. it was crump, eli crump, who had been a spy for the lewallens in the old feud and who was spying now for old steve brayton. it was the second time isom had seen him lurking about, and the boy's impulse was to hurry back to the mill. but it was still peace, and without his gun crump was not dangerous; so isom rose and ran on, and, splashing into the angry little stream, shot away like a roll of birch bark through the tawny crest of a big wave. he had done the feat a hundred times; he knew every rock and eddy in flood-time, and he floated through them and slipped like an eel into the mill-pond. old gabe was waiting for him. "whut ye mean, boy," he said, sharply, "reskin' the fever an' ager this way? no wonder folks thinks ye air half crazy. git inter them clothes now 'n' come in hyeh. you'll ketch yer death o' cold swimmin' this way atter a fresh." the boy was shivering when he took his seat at the funnel, but he did not mind that; some day he meant to swim over that dam. steve still lay motionless in the corner near him, and isom lifted the slouched hat and began tickling his lips with a straw. steve was beyond the point of tickling, and isom dropped the hat back and turned to tell the miller what he had seen in the thicket. the dim interior darkened just then, and crump stood in the door. old gabe stared hard at him without a word of welcome, but crump shuffled to a chair unasked, and sat like a toad astride it, with his knees close up under his arms, and his wizened face in his hands. meeting isom's angry glance, he shifted his own uneasily. "seed the new preacher comm' 'long today?" he asked. drawing one dirty finger across his forehead, "got a long scar 'cross hyeh." the miller shook his head. "well, he's a-comm'. i've been waitin' fer him up the road, but i reckon i got to git 'cross the river purty soon now." crump had been living over in breathitt since the old feud. he had been "convicted" over there by sherd raines, a preacher from the jellico hills, and he had grown pious. indeed, he had been trailing after raines from place to place, and he was following the circuit-rider now to the scene of his own deviltry--hazlan. "reckon you folks don't know i got the cirkit-rider to come over hyeh, do ye?" he went on. "ef he can't preach! well, i'd tell a man! he kin jus' draw the heart out'n a holler log! he 'convicted' me fust night, over thar in breathitt. he come up thar, ye know, to stop the feud, he said; 'n' thar was laughin' from one eendo' breathitt to t'other; but thar was the whoppinest crowd thar i ever see when he did come. the meetin'-house wasn't big enough to hold 'em, so he goes out on the aidge o' town, n' climbs on to a stump. he hed a woman with him from the settlemints--she's a-waitin' at hazlan fer him now-'n' she had a cur'us little box, 'n' he put her 'n' the box on a big rock, 'n' started in a callin' 'em his bretherin' 'n' sisteren, 'n' folks seed mighty soon thet he meant it, too. he's always mighty easylike, tell he gits to the blood-penalty." at the word, crump's listeners paid sudden heed. old gabe's knife stopped short in the heart of the stick he was whittling; the boy looked sharply up from the running meal into crump's face and sat still. well, he jes prayed to the almighty as though he was a-talkin' to him face to face, 'n' then the woman put her hands on that box, 'n' the sweetes' sound anybody thar ever heerd come outen it. then she got to singin'. hit wusn't nuthin' anybody thar'd ever heerd; but some o' the women folks was a snifflin' 'fore she got through. he pitched right into the feud, as he calls hit, 'n' the sin o' sheddin' human blood, i tell ye; 'n' 'twixt him and the soldiers i reckon thar won't be no more fightin' in breathitt. he says, 'n' he always says it mighty loud --crump raised his own voice--"thet the man as kills his feller-critter hev some day got ter give up his own blood, sartin 'n' shore." it was old gabe's pet theory, and he was nodding approval. the boy's parted lips shook with a spasm of fear, and were as quickly shut tight with suspicion. steve raised his head as though he too had heard the voice, and looked stupidly about him. "i tol' him," crump went on, "thet things was already a-gettin' kind o' frolicsome round hyeh agin; thet the marcums 'n' braytons was a-takin' up the ole war, 'n' would be a-plunkin' one 'nother every time they got together, 'n' a-gittin' the whole country in fear 'n' tremblin'--now thet steve marcum had come back." steve began to scowl and a vixenish smile hovered at isom's lips. "he knows mighty well--fer i tol' him--thet thar hain't a wuss man in all these mountains than thet very steve--" the name ended in a gasp, and the wizened gossip was caught by the throat and tossed, chair and all, into a corner of the mill. "none o' that, steve!" called the miller, sternly. "not hyeh. don't hurt him now!" crump's face stiffened with such terror that steve broke into a laugh. "well, ye air a skeery critter!" he said, contemptuously. "i hain't goin' to hurt him, uncl' gabe, but he must be a plumb idgit, a-talkin' 'bout folks to thar face, 'n' him so puny an' spindlin'! you git!" crump picked himself up trembling--"don't ye ever let me see ye on this side o' the river agin, now "--and shuffled out, giving marcum one look of fear and unearthly hate. "convicted!" snorted steve. "i heerd old steve brayton had hired him to waylay me, 'n' i swar i believe hit's so." "well, he won't hev to give him more'n a chaw o' tobaccer now," said gabe. "he'll come purty near doin' hit hisseif, i reckon, ef he gits the chance." "well, he kin git the chance ef i gits my leetle account settled with ole steve brayton fust. 'pears like that old hog ain't satisfied shootin' me hisself." stretching his arms with a yawn, steve winked at isom and moved to the door. the boy followed him outside. "we're goin' fer ole brayton about the dark o' the next moon, boy," he said. "he's sort o' s'picious now, 'n' we'll give him a leetle time to git tame. i'll have a bran'-new winchester fer ye, isom. hit ull be like ole times agin, when rome was hyeh. whut's the matter, boy?" he asked, suddenly. isom looked unresponsive, listless. "air ye gittin' sick agin?" "well, i hain't feelin' much peert, steve." "take keer o' yourself, boy. don't git sick now. we'll have to watch eli crump purty close. i don't know why i hain't killed thet spyin' skunk long ago, 'ceptin' i never had a shore an' sartin reason fer doin 'it." isom started to speak then and stopped. he would learn more first; and he let steve go on home unwarned. the two kept silence after marcum had gone. isom turned away from old gabe, and stretched himself out on the platform. he looked troubled. the miller, too, was worried. "jus' a hole in the groun'," he said, half to himself; "that's whut we're all comm' to! 'pears like we mought help one 'nother to keep out'n hit, 'stid o' holpin' 'em in." brown shadows were interlacing out in the mill-pond, where old gabe's eyes were intent. a current of cool air had started down the creek to the river. a katydid began to chant. twilight was coming, and the miller rose. "hit's a comfort to know you won't be mixed up in all this devilment," he said; and then, as though he had found more light in the gloom: "hit's a comfort to know the new rider air shorely a-preachin' the right doctrine, 'n' i want ye to go hear him. blood for blood-life fer a life! your grandad shot ole tom lewallen in hazlan. ole jack lewallen shot him from the bresh. tom stetson killed ole jack; ole jass killed tom, 'n' so hit comes down, fer back as i can ricollect. i hev nuver knowed hit to fail." the lad had risen on one elbow. his face was pale and uneasy, and he averted it when the miller turned in the door. "you'd better stay hyeh, son, 'n' finish up the grist. hit won't take long. hev ye got victuals fer yer supper?" isom nodded, without looking around, and when old gabe was gone he rose nervously and dropped helplessly back to the floor. "'pears like old gabe knows i killed jass," he breathed, sullenly. "'pears like all of 'em knows hit, 'n' air jus' a-tormentin' me." nobody dreamed that the boy and his old gun had ended that fight on the cliff; and without knowing it, old gabe kept the lad in constant torture with his talk of the blood-penalty. but isom got used to it in time, for he had shot to save his brother's life. steve marcum treated him thereafter as an equal. steve's friends, too, changed in manner towards him because steve had. and now, just when he had reached the point of wondering whether, after all, there might not be one thing that old gabe did not know, crump had come along with the miller's story, which he had got from still another, a circuit-rider, who must know the truth. the fact gave him trouble. "mebbe hit's goin' to happen when i goes with steve atter ole brayton," he mumbled, and he sat thinking the matter over, until a rattle and a whir inside the mill told him that the hopper was empty. he arose to fill it, and coming out again, he heard hoof-beats on the dirt road. a stranger rode around the rhododendrons and shouted to him, asking the distance to hazlan. he took off his hat when isom answered, to wipe the dust and perspiration from his face, and the boy saw a white scar across his forehead. a little awestricken, the lad walked towards him. "air you the new rider whut's goin' to preach up to hazlan?" he asked. raines smiled at the solemnity of the little fellow. "yes," he said, kindly. "won't you come up and hear me?" "yes, sir," he said, and his lips parted as though he wanted to say something else, but raines did not notice. "i wished i had axed him," he said, watching the preacher ride away. "uncle gabe knows might' nigh ever'thing, 'n' he says so. crump said the rider said so; but crump might 'a' been lyin'. he 'most al'ays is. i wished i had axed him." mechanically the lad walked along the millrace, which was made of hewn boards and hollow logs. in every crevice grass hung in thick bunches to the ground or tipped wiry blades over the running water. tightening a prop where some silvery jet was getting too large, he lifted the tail-gate a trifle and lay down again on the platform near the old wheel. out in the mill-pond the water would break now and then into ripples about some unwary moth, and the white belly of a fish would flash from the surface. it was the only sharp accent on the air. the chant of the katydids had become a chorus, and the hush of darkness was settling over the steady flow of water and the low drone of the millstones. "i hain't afeerd," he kept saying to himself. "i hain't afeerd o' nothin' nor nobody;" but he lay brooding until his head throbbed, until darkness filled the narrow gorge, and the strip of dark blue up through the trees was pointed with faint stars. he was troubled when he rose, and climbed on rome's horse and rode homeward--so troubled that he turned finally and started back in a gallop for hazlan. it was almost as crump had said. there was no church in hazlan, and, as in breathitt, the people had to follow raines outside the town, and he preached from the roadside. the rider's master never had a tabernacle more simple: overhead the stars and a low moon; close about, the trees still and heavy with summer; a pine torch over his head like a yellow plume; two tallow dips hung to a beech on one side, and flicking to the other the shadows of the people who sat under them. a few marcums and braytons were there, one faction shadowed on raines's right, one on his left. between them the rider stood straight, and prayed as though talking with some one among the stars. behind him the voice of the woman at her tiny organ rose among the leaves. and then he spoke as he had prayed; and from the first they listened like children, while in their own homely speech he went on to tell them, just as he would have told children, a story that some of them had never heard before. "forgive your enemies as he had forgiven his," that was his plea. marcums and braytons began to press in from the darkness on each side, forgetting each other as the rest of the people forgot them. and when the story was quite done, raines stood a full minute without a word. no one was prepared for what followed. abruptly his voice rose sternly--"thou shalt not kill"; and then satan took shape under the torch. the man was transformed, swaying half crouched before them. the long black hair fell across the white scar, and picture after picture leaped from his tongue with such vividness that a low wail started through the audience, and women sobbed in their bonnets. it was penalty for bloodshed--not in this world: penalty eternal in the next; and one slight figure under the dips staggered suddenly aside into the darkness. it was isom; and no soul possessed of devils was ever more torn than his, when he splashed through troubled fork and rode away that night. half a mile on he tried to keep his eyes on his horse's neck, anywhere except on one high gray rock to which they were raised against his will--the peak under which he had killed young jasper. there it was staring into the moon, but watching him as he fled through the woods, shuddering at shadows, dodging branches that caught at him as he passed, and on in a run, until he drew rein and slipped from his saddle at the friendly old mill. there was no terror for him there. there every bush was a friend; every beech trunk a sentinel on guard for him in shining armor. it was the old struggle that he was starting through that night--the old fight of humanity from savage to christian; and the lad fought it until, with the birth of his wavering soul, the premonitions of the first dawn came on. the patches of moonlight shifted, paling. the beech columns mottled slowly with gray and brown. a ruddy streak was cleaving the east like a slow sword of fire. the chill air began to pulse and the mists to stir. moisture had gathered on the boy's sleeve. his horse was stamping uneasily, and the lad rose stiffly, his face gray but calm, and started home. at old gabe's gate he turned in his saddle to look where, under the last sinking star, was once the home of his old enemies. farther down, under the crest, was old steve brayton, alive, and at that moment perhaps asleep. "forgive your enemies;" that was the rider's plea. forgive old steve, who had mocked him, and had driven rome from the mountains; who had threatened old gabe's life, and had shot steve marcum almost to death! the lad drew breath quickly, and standing in his stirrups, stretched out his fist, and let it drop, slowly. ii. old gabe was just starting out when isom' reached the cabin, and the old man thought the boy had been at the mill all night. isom slept through the day, and spoke hardly a word when the miller came home, though the latter had much to say of raines, the two steves, and of the trouble possible. he gave some excuse for not going with old gabe the next day, and instead went into the woods alone. late in the middle of the afternoon he reached the mill. old gabe sat smoking outside the door, and isom stretched himself out on the platform close to the water, shading his eyes from the rich sunlight with one ragged sleeve. "uncl' gabe," he said, suddenly, "s'posin' steve brayton was to step out'n the bushes thar some mawnin' 'n' pull down his winchester on ye, would ye say, 'lawd, fergive him, fer he don't know whut he do'?" old gabe had told him once about a stetson and a lewallen who were heard half a mile away praying while they fought each other to death with winchesters. "there was no use prayin' an' shootin'," the miller declared. there was but one way for them to escape damnation; that was to throw down their guns and make friends. but the miller had forgotten, and his mood that morning was whimsical. "well, i mought, isom," he said, "ef i didn't happen to have a gun handy." the humor was lost on isom. his chin was moving up and down, and his face was serious. that was just it. he could forgive jass--jass was dead; he could forgive crump, if he caught him in no devilment; old brayton even--after steve's revenge was done. but now--the boy rose, shaking his head. "uncl' gabe," he said with sudden passion, "whut ye reckon rome's a-doin'?" the miller looked a little petulant. "don't ye git tired axin' me thet question, isom? rome's a-scratchin' right peert fer a livin', i reckon, fer hisself 'n' marthy. yes, 'n' mebbe fer a young 'un too by this time. ef ye air honin' fer rome, why don't ye rack out 'n' go to him? lawd knows i'd hate ter see ye go, but i tol' rome i'd let ye whenever ye got ready, 'n' so i will." isom had no answer, and old gabe was puzzled. it was always this way. the boy longed for rome, the miller could see. he spoke of him sometimes with tears, and sometimes he seemed to be on the point of going to him, but he shrank inexplicably when the time for leaving came. isom started into the mill now without a word, as usual. old gabe noticed that his feet were unsteady, and with quick remorse began to question him. "kinder puny, hain't ye, isom?" "well, i hain't feelin' much peert." "hit was mighty keerless," old gabe said, with kindly reproach, "swimmin' the crick atter a fresh." "hit wasn't the swimmin'," he protested, dropping weakly at the threshold. "hit was settin' out 'n the woods. i was in hazlan t'other night, und' gabe, to hear the new rider." the miller looked around with quick interest. "i've been skeered afore by riders a-tellin' 'bout the torments o' hell, but i never heerd nothin' like his tellin' 'bout the lord. he said the lord was jes as pore as anybody thar, and lived jes as rough; thet he made fences and barns n' ox-yokes 'n' sech like, an' he couldn't write his own name when he started out to save the worl'; an' when he come to the p'int whar his enemies tuk hol' of him, the rider jes crossed his fingers up over his head 'n' axed us if we didn't know how it hurt to run a splinter into a feller's hand when he's loggin' or a thorn into yer foot when ye're goin' barefooted." "hit jes made me sick, uncl' gabe, hearin' him tell how they stretched him out on a cross o' wood, when he'd come down fer nothin' but to save 'em, 'n' stuck a spear big as a co'n-knife into his side, 'n' give him vinegar, 'n' let him hang thar 'n' die, with his own mammy a-stand-in' down on the groun' a-cryin' 'n' watchin' him. some folks thar never heerd sech afore. the women was a-rockin', 'n' ole granny day axed right out ef thet tuk place a long time ago; 'n' the rider said, 'yes, a long time ago, mos two thousand years.' granny was a-cryin', uncl' gabe, 'n' she said, sorter soft, 'stranger, let's hope that hit hain't so'; 'n' the rider says, but hit air so; n' he fergive em while they was doin' it.' thet's whut got me, uncl' gabe, 'n' when the woman got to singin', somethin' kinder broke loose hyeh"--isom passed his hand over his thin chest--"'n' i couldn't git breath. i was mos' afeerd to ride home. i jes layed at the mill studyin', till i thought my head would bust. i reckon hit was the spent a-work-in me. looks like i was mos' convicted, uncl' gabe." his voice trembled and he stopped. "crump was a-lyin'," he cried, suddenly. "but hit's wuss, und' gabe; hit's wuss! you say a life fer a life in this worl'; the rider says hit's in the next, 'n' i'm mis'ble, uncl' gabe. ef rome--i wish rome was hyeh," he cried, helplessly. "i don't know whut to do." the miller rose and limped within the mill, and ran one hand through the shifting corn. he stood in the doorway, looking long and perplexedly towards hazlan; he finally saw, he thought, just what the lad's trouble was. he could give him some comfort, and he got his chair and dragged it out to the door across the platform, and sat down in silence. "isom," he said at last, "the spent air shorely a-workin' ye, 'n' i'm glad of it. but ye mus 'n t worry about the penalty a-fallin' on rome. steve marcum killed jass--he can't fool me--'n' i've told steve he's got thet penalty to pay ef he gits up this trouble. i'm glad the spent's a-workin' ye, but ye mus'n' t worry 'bout rome." isom rose suddenly on one elbow, and with a moan lay back and crossed his arms over his face. old gabe turned and left him. "git up, isom." it was the miller's voice again, an hour later. "you better go home now. ride the hoss, boy," he and, kindly. isom rose, and old gabe helped him mount, and stood at the door. the horse started, but the boy pulled him to a standstill again. "i want to ax ye jes one thing more, uncl' gabe," he said, slowly. "s'posin' steve had a-killed jass to keep him from killin' rome, hev he got to be damned fer it jes the same? hev he got to give up eternal life anyways? hain't thar no way out'n it--no way?" there was need for close distinction now and the miller was deliberate. "ef steve shot jass," he said, "jes to save rome's life--he had the right to shoot him. thar hain't no doubt 'bout that. the law says so. but"--there was a judicial pause--"i've heerd steve say that he hated jass wuss' n anybody on earth, 'cept old brayton; 'n' ef he wus glad o' the chance o' killin' him, why--the lord air merciful, isom; the bible air true, 'n' hit says an 'eye fer an eye, a tooth fer a tooth,' 'n' i never knowed hit to fail--but the lord air merciful. ef steve would only jes repent, 'n' ef, 'stid o' fightin' the lord by takin' human life, he'd fight fer him by savin' it, i reckon the lord would fergive him. fer ef ye lose yer life fer him, he do say you'll find it agin somewhar--sometime." old gabe did not see the sullen despair that came into the boy's tense face. the subtlety of the answer had taken the old man back to the days when he was magistrate, and his eyes were half closed. isom rode away without a word. from the dark of the mill old gabe turned to look after him again. "i'm afeerd he's a-gittin' feverish agin. hit looks like he's convicted; but"--he knew the wavering nature of the boy--"i don't know--i don't know." going home an hour later, the old man saw several mountaineers climbing the path towards steve marcum's cabin; it meant the brewing of mischief; and when he stopped at his own gate, he saw at the bend of the road a figure creep from the bushes on one side into the bushes on the other. it looked like crump. iii. it was crump, and fifty yards behind him was isom, slipping through the brush after him--isom's evil spirit--old gabe, raines, "conviction," blood-penalty, forgotten, all lost in the passion of a chase which has no parallel when the game is man. straight up the ravine crump went along a path which led to steve marcum's cabin. there was a clump of rhododendron at the head of the ravine, and near steve's cabin. about this hour marcum would be chopping wood for supper, or sitting out in his porch in easy range from the thicket. crump's plan was plain: he was about his revenge early, and isom was exultant. "oh, no, eli, you won't git steve this time. oh, naw!" the bushes were soon so thick that he could no longer follow crump by sight, and every few yards he had to stop to listen, and then steal on like a mountain-cat towards the leaves rustling ahead of him. half-way up the ravine crump turned to the right and stopped. puzzled, isom pushed so close that the spy, standing irresolute on the edge of the path, whirled around. the boy sank to his face, and in a moment footsteps started and grew faint; crump had darted across the path, and was running through the undergrowth up the spur. isom rose and hurried after him; and when, panting hard, he reached the top, the spy's skulking figure was sliding from steve's house and towards the breathitt road; and with a hot, puzzled face, the boy went down after it. on a little knob just over a sudden turn in the road crump stopped, and looking sharply about him, laid his gun down. just in front of him were two rocks, waist-high, with a crevice between them. drawing a long knife from his pocket, he climbed upon them, and began to cut carefully away the spreading top of a bush that grew on the other side. isom crawled down towards him like a lizard, from tree to tree. a moment later the spy was filling up the crevice with stones, and isom knew what he was about; he was making a "blind" to waylay steve, who, the boy knew, was going to breathitt by that road the next sunday. how did crump know that--how did he know everything? the crevice filled, crump cut branches and stuck them between the rocks. then he pushed his rifle through the twigs, and taking aim several times, withdrew it. when he turned away at last and started down to the road, he looked back once more, and isom saw him grinning. almost chuckling in answer, the lad slipped around the knob to the road the other way, and crump threw up his gun with a gasp of fright when a figure rose out of the dusk before him. "hol' on, eli!" said isom, easily. "don't git skeered! hit's nobody but me. whar ye been?" crump laughed, so quick was he disarmed of suspicion. "jes up the river a piece to see aunt sally day. she's a fust cousin o' mine by marriage." jsom's right hand was slipping back as if to rest on his hip. "d'you say you'd been 'convicted,' eli?" crump's answer was chantlike. "yes, lawd reckon i have." "goin' to stop all o' yer lyin', air ye," isom went on, in the same tone, and crump twitched as though struck suddenly from behind, "an' stealin' 'n' lay-wayin'?" "look a-hyeh, boy--" he began, roughly, and mumbling a threat, started on. "uh, eli!" even then the easy voice fooled him again, and he turned. isom had a big revolver on a line with his breast. "drap yer gun!" he said, tremulously. crump tried to laugh, but his guilty face turned gray. "take keer, boy," he gasped; "yer gun's cocked. take keer, i tell ye!" "drap it, damn ye!" isom called in sudden fury, "'n' git clean away from it!" crump backed, and isom came forward and stood with one foot on the fallen winchester. "i seed ye, eli. been makin' a blind fer steve, hev ye? goin' to shoot him in the back, too, air ye? you're ketched at last, eli. you've done a heap o' devilment. you're gittin' wuss all the time. you oughter be dead, 'n' now--" crump found voice in a cry of terror and a whine for mercy. the boy looked at him, unable to speak his contempt. "git down thar!" he said, finally; and crump, knowing what was wanted, stretched himself in the road. isom sat down on a stone, the big pistol across one knee. "roll over!" crump rolled at full length. "git up!" isom laughed wickedly. "ye don't look purty, eli." he lifted the pistol and nipped a cake of dirt from the road between crump's feet. with another cry of fear, the spy began a vigorous dance. "hol' on, eli; i don't want ye to dance. ye belong to the chu'ch now, 'n' i wouldn't have ye go agin yer religion fer nothin'. stan' still!" another bullet and another cut between crump's feet. "'pears like ye don't think i kin shoot straight. eli," he went on, reloading the empty chambers, "some folks think i'm a idgit, 'n' i know 'em. do you think i'm a idgit, eli?" "actin' mighty nateral now." isom was raising the pistol again. "oh, lawdy! don't shoot, boy--don't shoot! "git down on yer knees! now i want ye to beg fer mercy thet ye never showed--thet ye wouldn't 'a' showed steve... purty good," he said, encouragingly. "mebbe ye kin pray a leetle, seem' ez ye air a chu'ch member. pray fer yer enemies, eli; uncl' gabe says ye must love yer enemies. i know how ye loves me, 'n' i want yer to pray fer me. the lawd mus' sot a powerful store by a good citizen like you. ax him to fergive me fer killin' ye." "have mercy, o lawd," prayed crump, to command--and the prayer was subtle--"on the murderer of this thy servant. a life fer a life, thou hev said, o lawd. fer killin' me he will foller me, 'n' ef ye hev not mussy he is boun' fer the lowes' pit o' hell, o lawd--" it was isom's time to wince now, and crump's pious groan was cut short. "shet up!" cried the boy, sharply, and he sat a moment silent. "you've been a-spyin' on us sence i was borned, eli," he said, reflectively. "i believe ye lay-wayed dad. y'u spied on rome. y'u told the soldiers whar he was a-hidin' y'u tried to shoot him from the bresh. y'u found out steve was goin' to breathitt on sunday, 'n' you've jes made a blind to shoot him in the back. i reckon thar's no meanness ye hain't done. dad's al'ays said ye sot a snare fer a woman once--a woman! y'u loaded a musket with slugs, 'n' tied a string to the trigger, 'n' stretched hit 'cross the path, 'n' y'u got up on a cliff 'n' whistled to make her slow up jes when she struck the string. i reckon thet's yer wust--but i don't know." several times crump raised his hands in protest while his arraignment was going on; several times he tried to speak, but his lips refused utterance. the boy's voice was getting thicker and thicker, and he was nervously working the cock of the big pistol up and down. "git up," he said; and crump rose with a spring. the lad's tone meant release. "you hain't wuth the risk. i hain't goin' ter kill ye. i jus' wanted ter banter ye 'n' make ye beg. you're a good beggar, eli, 'n' a powerful prayer. you'll be a shinin' light in the chu'ch, ef ye gits a chance ter shine long. fer lemme tell ye, nobody ever ketched ye afore. but you're ketched now, an' i'm goin' to tell steve. he'll be a-watchin' fer ye, 'n' so 'll i. i tell ye in time, ef ye ever come over hyeh agin as long as you live, you'll never git back alive. turn roun'! hev ye got any balls?" he asked, feeling in crump's pockets for cartridges. "no; well"--he picked up the winchester and pumped the magazine empty--"i'll keep these," he said, handing crump the empty rifle. "now git away--an' git away quick!" crump's slouching footsteps went out of hearing, and isom sat where he was. his elbows dropped to his knees. his face dropped slowly into his hands, and the nettles of remorse began to sting. he took the back of one tremulous hand presently to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and he found it burning. a sharp pain shot through his eyes. he knew what that meant, and feeling dizzy, he rose and started a little blindly towards home. old gabe was waiting for him. he did not answer the old man's querulous inquiry, but stumbled towards a bed. an hour later, when the miller was rubbing his forehead, he opened his eyes, shut them, and began to talk. "i reckon i hain't much better 'n eli, und' gabe," he said, plaintively. "i've been abusin' him down thar in the woods. i come might' nigh killin' him onct." the old man stroked on, scarcely heeding the boy's words, so much nonsense would he talk when ill. "i've been lyin' to ye, uncl' gabe, 'n' a-deceivin' of ye right along. steve's a-goin' atter ole brayton--i'm goin' too--steve didn't kill jass--hit wusn't steve--hit wusn't rome--hit was--" the last word stopped behind his shaking lips; he rose suddenly in bed, looked wildly into the miller's startled face, and dropping with a sob to the bed, went sobbing to sleep. old gabe went back to his pipe, and while he smoked, his figure shrank slowly in his chair. he went to bed finally, but sleep would not come, and he rose again and built up the fire and sat by it, waiting for day. his own doctrine, sternly taught for many a year, had come home to him; and the miller's face when he opened his door was gray as the breaking light. iv. there was little peace for old gabe that day at the mill. and when he went home at night he found cause for the thousand premonitions that had haunted him. the lad was gone. a faint light in the east was heralding the moon when isom reached steve marcum's gate. there were several horses hitched to the fence, several dim forms seated in the porch, and the lad halloed for steve, whose shadow shot instantly from the door and came towards him. "glad ter see ye, isom," he called, jubilantly. "i was jus' about to sen' fer ye. how'd ye happen to come up?" isom answered in a low voice with the news of crump's "blind," and steve laughed and swore in the same breath. "come hyeh!" he said, leading the way back; and at the porch he had isom tell the story again. "whut d' i tell ye, boys?" he asked, triumphantly. "don't believe ye more 'n half believed me." three more horsemen rode up to the gate and came into the light. every man was armed, and at isom's puzzled look, steve caught the lad by the arm and led him around the chimney-corner. he was in high spirits. "'pears like ole times, isom. i'm a-goin' fer thet cussed ole steve brayton this very night. he's behind crump. i s'picioned it afore; now i know it for sartain. he's a-goin' to give eli a mule 'n' a winchester fer killin' me. we're goin' to s'prise him to-night. he won't be look-in' fer us--i've fixed that. i wus jus' about to sen' fer ye. i hain't fergot how ye kin handle a gun." steve laughed significantly. "ye're a good frien' o' mine, 'n' i'm goin' to show ye thet i'm a frien' o' yourn." isom's paleness was unnoticed in the dark. the old throbbing began to beat again at his temple; the old haze started from his eyes. "hyeh's yer gun, isom," he heard steve saying next. the fire was blazing into his face. at the chimney-corner was the bent figure of old daddy marcum, and across his lap shone a winchester. steve was pointing at it, his grim face radiant; the old man's toothless mouth was grinning, and his sharp black eyes were snapping up at him. "hit's yourn, i tell ye," said steve again. "i aimed jes to lend it to ye, but ye've saved me frum gittin' killed, mebbe, 'n' hit's yourn now--yourn, boy, fer keeps." steve was holding the gun out to him now. the smooth cold touch of the polished barrel thrilled him. it made everything for an instant clear again, and feeling weak, isom sat down on the bed, gripping the treasure in both trembling hands. on one side of him some one was repeating steve's plan of attack. old brayton's cabin was nearly opposite, but they would go up the river, cross above the mill, and ride back. the night was cloudy, but they would have the moonlight now and then for the climb up the mountain. they would creep close, and when the moon was hid they would run in and get old brayton alive, if possible. then--the rest was with steve. across the room he could hear steve telling the three new-comers, with an occasional curse, about crump's blind, and how he knew that old brayton was hiring crump. "old steve's meaner 'n eli," he said to himself, and a flame of the old hate surged up from the fire of temptation in his heart. steve marcum was his best friend; steve had shielded him. the boy had promised to join him against old brayton, and here was the winchester, brand-new, to bind his word. "git ready, boys; git ready." it was steve's voice, and in isom's ears the preacher's voice rang after it. again that blinding mist before his eyes, and the boy brushed at it irritably. he could see the men buckling cartridge-belts, but he sat still. two or three men were going out. daddy marcum was leaning on a chair at the door, looking eagerly at each man as he passed. "hain't ye goin', isom?" somebody was standing before him twirling a rifle on its butt, a boy near isom's age. the whirling gun made him dizzy. "stop it!" he cried, angrily. old daddy marcum was answering the boy's question from the door. "isom goin'?" he piped, proudly. "i reckon he air. whar's yer belt, boy? git ready. git ready." isom rose then--he could not answer sitting down--and caught at a bedpost with one hand, while he fumbled at his throat with the other. "i hain't goin'." steve heard at the door, and whirled around. daddy marcum was tottering across the floor, with one bony hand uplifted. "you're a coward!" the name stilled every sound. isom, with eyes afire, sprang at the old man to strike, but somebody caught his arm and forced him back to the bed. "shet up, dad," said steve, angrily, looking sharply into isom's face. "don't ye see the boy's sick? he needn't go ef he don't want to. time to start, boys." the tramp of heavy boots started across the puncheon floor and porch again. isom could hear steve's orders outside; the laughs and jeers and curses of the men as they mounted their horses; he heard the cavalcade pass through the gate, the old man's cackling good-by; then the horses' hoofs going down the mountain, and daddy marcum's hobbling step on the porch again. he was standing in the middle of the floor, full in the firelight, when the old man reached the threshold--standing in a trance, with a cartridge-belt in his hand. "good fer you, isom--" the cry was apologetic, and stopped short. "the critter's fersakcn," he quavered, and cowed by the boy's strange look, the old man shrank away from him along the wall. but isom seemed neither to see nor hear. he caught up his rifle, and, wavering an instant, tossed it with the belt on the bed and ran out the door. the old man followed, dumb with amazement. "isom!" he called, getting his wits and his tongue at last. "hyeh's yer gun! come back, i tell ye! you've fergot yer gun! isom! isom!" the voice piped shrilly out into the darkness, and piped back without answer. a steep path, dangerous even by day, ran snakelike from the cabin down to the water's edge. it was called isom's path after that tragic night. no mountaineer went down it thereafter without a firm faith that only by the direct help of heaven could the boy, in his flight down through the dark, have reached the river and the other side alive. the path dropped from ledge to ledge, and ran the brink of precipices and chasms. in a dozen places the boy crashed through the undergrowth from one slippery fold to the next below, catching at roots and stones, slipping past death a score of times, and dropping on till a flood of yellow light lashed the gloom before him. just there the river was most narrow; the nose of a cliff swerved the current sharply across, and on the other side an eddy ran from it up stream. these earthly helps he had, and he needed them. there had been a rain-storm, and the waves swept him away like thistle-down, and beat back at him as he fought through them and stood choked and panting on the other shore. he did not dare stop to rest. the marcums, too, had crossed the river up at the ford by this time, and were galloping towards him; and isom started on and up. when he reached the first bench of the spur the moon was swinging over thunderstruck knob. the clouds broke as he climbed; strips of radiant sky showed between the rolling masses, and the mountain above was light and dark in quick succession. he had no breath when he reached the ledge that ran below old steve's cabin, and flinging one arm above it, he fell through sheer exhaustion. the cabin was dark as the clump of firs behind it; the inmates were unsuspecting; and steve marcum and his men were not far below. a rumbling started under him, while he lay there and grew faint--the rumble of a stone knocked from the path by a horse's hoof. isom tried to halbo, but his voice stopped in a whisper, and he painfully drew himself upon the rock, upright under the bright moon. a quick oath of warning came then--it was crump's shrill voice in the brayton cabin--and isom stumbled forward with both hands thrown up and a gasping cry at his lips. one flash came through a port-hole of the cabin. a yell broke on the night--crump's cry again--and the boy swayed across the rock, and falling at the brink, dropped with a limp struggle out of sight. v. the news of isom's fate reached the miller by way of hazlan before the next noon. several men in the brayton cabin had recognized the boy in the moonlight. at daybreak they found bloodstains on the ledge and on a narrow shelf a few feet farther down. isom had slipped from one to the other, they said, and in his last struggle had rolled over into dead creek, and had been swept into the cumberland. it was crump who had warned the braytons. nobody ever knew how he had learned steve marcum's purpose. and old brayton on his guard and in his own cabin was impregnable. so the marcums, after a harmless fusillade, had turned back cursing. mocking shouts followed after them, pistol-shots, even the scraping of a fiddle and shuffling on the ledge. but they kept on, cursing across the river and back to daddy marcum, who was standing in the porch, peering for them through the dawn, with a story to tell about isom. "the critter was teched in the head," the old man said, and this was what the braytons, too, believed. but steve marcum, going to search for isom's body next day, gave old gabe another theory. he told the miller how daddy marcum had called isom a coward, and steve said the boy had gone ahead to prove he was no coward. "he had mighty leetle call to prove it to me. think o' his takin' ole brayton all by hisself!" he said, with a look at the yellow, heaving cumberland. "'n', lord! think o' his swimmin' that river in the dark!" old gabe asked a question fiercely then and demanded the truth, and steve told him about the hand-to-hand fight on the mountain-side, about young jasper's treachery, and how the boy, who was watching the fight, fired just in time to save rome. it made all plain at last--rome's and steve's denials, isom's dinning on that one theme,' and why the boy could not go to rome and face martha, with her own blood on his hands. isom's true motive, too, was plain, and the miller told it brokenly to steve, who rode away with a low whistle to tell it broadcast, and left the old man rocking his body like a woman. an hour later he rode back at a gallop to tell old gabe to search the river bank below the mill. he did not believe isom dead. it was just his feelin', he said, and one fact, that nobody else thought important--the brayton canoe was gone. "ef he was jus' scamped by a ball," said steve, "you kin bet he tuk the boat, 'n' he's down thar in the bushes somewhar now waitin' fer dark." and about dusk, sure enough, old gabe, wandering hopefully through the thicket below the mill, stumbled over the canoe stranded in the bushes. in the new mud were the tracks of a boy's bare feet leading into the thicket, and the miller made straight for home. when he opened his door he began to shake as if with palsy. a figure was seated on the hearth against the chimney, and the firelight was playing over the face and hair. the lips were parted, and the head hung limply to the breast. the clothes were torn to rags, and one shoulder was bare. through the upper flesh of it and close to the neck was an ugly burrow clotted with blood. the boy was asleep. three nights later, in hazlan, sherd raines told the people of isom's flight down the mountain, across the river, and up the steep to save his life by losing it. before he was done, one gray-headed figure pressed from the darkness on one side and stood trembling under the dips. it was old steve brayton, who had fired from the cabin at isom, and dropping his winchester, he stumbled forward with the butt of his pistol held out to raines. a marcum appeared on the other side with the muzzle of his winchester down. raines raised both hands then and imperiously called on every man who had a weapon to come forward and give it up. like children they came, marcums and braytons, piling their arms on the rock before him, shaking hands right and left, and sitting together on the mourner's bench. old brayton was humbled thereafter. he wanted to shake hands with steve marcum and make friends. but steve grinned, and said, "not yit," and went off into the bushes. a few days later he went to hazlan of his own accord and gave up his gun to raines. he wouldn't shake hands with old brayton, he said, nor with any other man who would hire another man to do his "killin';" but he promised to fight no more, and he kept his word. a flood followed on new year's day. old gabe's canoe--his second canoe--was gone, and a marcum and a brayton worked side by side at the mill hollowing out another. the miller sat at the door whittling. "'pears like folks is havin' bad luck with thar dugouts." said brayton. "some trifin' cuss took old steve brayton's jes to cross the river, without the grace to tie it to the bank, let 'lone takin' it back. i've heard ez how aunt sally day's boy ben, who was a-fishin' that evenin, says ez how he seed isom's harnt a-floatin' across the river in it, without techin' a paddle." the marcum laughed. "idgits is thick over hyeh," he said. "ben's a-gittin' wuss sence isom was killed. yes, i recollect gabe hyeh lost a canoe jus' atter a flood more'n a year ago, when rome stetson 'n' marthy lewallen went a-gallivantin' out' n the mountains together. hyeh's another flood, 'n' old gabe's dugout gone agin." the miller raised a covert glance of suspicion from under his hat, but the marcum was laughing. "ye oughter put a trace-chain on this un," he added. "a rope gits rotten in the water, 'n' a tide is mighty apt to break it." old gabe said that "mebbe that wus so," but he had no chain to waste; he reckoned a rope was strong enough, and he started home. "old gabe don't seem to keer much now 'bout isom," said the brayton. "folks say he tuk on so awful at fust that hit looked like he wus goin' crazy. he's gittin' downright peert again. hello!" bud vickers was carrying a piece of news down to hazlan, and he pulled up his horse to deliver it. aunt sally day's dog had been seen playing in the breathitt road with the frame of a human foot. some boys had found not far away, behind a withered "blind," a heap of rags and bones. eli crump had not been seen in hazlan since the night of the marcum raid. "well, ef hit was eli," said the brayton, waggishly, "we're all goin' to be saved. eli's case 'll come fust, an' ef thar's only one jedgment day, the lord 'll nuver git to us." the three chuckled, while old gabe sat dreaming at his gate. the boy had lain quiet during the weeks of his getting well, absorbed in one aim--to keep hidden until he was strong enough to get to rome. on the last night the miller had raised one of the old hearth-stones and had given him the hire of many years. at daybreak the lad drifted away. now old gabe was following him down the river and on to the dim mountain line, where the boy's figure was plain for a moment against the sky, and then was lost. the clouds in the west had turned gray and the crescent had broken the gloom of the woods into shadows when the miller rose. one star was coming over black mountain from the east. it was the star of bethlehem to old gabe; and, starlike on both sides of the cumberland, answering fires from cabin hearths were giving back its message at last. "thar hain't nothin' to hender rome 'n' marthy now. i nuver knowed anybody to stay 'way from these mount'ins ef he could git back; 'n' isom said he'd fetch 'em. thar hain't nothin' to hender--nothin' now." on the stoop of the cabin the miller turned to look again, and then on the last stetson the door was closed. the end to the last man by zane grey foreword it was inevitable that in my efforts to write romantic history of the great west i should at length come to the story of a feud. for long i have steered clear of this rock. but at last i have reached it and must go over it, driven by my desire to chronicle the stirring events of pioneer days. even to-day it is not possible to travel into the remote corners of the west without seeing the lives of people still affected by a fighting past. how can the truth be told about the pioneering of the west if the struggle, the fight, the blood be left out? it cannot be done. how can a novel be stirring and thrilling, as were those times, unless it be full of sensation? my long labors have been devoted to making stories resemble the times they depict. i have loved the west for its vastness, its contrast, its beauty and color and life, for its wildness and violence, and for the fact that i have seen how it developed great men and women who died unknown and unsung. in this materialistic age, this hard, practical, swift, greedy age of realism, it seems there is no place for writers of romance, no place for romance itself. for many years all the events leading up to the great war were realistic, and the war itself was horribly realistic, and the aftermath is likewise. romance is only another name for idealism; and i contend that life without ideals is not worth living. never in the history of the world were ideals needed so terribly as now. walter scott wrote romance; so did victor hugo; and likewise kipling, hawthorne, stevenson. it was stevenson, particularly, who wielded a bludgeon against the realists. people live for the dream in their hearts. and i have yet to know anyone who has not some secret dream, some hope, however dim, some storied wall to look at in the dusk, some painted window leading to the soul. how strange indeed to find that the realists have ideals and dreams! to read them one would think their lives held nothing significant. but they love, they hope, they dream, they sacrifice, they struggle on with that dream in their hearts just the same as others. we all are dreamers, if not in the heavy-lidded wasting of time, then in the meaning of life that makes us work on. it was wordsworth who wrote, "the world is too much with us"; and if i could give the secret of my ambition as a novelist in a few words it would be contained in that quotation. my inspiration to write has always come from nature. character and action are subordinated to setting. in all that i have done i have tried to make people see how the world is too much with them. getting and spending they lay waste their powers, with never a breath of the free and wonderful life of the open! so i come back to the main point of this foreword, in which i am trying to tell why and how i came to write the story of a feud notorious in arizona as the pleasant valley war. some years ago mr. harry adams, a cattleman of vermajo park, new mexico, told me he had been in the tonto basin of arizona and thought i might find interesting material there concerning this pleasant valley war. his version of the war between cattlemen and sheepmen certainly determined me to look over the ground. my old guide, al doyle of flagstaff, had led me over half of arizona, but never down into that wonderful wild and rugged basin between the mogollon mesa and the mazatzal mountains. doyle had long lived on the frontier and his version of the pleasant valley war differed markedly from that of mr. adams. i asked other old timers about it, and their remarks further excited my curiosity. once down there, doyle and i found the wildest, most rugged, roughest, and most remarkable country either of us had visited; and the few inhabitants were like the country. i went in ostensibly to hunt bear and lion and turkey, but what i really was hunting for was the story of that pleasant valley war. i engaged the services of a bear hunter who had three strapping sons as reserved and strange and aloof as he was. no wheel tracks of any kind had ever come within miles of their cabin. i spent two wonderful months hunting game and reveling in the beauty and grandeur of that rim rock country, but i came out knowing no more about the pleasant valley war. these texans and their few neighbors, likewise from texas, did not talk. but all i saw and felt only inspired me the more. this trip was in the fall of . the next year i went again with the best horses, outfit, and men the doyles could provide. and this time i did not ask any questions. but i rode horses--some of them too wild for me--and packed a rifle many a hundred miles, riding sometimes thirty and forty miles a day, and i climbed in and out of the deep canyons, desperately staying at the heels of one of those long-legged texans. i learned the life of those backwoodsmen, but i did not get the story of the pleasant valley war. i had, however, won the friendship of that hardy people. in i went back with a still larger outfit, equipped to stay as long as i liked. and this time, without my asking it, different natives of the tonto came to tell me about the pleasant valley war. no two of them agreed on anything concerning it, except that only one of the active participants survived the fighting. whence comes my title, to the last man. thus i was swamped in a mass of material out of which i could only flounder to my own conclusion. some of the stories told me are singularly tempting to a novelist. but, though i believe them myself, i cannot risk their improbability to those who have no idea of the wildness of wild men at a wild time. there really was a terrible and bloody feud, perhaps the most deadly and least known in all the annals of the west. i saw the ground, the cabins, the graves, all so darkly suggestive of what must have happened. i never learned the truth of the cause of the pleasant valley war, or if i did hear it i had no means of recognizing it. all the given causes were plausible and convincing. strange to state, there is still secrecy and reticence all over the tonto basin as to the facts of this feud. many descendents of those killed are living there now. but no one likes to talk about it. assuredly many of the incidents told me really occurred, as, for example, the terrible one of the two women, in the face of relentless enemies, saving the bodies of their dead husbands from being devoured by wild hogs. suffice it to say that this romance is true to my conception of the war, and i base it upon the setting i learned to know and love so well, upon the strange passions of primitive people, and upon my instinctive reaction to the facts and rumors that i gathered. zane grey. avalon, california, april, chapter i at the end of a dry, uphill ride over barren country jean isbel unpacked to camp at the edge of the cedars where a little rocky canyon green with willow and cottonwood, promised water and grass. his animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried a heavy load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in the dust. jean experienced something of relief himself as he threw off his chaps. he had not been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on the barren lands. stretching his long length beside a tiny rill of clear water that tinkled over the red stones, he drank thirstily. the water was cool, but it had an acrid taste--an alkali bite that he did not like. not since he had left oregon had he tasted clear, sweet, cold water; and he missed it just as he longed for the stately shady forests he had loved. this wild, endless arizona land bade fair to earn his hatred. by the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallen and coyotes had begun their barking. jean listened to the yelps and to the moan of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfaction that these lonely sounds were familiar. this cedar wood burned into a pretty fire and the smell of its smoke was newly pleasant. "reckon maybe i'll learn to like arizona," he mused, half aloud. "but i've a hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests. must be the indian in me.... anyway, dad needs me bad, an' i reckon i'm here for keeps." jean threw some cedar branches on the fire, in the light of which he opened his father's letter, hoping by repeated reading to grasp more of its strange portent. it had been two months in reaching him, coming by traveler, by stage and train, and then by boat, and finally by stage again. written in lead pencil on a leaf torn from an old ledger, it would have been hard to read even if the writing had been more legible. "dad's writin' was always bad, but i never saw it so shaky," said jean, thinking aloud. grass vally, arizona. son jean,--come home. here is your home and here your needed. when we left oregon we all reckoned you would not be long behind. but its years now. i am growing old, son, and you was always my steadiest boy. not that you ever was so dam steady. only your wildness seemed more for the woods. you take after mother, and your brothers bill and guy take after me. that is the red and white of it. your part indian, jean, and that indian i reckon i am going to need bad. i am rich in cattle and horses. and my range here is the best i ever seen. lately we have been losing stock. but that is not all nor so bad. sheepmen have moved into the tonto and are grazing down on grass vally. cattlemen and sheepmen can never bide in this country. we have bad times ahead. reckon i have more reasons to worry and need you, but you must wait to hear that by word of mouth. whatever your doing, chuck it and rustle for grass vally so to make here by spring. i am asking you to take pains to pack in some guns and a lot of shells. and hide them in your outfit. if you meet anyone when your coming down into the tonto, listen more than you talk. and last, son, dont let anything keep you in oregon. reckon you have a sweetheart, and if so fetch her along. with love from your dad, gaston isbel. jean pondered over this letter. judged by memory of his father, who had always been self-sufficient, it had been a surprise and somewhat of a shock. weeks of travel and reflection had not helped him to grasp the meaning between the lines. "yes, dad's growin' old," mused jean, feeling a warmth and a sadness stir in him. "he must be 'way over sixty. but he never looked old.... so he's rich now an' losin' stock, an' goin' to be sheeped off his range. dad could stand a lot of rustlin', but not much from sheepmen." the softness that stirred in jean merged into a cold, thoughtful earnestness which had followed every perusal of his father's letter. a dark, full current seemed flowing in his veins, and at times he felt it swell and heat. it troubled him, making him conscious of a deeper, stronger self, opposed to his careless, free, and dreamy nature. no ties had bound him in oregon, except love for the great, still forests and the thundering rivers; and this love came from his softer side. it had cost him a wrench to leave. and all the way by ship down the coast to san diego and across the sierra madres by stage, and so on to this last overland travel by horseback, he had felt a retreating of the self that was tranquil and happy and a dominating of this unknown somber self, with its menacing possibilities. yet despite a nameless regret and a loyalty to oregon, when he lay in his blankets he had to confess a keen interest in his adventurous future, a keen enjoyment of this stark, wild arizona. it appeared to be a different sky stretching in dark, star-spangled dome over him--closer, vaster, bluer. the strong fragrance of sage and cedar floated over him with the camp-fire smoke, and all seemed drowsily to subdue his thoughts. at dawn he rolled out of his blankets and, pulling on his boots, began the day with a zest for the work that must bring closer his calling future. white, crackling frost and cold, nipping air were the same keen spurs to action that he had known in the uplands of oregon, yet they were not wholly the same. he sensed an exhilaration similar to the effect of a strong, sweet wine. his horse and mule had fared well during the night, having been much refreshed by the grass and water of the little canyon. jean mounted and rode into the cedars with gladness that at last he had put the endless leagues of barren land behind him. the trail he followed appeared to be seldom traveled. it led, according to the meager information obtainable at the last settlement, directly to what was called the rim, and from there grass valley could be seen down in the basin. the ascent of the ground was so gradual that only in long, open stretches could it be seen. but the nature of the vegetation showed jean how he was climbing. scant, low, scraggy cedars gave place to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones, and these to high, full-foliaged, green-berried trees. sage and grass in the open flats grew more luxuriously. then came the pinyons, and presently among them the checker-barked junipers. jean hailed the first pine tree with a hearty slap on the brown, rugged bark. it was a small dwarf pine struggling to live. the next one was larger, and after that came several, and beyond them pines stood up everywhere above the lower trees. odor of pine needles mingled with the other dry smells that made the wind pleasant to jean. in an hour from the first line of pines he had ridden beyond the cedars and pinyons into a slowly thickening and deepening forest. underbrush appeared scarce except in ravines, and the ground in open patches held a bleached grass. jean's eye roved for sight of squirrels, birds, deer, or any moving creature. it appeared to be a dry, uninhabited forest. about midday jean halted at a pond of surface water, evidently melted snow, and gave his animals a drink. he saw a few old deer tracks in the mud and several huge bird tracks new to him which he concluded must have been made by wild turkeys. the trail divided at this pond. jean had no idea which branch he ought to take. "reckon it doesn't matter," he muttered, as he was about to remount. his horse was standing with ears up, looking back along the trail. then jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs, and presently espied a horseman. jean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peered over his horse at the approaching rider. all men in this country were going to be of exceeding interest to jean isbel. this man at a distance rode and looked like all the arizonians jean had seen, he had a superb seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. he wore a huge black sombrero and a soiled red scarf. his vest was open and he was without a coat. the rider came trotting up and halted several paces from jean "hullo, stranger!" he said, gruffly. "howdy yourself!" replied jean. he felt an instinctive importance in the meeting with the man. never had sharper eyes flashed over jean and his outfit. he had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing light intensity. not very much hard western experience had passed by this man, yet he was not old, measured by years. when he dismounted jean saw he was tall, even for an arizonian. "seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let his horse drink. "where bound?" "reckon i'm lost, all right," replied jean. "new country for me." "shore. i seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. wal, where was you headin' for before you got lost?" the query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. jean felt the lack of friendliness or kindliness in it. "grass valley. my name's isbel," he replied, shortly. the rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him; then with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle. "shore i knowed you was jean isbel," he said. "everybody in the tonto has heerd old gass isbel sent fer his boy." "well then, why did you ask?" inquired jean, bluntly. "reckon i wanted to see what you'd say." "so? all right. but i'm not carin' very much for what you say." their glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by the intangible conflict of spirit. "shore thet's natural," replied the rider. his speech was slow, and the motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette from his vest, kept time with his words. "but seein' you're one of the isbels, i'll hev my say whether you want it or not. my name's colter an' i'm one of the sheepmen gass isbel's riled with." "colter. glad to meet you," replied jean. "an' i reckon who riled my father is goin' to rile me." "shore. if thet wasn't so you'd not be an isbel," returned colter, with a grim little laugh. "it's easy to see you ain't run into any tonto basin fellers yet. wal, i'm goin' to tell you thet your old man gabbed like a woman down at greaves's store. bragged aboot you an' how you could fight an' how you could shoot an' how you could track a hoss or a man! bragged how you'd chase every sheep herder back up on the rim.... i'm tellin' you because we want you to git our stand right. we're goin' to run sheep down in grass valley." "ahuh! well, who's we?" queried jean, curtly. "what-at? ... we--i mean the sheepmen rangin' this rim from black butte to the apache country." "colter, i'm a stranger in arizona," said jean, slowly. "i know little about ranchers or sheepmen. it's true my father sent for me. it's true, i dare say, that he bragged, for he was given to bluster an' blow. an' he's old now. i can't help it if he bragged about me. but if he has, an' if he's justified in his stand against you sheepmen, i'm goin' to do my best to live up to his brag." "i get your hunch. shore we understand each other, an' thet's a powerful help. you take my hunch to your old man," replied colter, as he turned his horse away toward the left. "thet trail leadin' south is yours. when you come to the rim you'll see a bare spot down in the basin. thet 'll be grass valley." he rode away out of sight into the woods. jean leaned against his horse and pondered. it seemed difficult to be just to this colter, not because of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that emanated from him. colter had the hard face, the masked intent, the turn of speech that jean had come to associate with dishonest men. even if jean had not been prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his father's trouble with these sheepmen, and if colter had met him only to exchange glances and greetings, still jean would never have had a favorable impression. colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism seldom felt. "heigho!" sighed the young man, "good-by to huntin' an' fishing'! dad's given me a man's job." with that he mounted his horse and started the pack mule into the right-hand trail. walking and trotting, he traveled all afternoon, toward sunset getting into heavy forest of pine. more than one snow bank showed white through the green, sheltered on the north slopes of shady ravines. and it was upon entering this zone of richer, deeper forestland that jean sloughed off his gloomy forebodings. these stately pines were not the giant firs of oregon, but any lover of the woods could be happy under them. higher still he climbed until the forest spread before and around him like a level park, with thicketed ravines here and there on each side. and presently that deceitful level led to a higher bench upon which the pines towered, and were matched by beautiful trees he took for spruce. heavily barked, with regular spreading branches, these conifers rose in symmetrical shape to spear the sky with silver plumes. a graceful gray-green moss, waved like veils from the branches. the air was not so dry and it was colder, with a scent and touch of snow. jean made camp at the first likely site, taking the precaution to unroll his bed some little distance from his fire. under the softly moaning pines he felt comfortable, having lost the sense of an immeasurable open space falling away from all around him. the gobbling of wild turkeys awakened jean, "chuga-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug." there was not a great difference between the gobble of a wild turkey and that of a tame one. jean got up, and taking his rifle went out into the gray obscurity of dawn to try to locate the turkeys. but it was too dark, and finally when daylight came they appeared to be gone. the mule had strayed, and, what with finding it and cooking breakfast and packing, jean did not make a very early start. on this last lap of his long journey he had slowed down. he was weary of hurrying; the change from weeks in the glaring sun and dust-laden wind to this sweet coot darkly green and brown forest was very welcome; he wanted to linger along the shaded trail. this day he made sure would see him reach the rim. by and by he lost the trail. it had just worn out from lack of use. every now and then jean would cross an old trail, and as he penetrated deeper into the forest every damp or dusty spot showed tracks of turkey, deer, and bear. the amount of bear sign surprised him. presently his keen nostrils were assailed by a smell of sheep, and soon he rode into a broad sheep, trail. from the tracks jean calculated that the sheep had passed there the day before. an unreasonable antipathy seemed born in him. to be sure he had been prepared to dislike sheep, and that was why he was unreasonable. but on the other hand this band of sheep had left a broad bare swath, weedless, grassless, flowerless, in their wake. where sheep grazed they destroyed. that was what jean had against them. an hour later he rode to the crest of a long parklike slope, where new green grass was sprouting and flowers peeped everywhere. the pines appeared far apart; gnarled oak trees showed rugged and gray against the green wall of woods. a white strip of snow gleamed like a moving stream away down in the woods. jean heard the musical tinkle of bells and the baa-baa of sheep and the faint, sweet bleating of lambs. as he road toward these sounds a dog ran out from an oak thicket and barked at him. next jean smelled a camp fire and soon he caught sight of a curling blue column of smoke, and then a small peaked tent. beyond the clump of oaks jean encountered a mexican lad carrying a carbine. the boy had a swarthy, pleasant face, and to jean's greeting he replied, "buenas dias." jean understood little spanish, and about all he gathered by his simple queries was that the lad was not alone--and that it was "lambing time." this latter circumstance grew noisily manifest. the forest seemed shrilly full of incessant baas and plaintive bleats. all about the camp, on the slope, in the glades, and everywhere, were sheep. a few were grazing; many were lying down; most of them were ewes suckling white fleecy little lambs that staggered on their feet. everywhere jean saw tiny lambs just born. their pin-pointed bleats pierced the heavier baa-baa of their mothers. jean dismounted and led his horse down toward the camp, where he rather expected to see another and older mexican, from whom he might get information. the lad walked with him. down this way the plaintive uproar made by the sheep was not so loud. "hello there!" called jean, cheerfully, as he approached the tent. no answer was forthcoming. dropping his bridle, he went on, rather slowly, looking for some one to appear. then a voice from one side startled him. "mawnin', stranger." a girl stepped out from beside a pine. she carried a rifle. her face flashed richly brown, but she was not mexican. this fact, and the sudden conviction that she had been watching him, somewhat disconcerted jean. "beg pardon--miss," he floundered. "didn't expect, to see a--girl.... i'm sort of lost--lookin' for the rim--an' thought i'd find a sheep herder who'd show me. i can't savvy this boy's lingo." while he spoke it seemed to him an intentness of expression, a strain relaxed from her face. a faint suggestion of hostility likewise disappeared. jean was not even sure that he had caught it, but there had been something that now was gone. "shore i'll be glad to show y'u," she said. "thanks, miss. reckon i can breathe easy now," he replied, "it's a long ride from san diego. hot an' dusty! i'm pretty tired. an' maybe this woods isn't good medicine to achin' eyes!" "san diego! y'u're from the coast?" "yes." jean had doffed his sombrero at sight of her and he still held it, rather deferentially, perhaps. it seemed to attract her attention. "put on y'ur hat, stranger.... shore i can't recollect when any man bared his haid to me." she uttered a little laugh in which surprise and frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness. jean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by his side, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness, as if he wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression. if there had been an instinct in his meeting with colter, there was more in this. the girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the shiny little carbine across her knees. she had a level, curious gaze upon him, and jean had never met one just like it. her eyes were rather a wide oval in shape, clear and steady, with shadows of thought in their amber-brown depths. they seemed to look through jean, and his gaze dropped first. then it was he saw her ragged homespun skirt and a few inches of brown, bare ankles, strong and round, and crude worn-out moccasins that failed to hide the shapeliness, of her feet. suddenly she drew back her stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet. when jean lifted his gaze again he found her face half averted and a stain of red in the gold tan of her cheek. that touch of embarrassment somehow removed her from this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. it changed her poise. it detracted from the curious, unabashed, almost bold, look that he had encountered in her eyes. "reckon you're from texas," said jean, presently. "shore am," she drawled. she had a lazy southern voice, pleasant to hear. "how'd y'u-all guess that?" "anybody can tell a texan. where i came from there were a good many pioneers an' ranchers from the old lone star state. i've worked for several. an', come to think of it, i'd rather hear a texas girl talk than anybody." "did y'u know many texas girls?" she inquired, turning again to face him. "reckon i did--quite a good many." "did y'u go with them?" "go with them? reckon you mean keep company. why, yes, i guess i did--a little," laughed jean. "sometimes on a sunday or a dance once in a blue moon, an' occasionally a ride." "shore that accounts," said the girl, wistfully. "for what?" asked jean. "y'ur bein' a gentleman," she replied, with force. "oh, i've not forgotten. i had friends when we lived in texas.... three years ago. shore it seems longer. three miserable years in this damned country!" then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting utterance to a total stranger. and it was that biting of her lip that drew jean's attention to her mouth. it held beauty of curve and fullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and bitterness. then the whole flashing brown face changed for jean. he saw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing a power which grew on him. this, with her shame and pathos and the fact that she craved respect, gave a leap to jean's interest. "well, i reckon you flatter me," he said, hoping to put her at her ease again. "i'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an' horse tracker. never had all the school i needed--nor near enough company of nice girls like you." "am i nice?" she asked, quickly. "you sure are," he replied, smiling. "in these rags," she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that thrilled him. "look at the holes." she showed rips and worn-out places in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed a round, brown arm. "i sew when i have anythin' to sew with.... look at my skirt--a dirty rag. an' i have only one other to my name.... look!" again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and giving the lie to her action. but shame could not check her violence now. a dammed-up resentment seemed to have broken out in flood. she lifted the ragged skirt almost to her knees. "no stockings! no shoes! ... how can a girl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's clothes to wear?" "how--how can a girl..." began jean. "see here, miss, i'm beggin' your pardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little. reckon i understand. you don't meet many strangers an' i sort of hit you wrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. who an' what you are is none of my business. but we met.... an' i reckon somethin' has happened--perhaps more to me than to you.... now let me put you straight about clothes an' women. reckon i know most women love nice things to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty that they're nicer or better. but they're wrong. you're wrong. maybe it 'd be too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. but you can be--you axe just as nice, an'--an' fine--an', for all you know, a good deal more appealin' to some men." "stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show i made of myself," replied the girl, with composure. "that, to say the least, was not nice. an' i don't want anyone thinkin' better of me than i deserve. my mother died in texas, an' i've lived out heah in this wild country--a girl alone among rough men. meetin' y'u to-day makes me see what a hard lot they are--an' what it's done to me." jean smothered his curiosity and tried to put out of his mind a growing sense that he pitied her, liked her. "are you a sheep herder?" he asked. "shore i am now an' then. my father lives back heah in a canyon. he's a sheepman. lately there's been herders shot at. just now we're short an' i have to fill in. but i like shepherdin' an' i love the woods, and the rim rock an' all the tonto. if they were all, i'd shore be happy." "herders shot at!" exclaimed jean, thoughtfully. "by whom? an' what for?" "trouble brewin' between the cattlemen down in the basin an' the sheepmen up on the rim. dad says there'll shore be hell to pay. i tell him i hope the cattlemen chase him back to texas." "then-- are you on the ranchers' side?" queried jean, trying to pretend casual interest. "no. i'll always be on my father's side," she replied, with spirit. "but i'm bound to admit i think the cattlemen have the fair side of the argument." "how so?" "because there's grass everywhere. i see no sense in a sheepman goin' out of his way to surround a cattleman an' sheep off his range. that started the row. lord knows how it'll end. for most all of them heah are from texas." "so i was told," replied jean. "an' i heard' most all these texans got run out of texas. any truth in that?" "shore i reckon there is," she replied, seriously. "but, stranger, it might not be healthy for y'u to, say that anywhere. my dad, for one, was not run out of texas. shore i never can see why he came heah. he's accumulated stock, but he's not rich nor so well off as he was back home." "are you goin' to stay here always?" queried jean, suddenly. "if i do so it 'll be in my grave," she answered, darkly. "but what's the use of thinkin'? people stay places until they drift away. y'u can never tell.... well, stranger, this talk is keepin' y'u." she seemed moody now, and a note of detachment crept into her voice. jean rose at once and went for his horse. if this girl did not desire to talk further he certainly had no wish to annoy her. his mule had strayed off among the bleating sheep. jean drove it back and then led his horse up to where the girl stood. she appeared taller and, though not of robust build, she was vigorous and lithe, with something about her that fitted the place. jean was loath to bid her good-by. "which way is the rim?" he asked, turning to his saddle girths. "south," she replied, pointing. "it's only a mile or so. i'll walk down with y'u.... suppose y'u're on the way to grass valley?" "yes; i've relatives there," he returned. he dreaded her next question, which he suspected would concern his name. but she did not ask. taking up her rifle she turned away. jean strode ahead to her side. "reckon if you walk i won't ride." so he found himself beside a girl with the free step of a mountaineer. her bare, brown head came up nearly to his shoulder. it was a small, pretty head, graceful, well held, and the thick hair on it was a shiny, soft brown. she wore it in a braid, rather untidily and tangled, he thought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. altogether her apparel proclaimed poverty. jean let the conversation languish for a little. he wanted to think what to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure in stalking beside her. her profile was straight cut and exquisite in line. from this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen. she made several attempts to start conversation, all of which jean ignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. presently jean, having decided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: "i like this adventure. do you?" "adventure! meetin' me in the woods?" and she laughed the laugh of youth. "shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger." "do you like it?" he persisted, and his eyes searched the half-averted face. "i might like it," she answered, frankly, "if--if my temper had not made a fool of me. i never meet anyone i care to talk to. why should it not be pleasant to run across some one new--some one strange in this heah wild country?" "we are as we are," said jean, simply. "i didn't think you made a fool of yourself. if i thought so, would i want to see you again?" "do y'u?" the brown face flashed on him with surprise, with a light he took for gladness. and because he wanted to appear calm and friendly, not too eager, he had to deny himself the thrill of meeting those changing eyes. "sure i do. reckon i'm overbold on such short acquaintance. but i might not have another chance to tell you, so please don't hold it against me." this declaration over, jean felt relief and something of exultation. he had been afraid he might not have the courage to make it. she walked on as before, only with her head bowed a little and her eyes downcast. no color but the gold-brown tan and the blue tracery of veins showed in her cheeks. he noticed then a slight swelling quiver of her throat; and he became alive to its graceful contour, and to how full and pulsating it was, how nobly it set into the curve of her shoulder. here in her quivering throat was the weakness of her, the evidence of her sex, the womanliness that belied the mountaineer stride and the grasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. it had an effect on jean totally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth that stole over him and in the utterance he could not hold back. "girl, we're strangers, but what of that? we've met, an' i tell you it means somethin' to me. i've known girls for months an' never felt this way. i don't know who you are an' i don't care. you betrayed a good deal to me. you're not happy. you're lonely. an' if i didn't want to see you again for my own sake i would for yours. some things you said i'll not forget soon. i've got a sister, an' i know you have no brother. an' i reckon ..." at this juncture jean in his earnestness and quite without thought grasped her hand. the contact checked the flow of his speech and suddenly made him aghast at his temerity. but the girl did not make any effort to withdraw it. so jean, inhaling a deep breath and trying to see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. he imagined he felt a faint, warm, returning pressure. she was young, she was friendless, she was human. by this hand in his jean felt more than ever the loneliness of her. then, just as he was about to speak again, she pulled her hand free. "heah's the rim," she said, in her quaint southern drawl. "an' there's y'ur tonto basin." jean had been intent only upon the girl. he had kept step beside her without taking note of what was ahead of him. at her words he looked up expectantly, to be struck mute. he felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneath him. as he looked afar he saw a black basin of timbered country, the darkest and wildest he had ever gazed upon, a hundred miles of blue distance across to an unflung mountain range, hazy purple against the sky. it seemed to be a stupendous gulf surrounded on three sides by bold, undulating lines of peaks, and on his side by a wall so high that he felt lifted aloft on the run of the sky. "southeast y'u see the sierra anchas," said the girl pointing. "that notch in the range is the pass where sheep are driven to phoenix an' maricopa. those big rough mountains to the south are the mazatzals. round to the west is the four peaks range. an' y'u're standin' on the rim." jean could not see at first just what the rim was, but by shifting his gaze westward he grasped this remarkable phenomenon of nature. for leagues and leagues a colossal red and yellow wall, a rampart, a mountain-faced cliff, seemed to zigzag westward. grand and bold were the promontories reaching out over the void. they ran toward the westering sun. sweeping and impressive were the long lines slanting away from them, sloping darkly spotted down to merge into the black timber. jean had never seen such a wild and rugged manifestation of nature's depths and upheavals. he was held mute. "stranger, look down," said the girl. jean's sight was educated to judge heights and depths and distances. this wall upon which he stood sheered precipitously down, so far that it made him dizzy to look, and then the craggy broken cliffs merged into red-slided, cedar-greened slopes running down and down into gorges choked with forests, and from which soared up a roar of rushing waters. slope after slope, ridge beyond ridge, canyon merging into canyon--so the tremendous bowl sunk away to its black, deceiving depths, a wilderness across which travel seemed impossible. "wonderful!" exclaimed jean. "indeed it is!" murmured the girl. "shore that is arizona. i reckon i love this. the heights an' depths--the awfulness of its wilderness!" "an' you want to leave it?" "yes an' no. i don't deny the peace that comes to me heah. but not often do i see the basin, an' for that matter, one doesn't live on grand scenery." "child, even once in a while--this sight would cure any misery, if you only see. i'm glad i came. i'm glad you showed it to me first." she too seemed under the spell of a vastness and loneliness and beauty and grandeur that could not but strike the heart. jean took her hand again. "girl, say you will meet me here," he said, his voice ringing deep in his ears. "shore i will," she replied, softly, and turned to him. it seemed then that jean saw her face for the first time. she was beautiful as he had never known beauty. limned against that scene, she gave it life--wild, sweet, young life--the poignant meaning of which haunted yet eluded him. but she belonged there. her eyes were again searching his, as if for some lost part of herself, unrealized, never known before. wondering, wistful, hopeful, glad--they were eyes that seemed surprised, to reveal part of her soul. then her red lips parted. their tremulous movement was a magnet to jean. an invisible and mighty force pulled him down to kiss them. whatever the spell had been, that rude, unconscious action broke it. he jerked away, as if he expected to be struck. "girl--i--i"--he gasped in amaze and sudden-dawning contrition--"i kissed you--but i swear it wasn't intentional--i never thought...." the anger that jean anticipated failed to materialize. he stood, breathing hard, with a hand held out in unconscious appeal. by the same magic, perhaps, that had transfigured her a moment past, she was now invested again by the older character. "shore i reckon my callin' y'u a gentleman was a little previous," she said, with a rather dry bitterness. "but, stranger, yu're sudden." "you're not insulted?" asked jean, hurriedly. "oh, i've been kissed before. shore men are all alike." "they're not," he replied, hotly, with a subtle rush of disillusion, a dulling of enchantment. "don't you class me with other men who've kissed you. i wasn't myself when i did it an' i'd have gone on my knees to ask your forgiveness.... but now i wouldn't--an' i wouldn't kiss you again, either--even if you--you wanted it." jean read in her strange gaze what seemed to him a vague doubt, as if she was questioning him. "miss, i take that back," added jean, shortly. "i'm sorry. i didn't mean to be rude. it was a mean trick for me to kiss you. a girl alone in the woods who's gone out of her way to be kind to me! i don't know why i forgot my manners. an' i ask your pardon." she looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down into the basin. "there's grass valley. that long gray spot in the black. it's about fifteen miles. ride along the rim that way till y'u cross a trail. shore y'u can't miss it. then go down." "i'm much obliged to you," replied jean, reluctantly accepting what he regarded as his dismissal. turning his horse, he put his foot in the stirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl. her abstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggested loneliness and wistfulness. she was not thinking of that scene spread so wondrously before her. it struck jean she might be pondering a subtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was conscious of, yet could not define. "reckon this is good-by," he said, with hesitation. "adios, senor," she replied, facing him again. she lifted the little carbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready to depart. "adios means good-by?" he queried. "yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. take it as y'u like." "then you'll meet me here day after to-morrow?" how eagerly he spoke, on impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had changed him! "did i say i wouldn't?" "no. but i reckoned you'd not care to after--" he replied, breaking off in some confusion. "shore i'll be glad to meet y'u. day after to-morrow about mid-afternoon. right heah. fetch all the news from grass valley." "all right. thanks. that'll be--fine," replied jean, and as he spoke he experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm, such as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure. before it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself. he needed to think. "stranger shore i'm not recollectin' that y'u told me who y'u are," she said. "no, reckon i didn't tell," he returned. "what difference does that make? i said i didn't care who or what you are. can't you feel the same about me?" "shore--i felt that way," she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with the level brown gaze steadily on his face. "but now y'u make me think." "let's meet without knowin' any more about each other than we do now." "shore. i'd like that. in this big wild arizona a girl--an' i reckon a man--feels so insignificant. what's a name, anyhow? still, people an' things have to be distinguished. i'll call y'u 'stranger' an' be satisfied--if y'u say it's fair for y'u not to tell who y'u are." "fair! no, it's not," declared jean, forced to confession. "my name's jean--jean isbel." "isbel!" she exclaimed, with a violent start. "shore y'u can't be son of old gass isbel.... i've seen both his sons." "he has three," replied jean, with relief, now the secret was out. "i'm the youngest. i'm twenty-four. never been out of oregon till now. on my way--" the brown color slowly faded out of her face, leaving her quite pale, with eyes that began to blaze. the suppleness of her seemed to stiffen. "my name's ellen jorth," she burst out, passionately. "does it mean anythin' to y'u?" "never heard it in my life," protested jean. "sure i reckoned you belonged to the sheep raisers who 're on the outs with my father. that's why i had to tell you i'm jean isbel.... ellen jorth. it's strange an' pretty.... reckon i can be just as good a--a friend to you--" "no isbel, can ever be a friend to me," she said, with bitter coldness. stripped of her ease and her soft wistfulness, she stood before him one instant, entirely another girl, a hostile enemy. then she wheeled and strode off into the woods. jean, in amaze, in consternation, watched her swiftly draw away with her lithe, free step, wanting to follow her, wanting to call to her; but the resentment roused by her suddenly avowed hostility held him mute in his tracks. he watched her disappear, and when the brown-and-green wall of forest swallowed the slender gray form he fought against the insistent desire to follow her, and fought in vain. chapter ii but ellen jorth's moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable trail on the springy pine needle covering of the ground, and jean could not find any trace of her. a little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and called pride to his rescue. returning to his horse, he mounted, rode out behind the pack mule to start it along, and soon felt the relief of decision and action. clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots on the rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which times he lost sight of the purple basin. every time he came back to an opening through which he could see the wild ruggedness and colors and distances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him. arizona from yuma to the little colorado had been to him an endless waste of wind-scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. this black-forested rock-rimmed land of untrodden ways was a world that in itself would satisfy him. some instinct in jean called for a lonely, wild land, into the fastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other strange self that he had always yearned to be but had never been. every few moments there intruded into his flowing consciousness the flashing face of ellen jorth, the way she had looked at him, the things she had said. "reckon i was a fool," he soliloquized, with an acute sense of humiliation. "she never saw how much in earnest i was." and jean began to remember the circumstances with a vividness that disturbed and perplexed him. the accident of running across such a girl in that lonely place might be out of the ordinary--but it had happened. surprise had made him dull. the charm of her appearance, the appeal of her manner, must have drawn him at the very first, but he had not recognized that. only at her words, "oh, i've been kissed before," had his feelings been checked in their heedless progress. and the utterance of them had made a difference he now sought to analyze. some personality in him, some voice, some idea had begun to defend her even before he was conscious that he had arraigned her before the bar of his judgment. such defense seemed clamoring in him now and he forced himself to listen. he wanted, in his hurt pride, to justify his amazing surrender to a sweet and sentimental impulse. he realized now that at first glance he should have recognized in her look, her poise, her voice the quality he called thoroughbred. ragged and stained apparel did not prove her of a common sort. jean had known a number of fine and wholesome girls of good family; and he remembered his sister. this ellen jorth was that kind of a girl irrespective of her present environment. jean championed her loyally, even after he had gratified his selfish pride. it was then--contending with an intangible and stealing glamour, unreal and fanciful, like the dream of a forbidden enchantment--that jean arrived at the part in the little woodland drama where he had kissed ellen jorth and had been unrebuked. why had she not resented his action? dispelled was the illusion he had been dreamily and nobly constructing. "oh, i've been kissed before!" the shock to him now exceeded his first dismay. half bitterly she had spoken, and wholly scornful of herself, or of him, or of all men. for she had said all men were alike. jean chafed under the smart of that, a taunt every decent man hated. naturally every happy and healthy young man would want to kiss such red, sweet lips. but if those lips had been for others--never for him! jean reflected that not since childish games had he kissed a girl--until this brown-faced ellen jorth came his way. he wondered at it. moreover, he wondered at the significance he placed upon it. after all, was it not merely an accident? why should he remember? why should he ponder? what was the faint, deep, growing thrill that accompanied some of his thoughts? riding along with busy mind, jean almost crossed a well-beaten trail, leading through a pine thicket and down over the rim. jean's pack mule led the way without being driven. and when jean reached the edge of the bluff one look down was enough to fetch him off his horse. that trail was steep, narrow, clogged with stones, and as full of sharp corners as a crosscut saw. once on the descent with a packed mule and a spirited horse, jean had no time for mind wanderings and very little for occasional glimpses out over the cedar tops to the vast blue hollow asleep under a westering sun. the stones rattled, the dust rose, the cedar twigs snapped, the little avalanches of red earth slid down, the iron-shod hoofs rang on the rocks. this slope had been narrow at the apex in the rim where the trail led down a crack, and it widened in fan shape as jean descended. he zigzagged down a thousand feet before the slope benched into dividing ridges. here the cedars and junipers failed and pines once more hid the sun. deep ravines were black with brush. from somewhere rose a roar of running water, most pleasant to jean's ears. fresh deer and bear tracks covered old ones made in the trail. those timbered ridges were but billows of that tremendous slope that now sheered above jean, ending in a magnificent yellow wall of rock, greened in niches, stained by weather rust, carved and cracked and caverned. as jean descended farther the hum of bees made melody, the roar of rapid water and the murmur of a rising breeze filled him with the content of the wild. sheepmen like colter and wild girls like ellen jorth and all that seemed promising or menacing in his father's letter could never change the indian in jean. so he thought. hard upon that conclusion rushed another--one which troubled with its stinging revelation. surely these influences he had defied were just the ones to bring out in him the indian he had sensed but had never known. the eventful day had brought new and bitter food for jean to reflect upon. the trail landed him in the bowlder-strewn bed of a wide canyon, where the huge trees stretched a canopy of foliage which denied the sunlight, and where a beautiful brook rushed and foamed. here at last jean tasted water that rivaled his oregon springs. "ah," he cried, "that sure is good!" dark and shaded and ferny and mossy was this streamway; and everywhere were tracks of game, from the giant spread of a grizzly bear to the tiny, birdlike imprints of a squirrel. jean heard familiar sounds of deer crackling the dead twigs; and the chatter of squirrels was incessant. this fragrant, cool retreat under the rim brought back to him the dim recesses of oregon forests. after all, jean felt that he would not miss anything that he had loved in the cascades. but what was the vague sense of all not being well with him--the essence of a faint regret--the insistence of a hovering shadow? and then flashed again, etched more vividly by the repetition in memory, a picture of eyes, of lips--of something he had to forget. wild and broken as this rolling basin floor had appeared from the rim, the reality of traveling over it made that first impression a deceit of distance. down here all was on a big, rough, broken scale. jean did not find even a few rods of level ground. bowlders as huge as houses obstructed the stream bed; spruce trees eight feet thick tried to lord it over the brawny pines; the ravine was a veritable canyon from which occasional glimpses through the foliage showed the rim as a lofty red-tipped mountain peak. jean's pack mule became frightened at scent of a bear or lion and ran off down the rough trail, imperiling jean's outfit. it was not an easy task to head him off nor, when that was accomplished, to keep him to a trot. but his fright and succeeding skittishness at least made for fast traveling. jean calculated that he covered ten miles under the rim before the character of ground and forest began to change. the trail had turned southeast. instead of gorge after gorge, red-walled and choked with forest, there began to be rolling ridges, some high; others were knolls; and a thick cedar growth made up for a falling off of pine. the spruce had long disappeared. juniper thickets gave way more and more to the beautiful manzanita; and soon on the south slopes appeared cactus and a scrubby live oak. but for the well-broken trail, jean would have fared ill through this tough brush. jean espied several deer, and again a coyote, and what he took to be a small herd of wild horses. no more turkey tracks showed in the dusty patches. he crossed a number of tiny brooklets, and at length came to a place where the trail ended or merged in a rough road that showed evidence of considerable travel. horses, sheep, and cattle had passed along there that day. this road turned southward, and jean began to have pleasurable expectations. the road, like the trail, led down grade, but no longer at such steep angles, and was bordered by cedar and pinyon, jack-pine and juniper, mescal and manzanita. quite sharply, going around a ridge, the road led jean's eye down to a small open flat of marshy, or at least grassy, ground. this green oasis in the wilderness of red and timbered ridges marked another change in the character of the basin. beyond that the country began to spread out and roll gracefully, its dark-green forest interspersed with grassy parks, until jean headed into a long, wide gray-green valley surrounded by black-fringed hills. his pulses quickened here. he saw cattle dotting the expanse, and here and there along the edge log cabins and corrals. as a village, grass valley could not boast of much, apparently, in the way of population. cabins and houses were widely scattered, as if the inhabitants did not care to encroach upon one another. but the one store, built of stone, and stamped also with the characteristic isolation, seemed to jean to be a rather remarkable edifice. not exactly like a fort did it strike him, but if it had not been designed for defense it certainly gave that impression, especially from the long, low side with its dark eye-like windows about the height of a man's shoulder. some rather fine horses were tied to a hitching rail. otherwise dust and dirt and age and long use stamped this grass valley store and its immediate environment. jean threw his bridle, and, getting down, mounted the low porch and stepped into the wide open door. a face, gray against the background of gloom inside, passed out of sight just as jean entered. he knew he had been seen. in front of the long, rather low-ceiled store were four men, all absorbed, apparently, in a game of checkers. two were playing and two were looking on. one of these, a gaunt-faced man past middle age, casually looked up as jean entered. but the moment of that casual glance afforded jean time enough to meet eyes he instinctively distrusted. they masked their penetration. they seemed neither curious nor friendly. they saw him as if he had been merely thin air. "good evenin'," said jean. after what appeared to jean a lapse of time sufficient to impress him with a possible deafness of these men, the gaunt-faced one said, "howdy, isbel!" the tone was impersonal, dry, easy, cool, laconic, and yet it could not have been more pregnant with meaning. jean's sharp sensibilities absorbed much. none of the slouch-sombreroed, long-mustached texans--for so jean at once classed them--had ever seen jean, but they knew him and knew that he was expected in grass valley. all but the one who had spoken happened to have their faces in shadow under the wide-brimmed black hats. motley-garbed, gun-belted, dusty-booted, they gave jean the same impression of latent force that he had encountered in colter. "will somebody please tell me where to find my father, gaston isbel?" inquired jean, with as civil a tongue as he could command. nobody paid the slightest attention. it was the same as if jean had not spoken. waiting, half amused, half irritated, jean shot a rapid glance around the store. the place had felt bare; and jean, peering back through gloomy space, saw that it did not contain much. dry goods and sacks littered a long rude counter; long rough shelves divided their length into stacks of canned foods and empty sections; a low shelf back of the counter held a generous burden of cartridge boxes, and next to it stood a rack of rifles. on the counter lay open cases of plug tobacco, the odor of which was second in strength only to that of rum. jean's swift-roving eye reverted to the men, three of whom were absorbed in the greasy checkerboard. the fourth man was the one who had spoken and he now deigned to look at jean. not much flesh was there stretched over his bony, powerful physiognomy. he stroked a lean chin with a big mobile hand that suggested more of bridle holding than familiarity with a bucksaw and plow handle. it was a lazy hand. the man looked lazy. if he spoke at all it would be with lazy speech, yet jean had not encountered many men to whom he would have accorded more potency to stir in him the instinct of self-preservation. "shore," drawled this gaunt-faced texan, "old gass lives aboot a mile down heah." with slow sweep of the big hand he indicated a general direction to the south; then, appearing to forget his questioner, he turned his attention to the game. jean muttered his thanks and, striding out, he mounted again, and drove the pack mule down the road. "reckon i've ran into the wrong folds to-day," he said. "if i remember dad right he was a man to make an' keep friends. somehow i'll bet there's goin' to be hell." beyond the store were some rather pretty and comfortable homes, little ranch houses back in the coves of the hills. the road turned west and jean saw his first sunset in the tonto basin. it was a pageant of purple clouds with silver edges, and background of deep rich gold. presently jean met a lad driving a cow. "hello, johnny!" he said, genially, and with a double purpose. "my name's jean isbel. by golly! i'm lost in grass valley. will you tell me where my dad lives?" "yep. keep right on, an' y'u cain't miss him," replied the lad, with a bright smile. "he's lookin' fer y'u." "how do you know, boy?" queried jean, warmed by that smile. "aw, i know. it's all over the valley thet y'u'd ride in ter-day. shore i wus the one thet tole yer dad an' he give me a dollar." "was he glad to hear it?" asked jean, with a queer sensation in his throat. "wal, he plumb was." "an' who told you i was goin' to ride in to-day?" "i heerd it at the store," replied the lad, with an air of confidence. "some sheepmen was talkin' to greaves. he's the storekeeper. i was settin' outside, but i heerd. a mexican come down off the rim ter-day an' he fetched the news." here the lad looked furtively around, then whispered. "an' thet greaser was sent by somebody. i never heerd no more, but them sheepmen looked pretty plumb sour. an' one of them, comin' out, give me a kick, darn him. it shore is the luckedest day fer us cowmen." "how's that, johnny?" "wal, that's shore a big fight comin' to grass valley. my dad says so an' he rides fer yer dad. an' if it comes now y'u'll be heah." "ahuh!" laughed jean. "an' what then, boy?" the lad turned bright eyes upward. "aw, now, yu'all cain't come thet on me. ain't y'u an injun, jean isbel? ain't y'u a hoss tracker thet rustlers cain't fool? ain't y'u a plumb dead shot? ain't y'u wuss'ern a grizzly bear in a rough-an'-tumble? ... now ain't y'u, shore?" jean bade the flattering lad a rather sober good day and rode on his way. manifestly a reputation somewhat difficult to live up to had preceded his entry into grass valley. jean's first sight of his future home thrilled him through. it was a big, low, rambling log structure standing well out from a wooded knoll at the edge of the valley. corrals and barns and sheds lay off at the back. to the fore stretched broad pastures where numberless cattle and horses grazed. at sunset the scene was one of rich color. prosperity and abundance and peace seemed attendant upon that ranch; lusty voices of burros braying and cows bawling seemed welcoming jean. a hound bayed. the first cool touch of wind fanned jean's cheek and brought a fragrance of wood smoke and frying ham. horses in the pasture romped to the fence and whistled at these newcomers. jean espied a white-faced black horse that gladdened his sight. "hello, whiteface! i'll sure straddle you," called jean. then up the gentle slope he saw the tall figure of his father--the same as he had seen him thousands of times, bareheaded, shirt sleeved, striding with long step. jean waved and called to him. "hi, you prodigal!" came the answer. yes, the voice of his father--and jean's boyhood memories flashed. he hurried his horse those last few rods. no--dad was not the same. his hair shone gray. "here i am, dad," called jean, and then he was dismounting. a deep, quiet emotion settled over him, stilling the hurry, the eagerness, the pang in his breast. "son, i shore am glad to see you," said his father, and wrung his hand. "wal, wal, the size of you! shore you've grown, any how you favor your mother." jean felt in the iron clasp of hand, in the uplifting of the handsome head, in the strong, fine light of piercing eyes that there was no difference in the spirit of his father. but the old smile could not hide lines and shades strange to jean. "dad, i'm as glad as you," replied jean, heartily. "it seems long we've been parted, now i see you. are you well, dad, an' all right?" "not complainin', son. i can ride all day same as ever," he said. "come. never mind your hosses. they'll be looked after. come meet the folks.... wal, wal, you got heah at last." on the porch of the house a group awaited jean's coming, rather silently, he thought. wide-eyed children were there, very shy and watchful. the dark face of his sister corresponded with the image of her in his memory. she appeared taller, more womanly, as she embraced him. "oh, jean, jean, i'm glad you've come!" she cried, and pressed him close. jean felt in her a woman's anxiety for the present as well as affection for the past. he remembered his aunt mary, though he had not seen her for years. his half brothers, bill and guy, had changed but little except perhaps to grow lean and rangy. bill resembled his father, though his aspect was jocular rather than serious. guy was smaller, wiry, and hard as rock, with snapping eyes in a brown, still face, and he had the bow-legs of a cattleman. both had married in arizona. bill's wife, kate, was a stout, comely little woman, mother of three of the children. the other wife was young, a strapping girl, red headed and freckled, with wonderful lines of pain and strength in her face. jean remembered, as he looked at her, that some one had written him about the tragedy in her life. when she was only a child the apaches had murdered all her family. then next to greet jean were the little children, all shy, yet all manifestly impressed by the occasion. a warmth and intimacy of forgotten home emotions flooded over jean. sweet it was to get home to these relatives who loved him and welcomed him with quiet gladness. but there seemed more. jean was quick to see the shadow in the eyes of the women in that household and to sense a strange reliance which his presence brought. "son, this heah tonto is a land of milk an' honey," said his father, as jean gazed spellbound at the bounteous supper. jean certainly performed gastronomic feats on this occasion, to the delight of aunt mary and the wonder of the children. "oh, he's starv-ved to death," whispered one of the little boys to his sister. they had begun to warm to this stranger uncle. jean had no chance to talk, even had he been able to, for the meal-time showed a relaxation of restraint and they all tried to tell him things at once. in the bright lamplight his father looked easier and happier as he beamed upon jean. after supper the men went into an adjoining room that appeared most comfortable and attractive. it was long, and the width of the house, with a huge stone fireplace, low ceiling of hewn timbers and walls of the same, small windows with inside shutters of wood, and home-made table and chairs and rugs. "wal, jean, do you recollect them shootin'-irons?" inquired the rancher, pointing above the fireplace. two guns hung on the spreading deer antlers there. one was a musket jean's father had used in the war of the rebellion and the other was a long, heavy, muzzle-loading flintlock kentucky, rifle with which jean had learned to shoot. "reckon i do, dad," replied jean, and with reverent hands and a rush of memory he took the old gun down. "jean, you shore handle thet old arm some clumsy," said guy isbel, dryly. and bill added a remark to the effect that perhaps jean had been leading a luxurious and tame life back there in oregon, and then added, "but i reckon he's packin' that six-shooter like a texan." "say, i fetched a gun or two along with me," replied jean, jocularly. "reckon i near broke my poor mule's back with the load of shells an' guns. dad, what was the idea askin' me to pack out an arsenal?" "son, shore all shootin' arms an' such are at a premium in the tonto," replied his father. "an' i was givin' you a hunch to come loaded." his cool, drawling voice seemed to put a damper upon the pleasantries. right there jean sensed the charged atmosphere. his brothers were bursting with utterance about to break forth, and his father suddenly wore a look that recalled to jean critical times of days long past. but the entrance of the children and the women folk put an end to confidences. evidently the youngsters were laboring under subdued excitement. they preceded their mother, the smallest boy in the lead. for him this must have been both a dreadful and a wonderful experience, for he seemed to be pushed forward by his sister and brother and mother, and driven by yearnings of his own. "there now, lee. say, 'uncle jean, what did you fetch us?' the lad hesitated for a shy, frightened look at jean, and then, gaining something from his scrutiny of his uncle, he toddled forward and bravely delivered the question of tremendous importance. "what did i fetch you, hey?" cried jean, in delight, as he took the lad up on his knee. "wouldn't you like to know? i didn't forget, lee. i remembered you all. oh! the job i had packin' your bundle of presents.... now, lee, make a guess." "i dess you fetched a dun," replied lee. "a dun!--i'll bet you mean a gun," laughed jean. "well, you four-year-old texas gunman! make another guess." that appeared too momentous and entrancing for the other two youngsters, and, adding their shrill and joyous voices to lee's, they besieged jean. "dad, where's my pack?" cried jean. "these young apaches are after my scalp." "reckon the boys fetched it onto the porch," replied the rancher. guy isbel opened the door and went out. "by golly! heah's three packs," he called. "which one do you want, jean?" "it's a long, heavy bundle, all tied up," replied jean. guy came staggering in under a burden that brought a whoop from the youngsters and bright gleams to the eyes of the women. jean lost nothing of this. how glad he was that he had tarried in san francisco because of a mental picture of this very reception in far-off wild arizona. when guy deposited the bundle on the floor it jarred the room. it gave forth metallic and rattling and crackling sounds. "everybody stand back an' give me elbow room," ordered jean, majestically. "my good folks, i want you all to know this is somethin' that doesn't happen often. the bundle you see here weighed about a hundred pounds when i packed it on my shoulder down market street in frisco. it was stolen from me on shipboard. i got it back in san diego an' licked the thief. it rode on a burro from san diego to yuma an' once i thought the burro was lost for keeps. it came up the colorado river from yuma to ehrenberg an' there went on top of a stage. we got chased by bandits an' once when the horses were gallopin' hard it near rolled off. then it went on the back of a pack horse an' helped wear him out. an' i reckon it would be somewhere else now if i hadn't fallen in with a freighter goin' north from phoenix to the santa fe trail. the last lap when it sagged the back of a mule was the riskiest an' full of the narrowest escapes. twice my mule bucked off his pack an' left my outfit scattered. worst of all, my precious bundle made the mule top heavy comin' down that place back here where the trail seems to drop off the earth. there i was hard put to keep sight of my pack. sometimes it was on top an' other times the mule. but it got here at last.... an' now i'll open it." after this long and impressive harangue, which at least augmented the suspense of the women and worked the children into a frenzy, jean leisurely untied the many knots round the bundle and unrolled it. he had packed that bundle for just such travel as it had sustained. three cloth-bound rifles he laid aside, and with them a long, very heavy package tied between two thin wide boards. from this came the metallic clink. "oo, i know what dem is!" cried lee, breaking the silence of suspense. then jean, tearing open a long flat parcel, spread before the mute, rapt-eyed youngsters such magnificent things, as they had never dreamed of--picture books, mouth-harps, dolls, a toy gun and a toy pistol, a wonderful whistle and a fox horn, and last of all a box of candy. before these treasures on the floor, too magical to be touched at first, the two little boys and their sister simply knelt. that was a sweet, full moment for jean; yet even that was clouded by the something which shadowed these innocent children fatefully born in a wild place at a wild time. next jean gave to his sister the presents he had brought her--beautiful cloth for a dress, ribbons and a bit of lace, handkerchiefs and buttons and yards of linen, a sewing case and a whole box of spools of thread, a comb and brush and mirror, and lastly a spanish brooch inlaid with garnets. "there, ann," said jean, "i confess i asked a girl friend in oregon to tell me some things my sister might like." manifestly there was not much difference in girls. ann seemed stunned by this munificence, and then awakening, she hugged jean in a way that took his breath. she was not a child any more, that was certain. aunt mary turned knowing eyes upon jean. "reckon you couldn't have pleased ann more. she's engaged, jean, an' where girls are in that state these things mean a heap.... ann, you'll be married in that!" and she pointed to the beautiful folds of material that ann had spread out. "what's this?" demanded jean. his sister's blushes were enough to convict her, and they were mightily becoming, too. "here, aunt mary," went on jean, "here's yours, an' here's somethin' for each of my new sisters." this distribution left the women as happy and occupied, almost, as the children. it left also another package, the last one in the bundle. jean laid hold of it and, lifting it, he was about to speak when he sustained a little shock of memory. quite distinctly he saw two little feet, with bare toes peeping out of worn-out moccasins, and then round, bare, symmetrical ankles that had been scratched by brush. next he saw ellen jorth's passionate face as she looked when she had made the violent action so disconcerting to him. in this happy moment the memory seemed farther off than a few hours. it had crystallized. it annoyed while it drew him. as a result he slowly laid this package aside and did not speak as he had intended to. "dad, i reckon i didn't fetch a lot for you an' the boys," continued jean. "some knives, some pipes an' tobacco. an' sure the guns." "shore, you're a regular santa claus, jean," replied his father. "wal, wal, look at the kids. an' look at mary. an' for the land's sake look at ann! wal, wal, i'm gettin' old. i'd forgotten the pretty stuff an' gimcracks that mean so much to women. we're out of the world heah. it's just as well you've lived apart from us, jean, for comin' back this way, with all that stuff, does us a lot of good. i cain't say, son, how obliged i am. my mind has been set on the hard side of life. an' it's shore good to forget--to see the smiles of the women an' the joy of the kids." at this juncture a tall young man entered the open door. he looked a rider. all about him, even his face, except his eyes, seemed old, but his eyes were young, fine, soft, and dark. "how do, y'u-all!" he said, evenly. ann rose from her knees. then jean did not need to be told who this newcomer was. "jean, this is my friend, andrew colmor." jean knew when he met colmor's grip and the keen flash of his eyes that he was glad ann had set her heart upon one of their kind. and his second impression was something akin to the one given him in the road by the admiring lad. colmor's estimate of him must have been a monument built of ann's eulogies. jean's heart suffered misgivings. could he live up to the character that somehow had forestalled his advent in grass valley? surely life was measured differently here in the tonto basin. the children, bundling their treasures to their bosoms, were dragged off to bed in some remote part of the house, from which their laughter and voices came back with happy significance. jean forthwith had an interested audience. how eagerly these lonely pioneer people listened to news of the outside world! jean talked until he was hoarse. in their turn his hearers told him much that had never found place in the few and short letters he had received since he had been left in oregon. not a word about sheepmen or any hint of rustlers! jean marked the omission and thought all the more seriously of probabilities because nothing was said. altogether the evening was a happy reunion of a family of which all living members were there present. jean grasped that this fact was one of significant satisfaction to his father. "shore we're all goin' to live together heah," he declared. "i started this range. i call most of this valley mine. we'll run up a cabin for ann soon as she says the word. an' you, jean, where's your girl? i shore told you to fetch her." "dad, i didn't have one," replied jean. "wal, i wish you had," returned the rancher. "you'll go courtin' one of these tonto hussies that i might object to." "why, father, there's not a girl in the valley jean would look twice at," interposed ann isbel, with spirit. jean laughed the matter aside, but he had an uneasy memory. aunt mary averred, after the manner of relatives, that jean would play havoc among the women of the settlement. and jean retorted that at least one member of the isbels; should hold out against folly and fight and love and marriage, the agents which had reduced the family to these few present. "i'll be the last isbel to go under," he concluded. "son, you're talkin' wisdom," said his father. "an' shore that reminds me of the uncle you're named after. jean isbel! ... wal, he was my youngest brother an' shore a fire-eater. our mother was a french creole from louisiana, an' jean must have inherited some of his fightin' nature from her. when the war of the rebellion started jean an' i enlisted. i was crippled before we ever got to the front. but jean went through three years before he was killed. his company had orders to fight to the last man. an' jean fought an' lived long enough just to be that last man." at length jean was left alone with his father. "reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher, rather abruptly. "most of the time," replied jean. "wal, there's room in the house, but i want you to sleep out. come get your beddin' an' gun. i'll show you." they went outside on the porch, where jean shouldered his roll of tarpaulin and blankets. his rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned against the door. his father took it up and, half pulling it out, looked at it by the starlight. "forty-four, eh? wal, wal, there's shore no better, if a man can hold straight." at the moment a big gray dog trotted up to sniff at jean. "an' heah's your bunkmate, shepp. he's part lofer, jean. his mother was a favorite shepherd dog of mine. his father was a big timber wolf that took us two years to kill. some bad wolf packs runnin' this basin." the night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; the smell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. jean followed his father round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge of the cedar line. here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches formed a dense, impenetrable shade. "son, your uncle jean was scout for liggett, one of the greatest rebels the south had," said the rancher. "an' you're goin' to be scout for the isbels of tonto. reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncle did.... spread your bed inside. you can see out, but no one can see you. reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. if shepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. bill an' guy have been sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. but shore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. some bad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, jean.... three mawnin's ago, just after daylight, i stepped out the back door an' some one of these sneaks i'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. missed my head a quarter of an inch! to-morrow i'll show you the bullet hole in the doorpost. an' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!" "dad!" ejaculated jean, with a hand outstretched. "that's awful! you frighten me." "no time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "they're shore goin' to kill me. that's why i wanted you home.... in there with you, now! go to sleep. you shore can trust shepp to wake you if he gets scent or sound.... an' good night, my son. i'm sayin' that i'll rest easy to-night." jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining white head move away under the starlight. then the tall, dark form vanished, a door closed, and all was still. the dog shepp licked jean's hand. jean felt grateful for that warm touch. for a moment he sat on his roll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelation of his father's words, "they're shore goin' to kill me." the shock of inaction passed. jean pushed his pack in the dark opening and, crawling inside, he unrolled it and made his bed. when at length he was comfortably settled for the night he breathed a long sigh of relief. what bliss to relax! a throbbing and burning of his muscles seemed to begin with his rest. the cool starlit night, the smell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence--an were real to his senses. after long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. the warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been pierced by an icy thrust. what lay before him? the shadow in the eyes of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister--jean connected that with the meaning of his father's tragic words. far past was the morning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in the sunlit forest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines, the music of bleating lambs that had called him not to pass by. thought of ellen jorth recurred. had he met her only that morning? she was up there in the forest, asleep under the starlit pines. who was she? what was her story? that savage fling of her skirt, her bitter speech and passionate flaming face--they haunted jean. they were crystallizing into simpler memories, growing away from his bewilderment, and therefore at once sweeter and more doubtful. "maybe she meant differently from what i thought," jean soliloquized. "anyway, she was honest." both shame and thrill possessed him at the recall of an insidious idea--dare he go back and find her and give her the last package of gifts he had brought from the city? what might they mean to poor, ragged, untidy, beautiful ellen jorth? the idea grew on jean. it could not be dispelled. he resisted stubbornly. it was bound to go to its fruition. deep into his mind had sunk an impression of her need--a material need that brought spirit and pride to abasement. from one picture to another his memory wandered, from one speech and act of hers to another, choosing, selecting, casting aside, until clear and sharp as the stars shone the words, "oh, i've been kissed before!" that stung him now. by whom? not by one man, but by several, by many, she had meant. pshaw! he had only been sympathetic and drawn by a strange girl in the woods. to-morrow he would forget. work there was for him in grass valley. and he reverted uneasily to the remarks of his father until at last sleep claimed him. a cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened jean. the big dog shepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. the night appeared far advanced toward dawn. far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand one answered in clarion voice. "what is it, shepp?" whispered jean, and he sat up. the dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his nature, but whether man or animal jean could not tell. chapter iii the morning star, large, intensely blue-white, magnificent in its dominance of the clear night sky, hung over the dim, dark valley ramparts. the moon had gone down and all the other stars were wan, pale ghosts. presently the strained vacuum of jean's ears vibrated to a low roar of many hoofs. it came from the open valley, along the slope to the south. shepp acted as if he wanted the word to run. jean laid a hand on the dog. "hold on, shepp," he whispered. then hauling on his boots and slipping into his coat jean took his rifle and stole out into the open. shepp appeared to be well trained, for it was evident that he had a strong natural tendency to run off and hunt for whatever had roused him. jean thought it more than likely that the dog scented an animal of some kind. if there were men prowling around the ranch shepp, might have been just as vigilant, but it seemed to jean that the dog would have shown less eagerness to leave him, or none at all. in the stillness of the morning it took jean a moment to locate the direction of the wind, which was very light and coming from the south. in fact that little breeze had borne the low roar of trampling hoofs. jean circled the ranch house to the right and kept along the slope at the edge of the cedars. it struck him suddenly how well fitted he was for work of this sort. all the work he had ever done, except for his few years in school, had been in the open. all the leisure he had ever been able to obtain had been given to his ruling passion for hunting and fishing. love of the wild had been born in jean. at this moment he experienced a grim assurance of what his instinct and his training might accomplish if directed to a stern and daring end. perhaps his father understood this; perhaps the old texan had some little reason for his confidence. every few paces jean halted to listen. all objects, of course, were indistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came close upon them. shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into the void. when jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard a scattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a low strangled bawl of a calf. "ahuh!" muttered jean. "cougar or some varmint pulled down that calf." then he discharged his rifle in the air and yelled with all his might. it was necessary then to yell again to hold shepp back. thereupon jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and across and around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock as to look for the wounded calf. more than once he heard cattle moving away ahead of him, but he could not see them. jean let shepp go, hoping the dog would strike a trail. but shepp neither gave tongue nor came back. dawn began to break, and in the growing light jean searched around until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in a little bare wash where water ran in wet seasons. big wolf tracks showed in the soft earth. "lofers," said jean, as he knelt and just covered one track with his spread hand. "we had wolves in oregon, but not as big as these.... wonder where that half-wolf dog, shepp, went. wonder if he can be trusted where wolves are concerned. i'll bet not, if there's a she-wolf runnin' around." jean found tracks of two wolves, and he trailed them out of the wash, then lost them in the grass. but, guided by their direction, he went on and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches he found the tracks again. "not scared much," he muttered, as he noted the slow trotting tracks. "well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' to clash." jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariest and most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. from the top of a low foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered why his father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxuriance of this grassy valley. but it was large enough to make rich a good many ranchers. jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father's dealings in grass valley until the situation had been made clear. moreover, jean wanted to love this wonderful country. he wanted to be free to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore he dreaded hearing his father's claims. but jean threw off forebodings. nothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. he would think the best until certain of the worst. the morning was gloriously bright, and already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. grass valley shone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots. burros were braying their discordant messages to one another; the colts were romping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows were bawling. a cloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house, slowly wafting away on the wind. far out in the valley a dark group of horsemen were riding toward the village. jean glanced thoughtfully at them and reflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of all men new and strange to him. above the distant village stood the darkly green foothills leading up to the craggy slopes, and these ending in the rim, a red, black-fringed mountain front, beautiful in the morning sunlight, lonely, serene, and mysterious against the level skyline. mountains, ranges, distances unknown to jean, always called to him--to come, to seek, to explore, to find, but no wild horizon ever before beckoned to him as this one. and the subtle vague emotion that had gone to sleep with him last night awoke now hauntingly. it took effort to dispel the desire to think, to wonder. upon his return to the house, he went around on the valley side, so as to see the place by light of day. his father had built for permanence; and evidently there had been three constructive periods in the history of that long, substantial, picturesque log house. but few nails and little sawed lumber and no glass had been used. strong and skillful hands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erecting this habitation of the isbels. "good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "shore we-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcome as may flowers." bill isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired pleasantly if jean ever slept of nights. guy isbel laughed and there was warm regard in the gaze he bent on jean. "you old indian!" he drawled, slowly. "did you get a bead on anythin'?" "no. i shot to scare away what i found to be some of your lofers," replied jean. "i heard them pullin' down a calf. an' i found tracks of two whoppin' big wolves. i found the dead calf, too. reckon the meat can be saved. dad, you must lose a lot of stock here." "wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid," replied the rancher. "what with lions an' bears an' lofers--an' two-footed lofers of another breed--i've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year." "dad! you don't mean it!" exclaimed jean, in astonishment. to him that sum represented a small fortune. "i shore do," answered his father. jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous loss where there were keen able-bodied men about. "but that's awful, dad. how could it happen? where were your herders an' cowboys? an' bill an' guy?" bill isbel shook a vehement fist at jean and retorted in earnest, having manifestly been hit in a sore spot. "where was me an' guy, huh? wal, my oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more or less aboot three hours out of every twenty-four--ridin' our boots off--an' we couldn't keep down that loss." "jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah," said guy, complacently. "listen, son," spoke up the rancher. "you want to have some hunches before you figure on our troubles. there's two or three packs of lofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. lions thick as bees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. bears will kill a cow now an' then. an' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from the mazatzals he kills stock. i'm in with half a dozen cattlemen. we all work together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints down. then two years ago the hash knife gang come into the tonto." "hash knife gang? what a pretty name!" replied jean. "who're they?" "rustlers, son. an' shore the real old texas brand. the old lone star state got too hot for them, an' they followed the trail of a lot of other texans who needed a healthier climate. some two hundred texans around heah, jean, an' maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants in the tonto all told, good an' bad. reckon it's aboot half an' half." a cheery call from the kitchen interrupted the conversation of the men. "you come to breakfast." during the meal the old rancher talked to bill and guy about the day's order of work; and from this jean gathered an idea of what a big cattle business his father conducted. after breakfast jean's brothers manifested keen interest in the new rifles. these were unwrapped and cleaned and taken out for testing. the three rifles were forty-four calibre winchesters, the kind of gun jean had found most effective. he tried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to him and amazing to the others. bill had used an old henry rifle. guy did not favor any particular rifle. the rancher pinned his faith to the famous old single-shot buffalo gun, mostly called needle gun. "wal, reckon i'd better stick to mine. shore you cain't teach an old dog new tricks. but you boys may do well with the forty-fours. pack 'em on your saddles an' practice when you see a coyote." jean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in guns and marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. his father and brothers had always been this way. rifles were as important to pioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement every frontiersman tried to attain. friendly rivalry had always existed among the members of the isbel family: even ann isbel was a good shot. but such proficiency in the use of firearms--and life in the open that was correlative with it--had not dominated them as it had jean. bill and guy isbel were born cattlemen--chips of the old block. jean began to hope that his father's letter was an exaggeration, and particularly that the fatalistic speech of last night, "they are goin' to kill me," was just a moody inclination to see the worst side. still, even as jean tried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view, he recalled many references to the peculiar reputation of texans for gun-throwing, for feuds, for never-ending hatreds. in oregon the isbels had lived among industrious and peaceful pioneers from all over the states; to be sure, the life had been rough and primitive, and there had been fights on occasions, though no isbel had ever killed a man. but now they had become fixed in a wilder and sparsely settled country among men of their own breed. jean was afraid his hopes had only sentiment to foster them. nevertheless, be forced back a strange, brooding, mental state and resolutely held up the brighter side. whatever the evil conditions existing in grass valley, they could be met with intelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty that it was inevitable they must pass away. jean refused to consider the old, fatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the west certain men had to pass away to change evil conditions. "wal, jean, ride around the range with the boys," said the rancher. "meet some of my neighbors, jim blaisdell, in particular. take a look at the cattle. an' pick out some hosses for yourself." "i've seen one already," declared jean, quickly. "a black with white face. i'll take him." "shore you know a hoss. to my eye he's my pick. but the boys don't agree. bill 'specially has degenerated into a fancier of pitchin' hosses. ann can ride that black. you try him this mawnin'.... an', son, enjoy yourself." true to his first impression, jean named the black horse whiteface and fell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him. whiteface appeared spirited, yet gentle. he had been trained instead of being broken. of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had no experience. he liked to do what his rider wanted him to do. a hundred or more horses grazed in the grassy meadow, and as jean rode on among them it was a pleasure to see stallions throw heads and ears up and whistle or snort. whole troops of colts and two-year-olds raced with flying tails and manes. beyond these pastures stretched the range, and jean saw the gray-green expanse speckled by thousands of cattle. the scene was inspiring. jean's brothers led him all around, meeting some of the herders and riders employed on the ranch, one of whom was a burly, grizzled man with eyes reddened and narrowed by much riding in wind and sun and dust. his name was evans and he was father of the lad whom jean had met near the village. everts was busily skinning the calf that had been killed by the wolves. "see heah, y'u jean isbel," said everts, "it shore was aboot time y'u come home. we-all heahs y'u hev an eye fer tracks. wal, mebbe y'u can kill old gray, the lofer thet did this job. he's pulled down nine calves as' yearlin's this last two months thet i know of. an' we've not hed the spring round-up." grass valley widened to the southeast. jean would have been backward about estimating the square miles in it. yet it was not vast acreage so much as rich pasture that made it such a wonderful range. several ranches lay along the western slope of this section. jean was informed that open parks and swales, and little valleys nestling among the foothills, wherever there was water and grass, had been settled by ranchers. every summer a few new families ventured in. blaisdell struck jean as being a lionlike type of texan, both in his broad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like a mane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of his heart. he was not as old as jean's father. he had a rolling voice, with the same drawling intonation characteristic of all texans, and blue eyes that still held the fire of youth. quite a marked contrast he presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men jean had begun to accept as texans. blaisdell took time for a curious scrutiny and study of jean, that, frank and kindly as it was, and evidently the adjustment of impressions gotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judging men for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his own for so doing. "wal, you're like your sister ann," said blaisdell. "which you may take as a compliment, young man. both of you favor your mother. but you're an isbel. back in texas there are men who never wear a glove on their right hands, an' shore i reckon if one of them met up with you sudden he'd think some graves had opened an' he'd go for his gun." blaisdell's laugh pealed out with deep, pleasant roll. thus he planted in jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking idea about the past-and-gone isbels. his further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to jean. the settling of the tonto basin by texans was a subject often in dispute. his own father had been in the first party of adventurous pioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the reno pass of the mazatzals into the basin. "newcomers from outside get impressions of the tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet," declared blaisdell. "an' shore it's my belief these first impressions never change, just so strong they are! wal, i've heard my father say there were men in his wagon train that got run out of texas, but he swore he wasn't one of them. so i reckon that sort of talk held good for twenty years, an' for all the texans who emigrated, except, of course, such notorious rustlers as daggs an' men of his ilk. shore we've got some bad men heah. there's no law. possession used to mean more than it does now. daggs an' his hash knife gang have begun to hold forth with a high hand. no small rancher can keep enough stock to pay for his labor." at the time of which blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen and cattlemen in the tonto, considering its vast area. but these, on account of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited to the comparatively open grass valley and its adjacent environs. naturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew in proportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extreme importance. sheepmen ran their flocks up on the rim in summer time and down into the basin in winter time. a sheepman could throw a few thousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. the range was free. it was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as it was for cattlemen. this of course did not apply to the few acres of cultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very few cattle could have been raised on such limited area. blaisdell said that the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just as well, though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges and leaving the open valley and little flats to the ranchers. formerly there had been room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were being encroached upon by sheepmen newly come to the tonto. to blaisdell's way of thinking the rustler menace was more serious than the sheeping-off of the range, for the simple reason that no cattleman knew exactly who the rustlers were and for the more complex and significant reason that the rustlers did not steal sheep. "texas was overstocked with bad men an' fine steers," concluded blaisdell. "most of the first an' some of the last have struck the tonto. the sheepmen have now got distributin' points for wool an' sheep at maricopa an' phoenix. they're shore waxin' strong an' bold." "ahuh! ... an' what's likely to come of this mess?" queried jean. "ask your dad," replied blaisdell. "i will. but i reckon i'd be obliged for your opinion." "wal, short an' sweet it's this: texas cattlemen will never allow the range they stocked to be overrun by sheepmen." "who's this man greaves?" went on jean. "never run into anyone like him." "greaves is hard to figure. he's a snaky customer in deals. but he seems to be good to the poor people 'round heah. says he's from missouri. ha-ha! he's as much texan as i am. he rode into the tonto without even a pack to his name. an' presently he builds his stone house an' freights supplies in from phoenix. appears to buy an' sell a good deal of stock. for a while it looked like he was steerin' a middle course between cattlemen an' sheepmen. both sides made a rendezvous of his store, where he heard the grievances of each. laterly he's leanin' to the sheepmen. nobody has accused him of that yet. but it's time some cattleman called his bluff." "of course there are honest an' square sheepmen in the basin?" queried jean. "yes, an' some of them are not unreasonable. but the new fellows that dropped in on us the last few year--they're the ones we're goin' to clash with." "this--sheepman, jorth?" went on jean, in slow hesitation, as if compelled to ask what he would rather not learn. "jorth must be the leader of this sheep faction that's harryin' us ranchers. he doesn't make threats or roar around like some of them. but he goes on raisin' an' buyin' more an' more sheep. an' his herders have been grazin' down all around us this winter. jorth's got to be reckoned with." "who is he?" "wal, i don't know enough to talk aboot. your dad never said so, but i think he an' jorth knew each other in texas years ago. i never saw jorth but once. that was in greaves's barroom. your dad an' jorth met that day for the first time in this country. wal, i've not known men for nothin'. they just stood stiff an' looked at each other. your dad was aboot to draw. but jorth made no sign to throw a gun." jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle that had already involved him. and the sudden pang of regret he sustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people. "the other day back up in the woods on the rim i ran into a sheepman who said his name was colter. who is he? "colter? shore he's a new one. what'd he look like?" jean described colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for the vividness of his impressions. "i don't know him," replied blaisdell. "but that only goes to prove my contention--any fellow runnin' wild in the woods can say he's a sheepman." "colter surprised me by callin' me by my name," continued jean. "our little talk wasn't exactly friendly. he said a lot about my bein' sent for to run sheep herders out of the country." "shore that's all over," replied blaisdell, seriously. "you're a marked man already." "what started such rumor?" "shore you cain't prove it by me. but it's not taken as rumor. it's got to the sheepmen as hard as bullets." "ahuh! that accunts for colter's seemin' a little sore under the collar. well, he said they were goin' to run sheep over grass valley, an' for me to take that hunch to my dad." blaisdell had his chair tilted back and his heavy boots against a post of the porch. down he thumped. his neck corded with a sudden rush of blood and his eyes changed to blue fire. "the hell he did!" he ejaculated, in furious amaze. jean gauged the brooding, rankling hurt of this old cattleman by his sudden break from the cool, easy texan manner. blaisdell cursed under his breath, swung his arms violently, as if to throw a last doubt or hope aside, and then relapsed to his former state. he laid a brown hand on jean's knee. "two years ago i called the cards," he said, quietly. "it means a grass valley war." not until late that afternoon did jean's father broach the subject uppermost in his mind. then at an opportune moment he drew jean away into the cedars out of sight. "son, i shore hate to make your home-comin' unhappy," he said, with evidence of agitation, "but so help me god i have to do it!" "dad, you called me prodigal, an' i reckon you were right. i've shirked my duty to you. i'm ready now to make up for it," replied jean, feelingly. "wal, wal, shore thats fine-spoken, my boy.... let's set down heah an' have a long talk. first off, what did jim blaisdell tell you?" briefly jean outlined the neighbor rancher's conversation. then jean recounted his experience with colter and concluded with blaisdell's reception of the sheepman's threat. if jean expected to see his father rise up like a lion in his wrath he made a huge mistake. this news of colter and his talk never struck even a spark from gaston isbel. "wal," he began, thoughtfully, "reckon there are only two points in jim's talk i need touch on. there's shore goin' to be a grass valley war. an' jim's idea of the cause of it seems to be pretty much the same as that of all the other cattlemen. it 'll go down a black blot on the history page of the tonto basin as a war between rival sheepmen an' cattlemen. same old fight over water an' grass! ... jean, my son, that is wrong. it 'll not be a war between sheepmen an' cattlemen. but a war of honest ranchers against rustlers maskin' as sheep-raisers! ... mind you, i don't belittle the trouble between sheepmen an' cattlemen in arizona. it's real an' it's vital an' it's serious. it 'll take law an' order to straighten out the grazin' question. some day the government will keep sheep off of cattle ranges.... so get things right in your mind, my son. you can trust your dad to tell the absolute truth. in this fight that 'll wipe out some of the isbels--maybe all of them--you're on the side of justice an' right. knowin' that, a man can fight a hundred times harder than he who knows he is a liar an' a thief." the old rancher wiped his perspiring face and breathed slowly and deeply. jean sensed in him the rise of a tremendous emotional strain. wonderingly he watched the keen lined face. more than material worries were at the root of brooding, mounting thoughts in his father's eyes. "now next take what jim said aboot your comin' to chase these sheep-herders out of the valley.... jean, i started that talk. i had my tricky reasons. i know these greaser sheep-herders an' i know the respect texans have for a gunman. some say i bragged. some say i'm an old fool in his dotage, ravin' aboot a favorite son. but they are people who hate me an' are afraid. true, son, i talked with a purpose, but shore i was mighty cold an' steady when i did it. my feelin' was that you'd do what i'd do if i were thirty years younger. no, i reckoned you'd do more. for i figured on your blood. jean, you're indian, an' texas an' french, an' you've trained yourself in the oregon woods. when you were only a boy, few marksmen i ever knew could beat you, an' i never saw your equal for eye an' ear, for trackin' a hoss, for all the gifts that make a woodsman.... wal, rememberin' this an' seein' the trouble ahaid for the isbels, i just broke out whenever i had a chance. i bragged before men i'd reason to believe would take my words deep. for instance, not long ago i missed some stock, an', happenin' into greaves's place one saturday night, i shore talked loud. his barroom was full of men an' some of them were in my black book. greaves took my talk a little testy. he said. 'wal, gass, mebbe you're right aboot some of these cattle thieves livin' among us, but ain't they jest as liable to be some of your friends or relatives as ted meeker's or mine or any one around heah?' that was where greaves an' me fell out. i yelled at him: 'no, by god, they're not! my record heah an' that of my people is open. the least i can say for you, greaves, an' your crowd, is that your records fade away on dim trails.' then he said, nasty-like, 'wal, if you could work out all the dim trails in the tonto you'd shore be surprised.' an' then i roared. shore that was the chance i was lookin' for. i swore the trails he hinted of would be tracked to the holes of the rustlers who made them. i told him i had sent for you an' when you got heah these slippery, mysterious thieves, whoever they were, would shore have hell to pay. greaves said he hoped so, but he was afraid i was partial to my indian son. then we had hot words. blaisdell got between us. when i was leavin' i took a partin' fling at him. 'greaves, you ought to know the isbels, considerin' you're from texas. maybe you've got reasons for throwin' taunts at my claims for my son jean. yes, he's got indian in him an' that 'll be the worse for the men who will have to meet him. i'm tellin' you, greaves, jean isbel is the black sheep of the family. if you ride down his record you'll find he's shore in line to be another poggin, or reddy kingfisher, or hardin', or any of the texas gunmen you ought to remember.... greaves, there are men rubbin' elbows with you right heah that my indian son is goin' to track down!'" jean bent his head in stunned cognizance of the notoriety with which his father had chosen to affront any and all tonto basin men who were under the ban of his suspicion. what a terrible reputation and trust to have saddled upon him! thrills and strange, heated sensations seemed to rush together inside jean, forming a hot ball of fire that threatened to explode. a retreating self made feeble protests. he saw his own pale face going away from this older, grimmer man. "son, if i could have looked forward to anythin' but blood spillin' i'd never have given you such a name to uphold," continued the rancher. "what i'm goin' to tell you now is my secret. my other sons an' ann have never heard it. jim blaisdell suspects there's somethin' strange, but he doesn't know. i'll shore never tell anyone else but you. an' you must promise to keep my secret now an' after i am gone." "i promise," said jean. "wal, an' now to get it out," began his father, breathing hard. his face twitched and his hands clenched. "the sheepman heah i have to reckon with is lee jorth, a lifelong enemy of mine. we were born in the same town, played together as children, an' fought with each other as boys. we never got along together. an' we both fell in love with the same girl. it was nip an' tuck for a while. ellen sutton belonged to one of the old families of the south. she was a beauty, an' much courted, an' i reckon it was hard for her to choose. but i won her an' we became engaged. then the war broke out. i enlisted with my brother jean. he advised me to marry ellen before i left. but i would not. that was the blunder of my life. soon after our partin' her letters ceased to come. but i didn't distrust her. that was a terrible time an' all was confusion. then i got crippled an' put in a hospital. an' in aboot a year i was sent back home." at this juncture jean refrained from further gaze at his father's face. "lee jorth had gotten out of goin' to war," went on the rancher, in lower, thicker voice. "he'd married my sweetheart, ellen.... i knew the story long before i got well. he had run after her like a hound after a hare.... an' ellen married him. wal, when i was able to get aboot i went to see jorth an' ellen. i confronted them. i had to know why she had gone back on me. lee jorth hadn't changed any with all his good fortune. he'd made ellen believe in my dishonor. but, i reckon, lies or no lies, ellen sutton was faithless. in my absence he had won her away from me. an' i saw that she loved him as she never had me. i reckon that killed all my generosity. if she'd been imposed upon an' weaned away by his lies an' had regretted me a little i'd have forgiven, perhaps. but she worshiped him. she was his slave. an' i, wal, i learned what hate was. "the war ruined the suttons, same as so many southerners. lee jorth went in for raisin' cattle. he'd gotten the sutton range an' after a few years he began to accumulate stock. in those days every cattleman was a little bit of a thief. every cattleman drove in an' branded calves he couldn't swear was his. wal, the isbels were the strongest cattle raisers in that country. an' i laid a trap for lee jorth, caught him in the act of brandin' calves of mine i'd marked, an' i proved him a thief. i made him a rustler. i ruined him. we met once. but jorth was one texan not strong on the draw, at least against an isbel. he left the country. he had friends an' relatives an' they started him at stock raisin' again. but he began to gamble an' he got in with a shady crowd. he went from bad to worse an' then he came back home. when i saw the change in proud, beautiful ellen sutton, an' how she still worshiped jorth, it shore drove me near mad between pity an' hate.... wal, i reckon in a texan hate outlives any other feelin'. there came a strange turn of the wheel an' my fortunes changed. like most young bloods of the day, i drank an' gambled. an' one night i run across jorth an' a card-sharp friend. he fleeced me. we quarreled. guns were thrown. i killed my man.... aboot that period the texas rangers had come into existence.... an', son, when i said i never was run out of texas i wasn't holdin' to strict truth. i rode out on a hoss. "i went to oregon. there i married soon, an' there bill an' guy were born. their mother did not live long. an' next i married your mother, jean. she had some indian blood, which, for all i could see, made her only the finer. she was a wonderful woman an' gave me the only happiness i ever knew. you remember her, of course, an' those home days in oregon. i reckon i made another great blunder when i moved to arizona. but the cattle country had always called me. i had heard of this wild tonto basin an' how texans were settlin' there. an' jim blaisdell sent me word to come--that this shore was a garden spot of the west. wal, it is. an' your mother was gone-- "three years ago lee jorth drifted into the tonto. an', strange to me, along aboot a year or so after his comin' the hash knife gang rode up from texas. jorth went in for raisin' sheep. along with some other sheepmen he lives up in the rim canyons. somewhere back in the wild brakes is the hidin' place of the hash knife gang. nobody but me, i reckon, associates colonel jorth, as he's called, with daggs an' his gang. maybe blaisdell an' a few others have a hunch. but that's no matter. as a sheepman jorth has a legitimate grievance with the cattlemen. but what could be settled by a square consideration for the good of all an' the future jorth will never settle. he'll never settle because he is now no longer an honest man. he's in with daggs. i cain't prove this, son, but i know it. i saw it in jorth's face when i met him that day with greaves. i saw more. i shore saw what he is up to. he'd never meet me at an even break. he's dead set on usin' this sheep an' cattle feud to ruin my family an' me, even as i ruined him. but he means more, jean. this will be a war between texans, an' a bloody war. there are bad men in this tonto--some of the worst that didn't get shot in texas. jorth will have some of these fellows.... now, are we goin' to wait to be sheeped off our range an' to be murdered from ambush?" "no, we are not," replied jean, quietly. "wal, come down to the house," said the rancher, and led the way without speaking until he halted by the door. there he placed his finger on a small hole in the wood at about the height of a man's head. jean saw it was a bullet hole and that a few gray hairs stuck to its edges. the rancher stepped closer to the door-post, so that his head was within an inch of the wood. then he looked at jean with eyes in which there glinted dancing specks of fire, like wild sparks. "son, this sneakin' shot at me was made three mawnin's ago. i recollect movin' my haid just when i heard the crack of a rifle. shore was surprised. but i got inside quick." jean scarcely heard the latter part of this speech. he seemed doubled up inwardly, in hot and cold convulsions of changing emotion. a terrible hold upon his consciousness was about to break and let go. the first shot had been fired and he was an isbel. indeed, his father had made him ten times an isbel. blood was thick. his father did not speak to dull ears. this strife of rising tumult in him seemed the effect of years of calm, of peace in the woods, of dreamy waiting for he knew not what. it was the passionate primitive life in him that had awakened to the call of blood ties. "that's aboot all, son," concluded the rancher. "you understand now why i feel they're goin' to kill me. i feel it heah." with solemn gesture he placed his broad hand over his heart. "an', jean, strange whispers come to me at night. it seems like your mother was callin' or tryin' to warn me. i cain't explain these queer whispers. but i know what i know." "jorth has his followers. you must have yours," replied jean, tensely. "shore, son, an' i can take my choice of the best men heah," replied the rancher, with pride. "but i'll not do that. i'll lay the deal before them an' let them choose. i reckon it 'll not be a long-winded fight. it 'll be short an bloody, after the way of texans. i'm lookin' to you, jean, to see that an isbel is the last man!" "my god--dad! is there no other way? think of my sister ann--of my brothers' wives--of--of other women! dad, these damned texas feuds are cruel, horrible!" burst out jean, in passionate protest. "jean, would it be any easier for our women if we let these men shoot us down in cold blood?" "oh no--no, i see, there's no hope of--of.... but, dad, i wasn't thinkin' about myself. i don't care. once started i'll--i'll be what you bragged i was. only it's so hard to-to give in." jean leaned an arm against the side of the cabin and, bowing his face over it, he surrendered to the irresistible contention within his breast. and as if with a wrench that strange inward hold broke. he let down. he went back. something that was boyish and hopeful--and in its place slowly rose the dark tide of his inheritance, the savage instinct of self-preservation bequeathed by his indian mother, and the fierce, feudal blood lust of his texan father. then as he raised himself, gripped by a sickening coldness in his breast, he remembered ellen jorth's face as she had gazed dreamily down off the rim--so soft, so different, with tremulous lips, sad, musing, with far-seeing stare of dark eyes, peering into the unknown, the instinct of life still unlived. with confused vision and nameless pain jean thought of her. "dad, it's hard on--the--the young folks," he said, bitterly. "the sins of the father, you know. an' the other side. how about jorth? has he any children?" what a curious gleam of surprise and conjecture jean encountered in his father's gaze! "he has a daughter. ellen jorth. named after her mother. the first time i saw ellen jorth i thought she was a ghost of the girl i had loved an' lost. sight of her was like a blade in my side. but the looks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe. old as i am, my heart--bah! ellen jorth is a damned hussy!" jean isbel went off alone into the cedars. surrender and resignation to his father's creed should have ended his perplexity and worry. his instant and burning resolve to be as his father had represented him should have opened his mind to slow cunning, to the craft of the indian, to the development of hate. but there seemed to be an obstacle. a cloud in the way of vision. a face limned on his memory. those damning words of his father's had been a shock--how little or great he could not tell. was it only a day since he had met ellen jorth? what had made all the difference? suddenly like a breath the fragrance of her hair came back to him. then the sweet coolness of her lips! jean trembled. he looked around him as if he were pursued or surrounded by eyes, by instincts, by fears, by incomprehensible things. "ahuh! that must be what ails me," he muttered. "the look of her--an' that kiss--they've gone hard me. i should never have stopped to talk. an' i'm to kill her father an' leave her to god knows what." something was wrong somewhere. jean absolutely forgot that within the hour he had pledged his manhood, his life to a feud which could be blotted out only in blood. if he had understood himself he would have realized that the pledge was no more thrilling and unintelligible in its possibilities than this instinct which drew him irresistibly. "ellen jorth! so--my dad calls her a damned hussy! so--that explains the--the way she acted--why she never hit me when i kissed her. an' her words, so easy an' cool-like. hussy? that means she's bad--bad! scornful of me--maybe disappointed because my kiss was innocent! it was, i swear. an' all she said: 'oh, i've been kissed before.'" jean grew furious with himself for the spreading of a new sensation in his breast that seemed now to ache. had he become infatuated, all in a day, with this ellen jorth? was he jealous of the men who had the privilege of her kisses? no! but his reply was hot with shame, with uncertainty. the thing that seemed wrong was outside of himself. a blunder was no crime. to be attracted by a pretty girl in the woods--to yield to an impulse was no disgrace, nor wrong. he had been foolish over a girl before, though not to such a rash extent. ellen jorth had stuck in his consciousness, and with her a sense of regret. then swiftly rang his father's bitter words, the revealing: "but the looks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe!" in the import of these words hid the meaning of the wrong that troubled him. broodingly he pondered over them. "the looks of her. yes, she was pretty. but it didn't dawn on me at first. i--i was sort of excited. i liked to look at her, but didn't think." and now consciously her face was called up, infinitely sweet and more impelling for the deliberate memory. flash of brown skin, smooth and clear; level gaze of dark, wide eyes, steady, bold, unseeing; red curved lips, sad and sweet; her strong, clean, fine face rose before jean, eager and wistful one moment, softened by dreamy musing thought, and the next stormily passionate, full of hate, full of longing, but the more mysterious and beautiful. "she looks like that, but she's bad," concluded jean, with bitter finality. "i might have fallen in love with ellen jorth if--if she'd been different." but the conviction forced upon jean did not dispel the haunting memory of her face nor did it wholly silence the deep and stubborn voice of his consciousness. later that afternoon he sought a moment with his sister. "ann, did you ever meet ellen jorth?" he asked. "yes, but not lately," replied ann. "well, i met her as i was ridin' along yesterday. she was herdin' sheep," went on jean, rapidly. "i asked her to show me the way to the rim. an' she walked with me a mile or so. i can't say the meetin' was not interestin', at least to me.... will you tell me what you know about her?" "sure, jean," replied his sister, with her dark eyes fixed wonderingly and kindly on his troubled face. "i've heard a great deal, but in this tonto basin i don't believe all i hear. what i know i'll tell you. i first met ellen jorth two years ago. we didn't know each other's names then. she was the prettiest girl i ever saw. i liked her. she liked me. she seemed unhappy. the next time we met was at a round-up. there were other girls with me and they snubbed her. but i left them and went around with her. that snub cut her to the heart. she was lonely. she had no friends. she talked about herself--how she hated the people, but loved arizona. she had nothin' fit to wear. i didn't need to be told that she'd been used to better things. just when it looked as if we were goin' to be friends she told me who she was and asked me my name. i told her. jean, i couldn't have hurt her more if i'd slapped her face. she turned white. she gasped. and then she ran off. the last time i saw her was about a year ago. i was ridin' a short-cut trail to the ranch where a friend lived. and i met ellen jorth ridin' with a man i'd never seen. the trail was overgrown and shady. they were ridin' close and didn't see me right off. the man had his arm round her. she pushed him away. i saw her laugh. then he got hold of her again and was kissin' her when his horse shied at sight of mine. they rode by me then. ellen jorth held her head high and never looked at me." "ann, do you think she's a bad girl?" demanded jean, bluntly. "bad? oh, jean!" exclaimed ann, in surprise and embarrassment. "dad said she was a damned hussy." "jean, dad hates the jorths." "sister, i'm askin' you what you think of ellen jorth. would you be friends with her if you could?" "yes." "then you don't believe she's bad." "no. ellen jorth is lonely, unhappy. she has no mother. she lives alone among rough men. such a girl can't keep men from handlin' her and kissin' her. maybe she's too free. maybe she's wild. but she's honest, jean. you can trust a woman to tell. when she rode past me that day her face was white and proud. she was a jorth and i was an isbel. she hated herself--she hated me. but no bad girl could look like that. she knows what's said of her all around the valley. but she doesn't care. she'd encourage gossip." "thank you, ann," replied jean, huskily. "please keep this--this meetin' of mine with her all to yourself, won't you?" "why, jean, of course i will." jean wandered away again, peculiarly grateful to ann for reviving and upholding something in him that seemed a wavering part of the best of him--a chivalry that had demanded to be killed by judgment of a righteous woman. he was conscious of an uplift, a gladdening of his spirit. yet the ache remained. more than that, he found himself plunged deeper into conjecture, doubt. had not the ellen jorth incident ended? he denied his father's indictment of her and accepted the faith of his sister. "reckon that's aboot all, as dad says," he soliloquized. yet was that all? he paced under the cedars. he watched the sun set. he listened to the coyotes. he lingered there after the call for supper; until out of the tumult of his conflicting emotions and ponderings there evolved the staggering consciousness that he must see ellen jorth again. chapter iv ellen jorth hurried back into the forest, hotly resentful of the accident that had thrown her in contact with an isbel. disgust filled her--disgust that she had been amiable to a member of the hated family that had ruined her father. the surprise of this meeting did not come to her while she was under the spell of stronger feeling. she walked under the trees, swiftly, with head erect, looking straight before her, and every step seemed a relief. upon reaching camp, her attention was distracted from herself. pepe, the mexican boy, with the two shepherd dogs, was trying to drive sheep into a closer bunch to save the lambs from coyotes. ellen loved the fleecy, tottering little lambs, and at this season she hated all the prowling beast of the forest. from this time on for weeks the flock would be besieged by wolves, lions, bears, the last of which were often bold and dangerous. the old grizzlies that killed the ewes to eat only the milk-bags were particularly dreaded by ellen. she was a good shot with a rifle, but had orders from her father to let the bears alone. fortunately, such sheep-killing bears were but few, and were left to be hunted by men from the ranch. mexican sheep herders could not be depended upon to protect their flocks from bears. ellen helped pepe drive in the stragglers, and she took several shots at coyotes skulking along the edge of the brush. the open glade in the forest was favorable for herding the sheep at night, and the dogs could be depended upon to guard the flock, and in most cases to drive predatory beasts away. after this task, which brought the time to sunset, ellen had supper to cook and eat. darkness came, and a cool night wind set in. here and there a lamb bleated plaintively. with her work done for the day, ellen sat before a ruddy camp fire, and found her thoughts again centering around the singular adventure that had befallen her. disdainfully she strove to think of something else. but there was nothing that could dispel the interest of her meeting with jean isbel. thereupon she impatiently surrendered to it, and recalled every word and action which she could remember. and in the process of this meditation she came to an action of hers, recollection of which brought the blood tingling to her neck and cheeks, so unusually and burningly that she covered them with her hands. "what did he think of me?" she mused, doubtfully. it did not matter what he thought, but she could not help wondering. and when she came to the memory of his kiss she suffered more than the sensation of throbbing scarlet cheeks. scornfully and bitterly she burst out, "shore he couldn't have thought much good of me." the half hour following this reminiscence was far from being pleasant. proud, passionate, strong-willed ellen jorth found herself a victim of conflicting emotions. the event of the day was too close. she could not understand it. disgust and disdain and scorn could not make this meeting with jean isbel as if it had never been. pride could not efface it from her mind. the more she reflected, the harder she tried to forget, the stronger grew a significance of interest. and when a hint of this dawned upon her consciousness she resented it so forcibly that she lost her temper, scattered the camp fire, and went into the little teepee tent to roll in her blankets. thus settled snug and warm for the night, with a shepherd dog curled at the opening of her tent, she shut her eyes and confidently bade sleep end her perplexities. but sleep did not come at her invitation. she found herself wide awake, keenly sensitive to the sputtering of the camp fire, the tinkling of bells on the rams, the bleating of lambs, the sough of wind in the pines, and the hungry sharp bark of coyotes off in the distance. darkness was no respecter of her pride. the lonesome night with its emphasis of solitude seemed to induce clamoring and strange thoughts, a confusing ensemble of all those that had annoyed her during the daytime. not for long hours did sheer weariness bring her to slumber. ellen awakened late and failed of her usual alacrity. both pepe and the shepherd dog appeared to regard her with surprise and solicitude. ellen's spirit was low this morning; her blood ran sluggishly; she had to fight a mournful tendency to feel sorry for herself. and at first she was not very successful. there seemed to be some kind of pleasure in reveling in melancholy which her common sense told her had no reason for existence. but states of mind persisted in spite of common sense. "pepe, when is antonio comin' back?" she asked. the boy could not give her a satisfactory answer. ellen had willingly taken the sheep herder's place for a few days, but now she was impatient to go home. she looked down the green-and-brown aisles of the forest until she was tired. antonio did not return. ellen spent the day with the sheep; and in the manifold task of caring for a thousand new-born lambs she forgot herself. this day saw the end of lambing-time for that season. the forest resounded to a babel of baas and bleats. when night came she was glad to go to bed, for what with loss of sleep, and weariness she could scarcely keep her eyes open. the following morning she awakened early, bright, eager, expectant, full of bounding life, strangely aware of the beauty and sweetness of the scented forest, strangely conscious of some nameless stimulus to her feelings. not long was ellen in associating this new and delightful variety of sensations with the fact that jean isbel had set to-day for his ride up to the rim to see her. ellen's joyousness fled; her smiles faded. the spring morning lost its magic radiance. "shore there's no sense in my lyin' to myself," she soliloquized, thoughtfully. "it's queer of me--feelin' glad aboot him--without knowin'. lord! i must be lonesome! to be glad of seein' an isbel, even if he is different!" soberly she accepted the astounding reality. her confidence died with her gayety; her vanity began to suffer. and she caught at her admission that jean isbel was different; she resented it in amaze; she ridiculed it; she laughed at her naive confession. she could arrive at no conclusion other than that she was a weak-minded, fluctuating, inexplicable little fool. but for all that she found her mind had been made up for her, without consent or desire, before her will had been consulted; and that inevitably and unalterably she meant to see jean isbel again. long she battled with this strange decree. one moment she won a victory over, this new curious self, only to lose it the next. and at last out of her conflict there emerged a few convictions that left her with some shreds of pride. she hated all isbels, she hated any isbel, and particularly she hated jean isbel. she was only curious--intensely curious to see if he would come back, and if he did come what he would do. she wanted only to watch him from some covert. she would not go near him, not let him see her or guess of her presence. thus she assuaged her hurt vanity--thus she stifled her miserable doubts. long before the sun had begun to slant westward toward the mid-afternoon jean isbel had set as a meeting time ellen directed her steps through the forest to the rim. she felt ashamed of her eagerness. she had a guilty conscience that no strange thrills could silence. it would be fun to see him, to watch him, to let him wait for her, to fool him. like an indian, she chose the soft pine-needle mats to tread upon, and her light-moccasined feet left no trace. like an indian also she made a wide detour, and reached the rim a quarter of a mile west of the spot where she had talked with jean isbel; and here, turning east, she took care to step on the bare stones. this was an adventure, seemingly the first she had ever had in her life. assuredly she had never before come directly to the rim without halting to look, to wonder, to worship. this time she scarcely glanced into the blue abyss. all absorbed was she in hiding her tracks. not one chance in a thousand would she risk. the jorth pride burned even while the feminine side of her dominated her actions. she had some difficult rocky points to cross, then windfalls to round, and at length reached the covert she desired. a rugged yellow point of the rim stood somewhat higher than the spot ellen wanted to watch. a dense thicket of jack pines grew to the very edge. it afforded an ambush that even the indian eyes jean isbel was credited with could never penetrate. moreover, if by accident she made a noise and excited suspicion, she could retreat unobserved and hide in the huge rocks below the rim, where a ferret could not locate her. with her plan decided upon, ellen had nothing to do but wait, so she repaired to the other side of the pine thicket and to the edge of the rim where she could watch and listen. she knew that long before she saw isbel she would hear his horse. it was altogether unlikely that he would come on foot. "shore, ellen jorth, y'u're a queer girl," she mused. "i reckon i wasn't well acquainted with y'u." beneath her yawned a wonderful deep canyon, rugged and rocky with but few pines on the north slope, thick with dark green timber on the south slope. yellow and gray crags, like turreted castles, stood up out of the sloping forest on the side opposite her. the trees were all sharp, spear pointed. patches of light green aspens showed strikingly against the dense black. the great slope beneath ellen was serrated with narrow, deep gorges, almost canyons in themselves. shadows alternated with clear bright spaces. the mile-wide mouth of the canyon opened upon the basin, down into a world of wild timbered ranges and ravines, valleys and hills, that rolled and tumbled in dark-green waves to the sierra anchas. but for once ellen seemed singularly unresponsive to this panorama of wildness and grandeur. her ears were like those of a listening deer, and her eyes continually reverted to the open places along the rim. at first, in her excitement, time flew by. gradually, however, as the sun moved westward, she began to be restless. the soft thud of dropping pine cones, the rustling of squirrels up and down the shaggy-barked spruces, the cracking of weathered bits of rock, these caught her keen ears many times and brought her up erect and thrilling. finally she heard a sound which resembled that of an unshod hoof on stone. stealthily then she took her rifle and slipped back through the pine thicket to the spot she had chosen. the little pines were so close together that she had to crawl between their trunks. the ground was covered with a soft bed of pine needles, brown and fragrant. in her hurry she pricked her ungloved hand on a sharp pine cone and drew the blood. she sucked the tiny wound. "shore i'm wonderin' if that's a bad omen," she muttered, darkly thoughtful. then she resumed her sinuous approach to the edge of the thicket, and presently reached it. ellen lay flat a moment to recover her breath, then raised herself on her elbows. through an opening in the fringe of buck brush she could plainly see the promontory where she had stood with jean isbel, and also the approaches by which he might come. rather nervously she realized that her covert was hardly more than a hundred feet from the promontory. it was imperative that she be absolutely silent. her eyes searched the openings along the rim. the gray form of a deer crossed one of these, and she concluded it had made the sound she had heard. then she lay down more comfortably and waited. resolutely she held, as much as possible, to her sensorial perceptions. the meaning of ellen jorth lying in ambush just to see an isbel was a conundrum she refused to ponder in the present. she was doing it, and the physical act had its fascination. her ears, attuned to all the sounds of the lonely forest, caught them and arranged them according to her knowledge of woodcraft. a long hour passed by. the sun had slanted to a point halfway between the zenith and the horizon. suddenly a thought confronted ellen jorth: "he's not comin'," she whispered. the instant that idea presented itself she felt a blank sense of loss, a vague regret--something that must have been disappointment. unprepared for this, she was held by surprise for a moment, and then she was stunned. her spirit, swift and rebellious, had no time to rise in her defense. she was a lonely, guilty, miserable girl, too weak for pride to uphold, too fluctuating to know her real self. she stretched there, burying her face in the pine needles, digging her fingers into them, wanting nothing so much as that they might hide her. the moment was incomprehensible to ellen, and utterly intolerable. the sharp pine needles, piercing her wrists and cheeks, and her hot heaving breast, seemed to give her exquisite relief. the shrill snort of a horse sounded near at hand. with a shock ellen's body stiffened. then she quivered a little and her feelings underwent swift change. cautiously and noiselessly she raised herself upon her elbows and peeped through the opening in the brush. she saw a man tying a horse to a bush somewhat back from the rim. drawing a rifle from its saddle sheath he threw it in the hollow of his arm and walked to the edge of the precipice. he gazed away across the basin and appeared lost in contemplation or thought. then he turned to look back into the forest, as if he expected some one. ellen recognized the lithe figure, the dark face so like an indian's. it was isbel. he had come. somehow his coming seemed wonderful and terrible. ellen shook as she leaned on her elbows. jean isbel, true to his word, in spite of her scorn, had come back to see her. the fact seemed monstrous. he was an enemy of her father. long had range rumor been bandied from lip to lip--old gass isbel had sent for his indian son to fight the jorths. jean isbel--son of a texan--unerring shot--peerless tracker--a bad and dangerous man! then there flashed over ellen a burning thought--if it were true, if he was an enemy of her father's, if a fight between jorth and isbel was inevitable, she ought to kill this jean isbel right there in his tracks as he boldly and confidently waited for her. fool he was to think she would come. ellen sank down and dropped her head until the strange tremor of her arms ceased. that dark and grim flash of thought retreated. she had not come to murder a man from ambush, but only to watch him, to try to see what he meant, what he thought, to allay a strange curiosity. after a while she looked again. isbel was sitting on an upheaved section of the rim, in a comfortable position from which he could watch the openings in the forest and gaze as well across the west curve of the basin to the mazatzals. he had composed himself to wait. he was clad in a buckskin suit, rather new, and it certainly showed off to advantage, compared with the ragged and soiled apparel ellen remembered. he did not look so large. ellen was used to the long, lean, rangy arizonians and texans. this man was built differently. he had the widest shoulders of any man she had ever seen, and they made him appear rather short. but his lithe, powerful limbs proved he was not short. whenever he moved the muscles rippled. his hands were clasped round a knee--brown, sinewy hands, very broad, and fitting the thick muscular wrists. his collar was open, and he did not wear a scarf, as did the men ellen knew. then her intense curiosity at last brought her steady gaze to jean isbel's head and face. he wore a cap, evidently of some thin fur. his hair was straight and short, and in color a dead raven black. his complexion was dark, clear tan, with no trace of red. he did not have the prominent cheek bones nor the high-bridged nose usual with white men who were part indian. still he had the indian look. ellen caught that in the dark, intent, piercing eyes, in the wide, level, thoughtful brows, in the stern impassiveness of his smooth face. he had a straight, sharp-cut profile. ellen whispered to herself: "i saw him right the other day. only, i'd not admit it.... the finest-lookin' man i ever saw in my life is a damned isbel! was that what i come out heah for?" she lowered herself once more and, folding her arms under her breast, she reclined comfortably on them, and searched out a smaller peephole from which she could spy upon isbel. and as she watched him the new and perplexing side of her mind waxed busier. why had he come back? what did he want of her? acquaintance, friendship, was impossible for them. he had been respectful, deferential toward her, in a way that had strangely pleased, until the surprising moment when he had kissed her. that had only disrupted her rather dreamy pleasure in a situation she had not experienced before. all the men she had met in this wild country were rough and bold; most of them had wanted to marry her, and, failing that, they had persisted in amorous attentions not particularly flattering or honorable. they were a bad lot. and contact with them had dulled some of her sensibilities. but this jean isbel had seemed a gentleman. she struggled to be fair, trying to forget her antipathy, as much to understand herself as to give him due credit. true, he had kissed her, crudely and forcibly. but that kiss had not been an insult. ellen's finer feeling forced her to believe this. she remembered the honest amaze and shame and contrition with which he had faced her, trying awkwardly to explain his bold act. likewise she recalled the subtle swift change in him at her words, "oh, i've been kissed before!" she was glad she had said that. still--was she glad, after all? she watched him. every little while he shifted his gaze from the blue gulf beneath him to the forest. when he turned thus the sun shone on his face and she caught the piercing gleam of his dark eyes. she saw, too, that he was listening. watching and listening for her! ellen had to still a tumult within her. it made her feel very young, very shy, very strange. all the while she hated him because he manifestly expected her to come. several times he rose and walked a little way into the woods. the last time he looked at the westering sun and shook his head. his confidence had gone. then he sat and gazed down into the void. but ellen knew he did not see anything there. he seemed an image carved in the stone of the rim, and he gave ellen a singular impression of loneliness and sadness. was he thinking of the miserable battle his father had summoned him to lead--of what it would cost--of its useless pain and hatred? ellen seemed to divine his thoughts. in that moment she softened toward him, and in her soul quivered and stirred an intangible something that was like pain, that was too deep for her understanding. but she felt sorry for an isbel until the old pride resurged. what if he admired her? she remembered his interest, the wonder and admiration, the growing light in his eyes. and it had not been repugnant to her until he disclosed his name. "what's in a name?" she mused, recalling poetry learned in her girlhood. "'a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'.... he's an isbel--yet he might be splendid--noble.... bah! he's not--and i'd hate him anyhow." all at once ellen felt cold shivers steal over her. isbel's piercing gaze was directed straight at her hiding place. her heart stopped beating. if he discovered her there she felt that she would die of shame. then she became aware that a blue jay was screeching in a pine above her, and a red squirrel somewhere near was chattering his shrill annoyance. these two denizens of the woods could be depended upon to espy the wariest hunter and make known his presence to their kind. ellen had a moment of more than dread. this keen-eyed, keen-eared indian might see right through her brushy covert, might hear the throbbing of her heart. it relieved her immeasurably to see him turn away and take to pacing the promontory, with his head bowed and his hands behind his back. he had stopped looking off into the forest. presently he wheeled to the west, and by the light upon his face ellen saw that the time was near sunset. turkeys were beginning to gobble back on the ridge. isbel walked to his horse and appeared to be untying something from the back of his saddle. when he came back ellen saw that he carried a small package apparently wrapped in paper. with this under his arm he strode off in the direction of ellen's camp and soon disappeared in the forest. for a little while ellen lay there in bewilderment. if she had made conjectures before, they were now multiplied. where was jean isbel going? ellen sat up suddenly. "well, shore this heah beats me," she said. "what did he have in that package? what was he goin' to do with it?" it took no little will power to hold her there when she wanted to steal after him through the woods and find out what he meant. but his reputation influenced even her and she refused to pit her cunning in the forest against his. it would be better to wait until he returned to his horse. thus decided, she lay back again in her covert and gave her mind over to pondering curiosity. sooner than she expected she espied isbel approaching through the forest, empty handed. he had not taken his rifle. ellen averted her glance a moment and thrilled to see the rifle leaning against a rock. verily jean isbel had been far removed from hostile intent that day. she watched him stride swiftly up to his horse, untie the halter, and mount. ellen had an impression of his arrowlike straight figure, and sinuous grace and ease. then he looked back at the promontory, as if to fix a picture of it in his mind, and rode away along the rim. she watched him out of sight. what ailed her? something was wrong with her, but she recognized only relief. when isbel had been gone long enough to assure ellen that she might safely venture forth she crawled through the pine thicket to the rim on the other side of the point. the sun was setting behind the black range, shedding a golden glory over the basin. westward the zigzag rim reached like a streamer of fire into the sun. the vast promontories jutted out with blazing beacon lights upon their stone-walled faces. deep down, the basin was turning shadowy dark blue, going to sleep for the night. ellen bent swift steps toward her camp. long shafts of gold preceded her through the forest. then they paled and vanished. the tips of pines and spruces turned gold. a hoarse-voiced old turkey gobbler was booming his chug-a-lug from the highest ground, and the softer chick of hen turkeys answered him. ellen was almost breathless when she arrived. two packs and a couple of lop-eared burros attested to the fact of antonio's return. this was good news for ellen. she heard the bleat of lambs and tinkle of bells coming nearer and nearer. and she was glad to feel that if isbel had visited her camp, most probably it was during the absence of the herders. the instant she glanced into her tent she saw the package isbel had carried. it lay on her bed. ellen stared blankly. "the--the impudence of him!" she ejaculated. then she kicked the package out of the tent. words and action seemed to liberate a dammed-up hot fury. she kicked the package again, and thought she would kick it into the smoldering camp-fire. but somehow she stopped short of that. she left the thing there on the ground. pepe and antonio hove in sight, driving in the tumbling woolly flock. ellen did not want them to see the package, so with contempt for herself, and somewhat lessening anger, she kicked it back into the tent. what was in it? she peeped inside the tent, devoured by curiosity. neat, well wrapped and tied packages like that were not often seen in the tonto basin. ellen decided she would wait until after supper, and at a favorable moment lay it unopened on the fire. what did she care what it contained? manifestly it was a gift. she argued that she was highly incensed with this insolent isbel who had the effrontery to approach her with some sort of present. it developed that the usually cheerful antonio had returned taciturn and gloomy. all ellen could get out of him was that the job of sheep herder had taken on hazards inimical to peace-loving mexicans. he had heard something he would not tell. ellen helped prepare the supper and she ate in silence. she had her own brooding troubles. antonio presently told her that her father had said she was not to start back home after dark. after supper the herders repaired to their own tents, leaving ellen the freedom of her camp-fire. wherewith she secured the package and brought it forth to burn. feminine curiosity rankled strong in her breast. yielding so far as to shake the parcel and press it, and finally tear a corner off the paper, she saw some words written in lead pencil. bending nearer the blaze, she read, "for my sister ann." ellen gazed at the big, bold hand-writing, quite legible and fairly well done. suddenly she tore the outside wrapper completely off. from printed words on the inside she gathered that the package had come from a store in san francisco. "reckon he fetched home a lot of presents for his folks--the kids--and his sister," muttered ellen. "that was nice of him. whatever this is he shore meant it for sister ann.... ann isbel. why, she must be that black-eyed girl i met and liked so well before i knew she was an isbel.... his sister!" whereupon for the second time ellen deposited the fascinating package in her tent. she could not burn it up just then. she had other emotions besides scorn and hate. and memory of that soft-voiced, kind-hearted, beautiful isbel girl checked her resentment. "i wonder if he is like his sister," she said, thoughtfully. it appeared to be an unfortunate thought. jean isbel certainly resembled his sister. "too bad they belong to the family that ruined dad." ellen went to bed without opening the package or without burning it. and to her annoyance, whatever way she lay she appeared to touch this strange package. there was not much room in the little tent. first she put it at her head beside her rifle, but when she turned over her cheek came in contact with it. then she felt as if she had been stung. she moved it again, only to touch it presently with her hand. next she flung it to the bottom of her bed, where it fell upon her feet, and whatever way she moved them she could not escape the pressure of this undesirable and mysterious gift. by and by she fell asleep, only to dream that the package was a caressing hand stealing about her, feeling for hers, and holding it with soft, strong clasp. when she awoke she had the strangest sensation in her right palm. it was moist, throbbing, hot, and the feel of it on her cheek was strangely thrilling and comforting. she lay awake then. the night was dark and still. only a low moan of wind in the pines and the faint tinkle of a sheep bell broke the serenity. she felt very small and lonely lying there in the deep forest, and, try how she would, it was impossible to think the same then as she did in the clear light of day. resentment, pride, anger--these seemed abated now. if the events of the day had not changed her, they had at least brought up softer and kinder memories and emotions than she had known for long. nothing hurt and saddened her so much as to remember the gay, happy days of her childhood, her sweet mother, her, old home. then her thought returned to isbel and his gift. it had been years since anyone had made her a gift. what could this one be? it did not matter. the wonder was that jean isbel should bring it to her and that she could be perturbed by its presence. "he meant it for his sister and so he thought well of me," she said, in finality. morning brought ellen further vacillation. at length she rolled the obnoxious package inside her blankets, saying that she would wait until she got home and then consign it cheerfully to the flames. antonio tied her pack on a burro. she did not have a horse, and therefore had to walk the several miles, to her father's ranch. she set off at a brisk pace, leading the burro and carrying her rifle. and soon she was deep in the fragrant forest. the morning was clear and cool, with just enough frost to make the sunlit grass sparkle as if with diamonds. ellen felt fresh, buoyant, singularly full of, life. her youth would not be denied. it was pulsing, yearning. she hummed an old southern tune and every step seemed one of pleasure in action, of advance toward some intangible future happiness. all the unknown of life before her called. her heart beat high in her breast and she walked as one in a dream. her thoughts were swift-changing, intimate, deep, and vague, not of yesterday or to-day, nor of reality. the big, gray, white-tailed squirrels crossed ahead of her on the trail, scampered over the piny ground to hop on tree trunks, and there they paused to watch her pass. the vociferous little red squirrels barked and chattered at her. from every thicket sounded the gobble of turkeys. the blue jays squalled in the tree tops. a deer lifted its head from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching her go by. thus happily and dreamily absorbed, ellen covered the forest miles and soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of chevelon canyon. it was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of mind. ellen slowly lost them. and then a familiar feeling assailed her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's ranch--a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be. at the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the outside. this was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived there. his name was john sprague and his occupation was raising burros. no sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog. rumor had said sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had searched that country for the lost dutchman gold mine. sprague knew more about the basin and rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers. from black butte to the cibique and from chevelon butte to reno pass he knew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to them on the darkest night. his fame, however, depended mostly upon the fact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but black burros with white faces. these burros were the finest bred in all the basin and were in great demand. sprague sold a few every year. he had made a present of one to ellen, although he hated to part with them. this old man was ellen's one and only friend. upon her trip out to the rim with the sheep, uncle john, as ellen called him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to grass valley. it pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily lifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros. as she entered the clearing sprague saw her from the door of his shack. "hello, uncle john!" she called. "wal, if it ain't ellen!" he replied, heartily. "when i seen thet white-faced jinny i knowed who was leadin' her. where you been, girl?" sprague was a little, stoop-shouldered old man, with grizzled head and face, and shrewd gray eyes that beamed kindly on her over his ruddy cheeks. ellen did not like the tobacco stain on his grizzled beard nor the dirty, motley, ragged, ill-smelling garb he wore, but she had ceased her useless attempts to make him more cleanly. "i've been herdin' sheep," replied ellen. "and where have y'u been, uncle? i missed y'u on the way over." "been packin' in some grub. an' i reckon i stayed longer in grass valley than i recollect. but thet was only natural, considerin'--" "what?" asked ellen, bluntly, as the old man paused. sprague took a black pipe out of his vest pocket and began rimming the bowl with his fingers. the glance he bent on ellen was thoughtful and earnest, and so kind that she feared it was pity. ellen suddenly burned for news from the village. "wal, come in an' set down, won't you?" he asked. "no, thanks," replied ellen, and she took a seat on the chopping block. "tell me, uncle, what's goin' on down in the valley?" "nothin' much yet--except talk. an' there's a heap of thet." "humph! there always was talk," declared ellen, contemptuously. "a nasty, gossipy, catty hole, that grass valley!" "ellen, thar's goin' to be war--a bloody war in the ole tonto basin," went on sprague, seriously. "war! ... between whom?" "the isbels an' their enemies. i reckon most people down thar, an' sure all the cattlemen, air on old gass's side. blaisdell, gordon, fredericks, blue--they'll all be in it." "who are they goin' to fight?" queried ellen, sharply. "wal, the open talk is thet the sheepmen are forcin' this war. but thar's talk not so open, an' i reckon not very healthy for any man to whisper hyarbouts." "uncle john, y'u needn't be afraid to tell me anythin'," said ellen. "i'd never give y'u away. y'u've been a good friend to me." "reckon i want to be, ellen," he returned, nodding his shaggy head. "it ain't easy to be fond of you as i am an' keep my mouth shet.... i'd like to know somethin'. hev you any relatives away from hyar thet you could go to till this fight's over?" "no. all i have, so far as i know, are right heah." "how aboot friends?" "uncle john, i have none," she said, sadly, with bowed head. "wal, wal, i'm sorry. i was hopin' you might git away." she lifted her face. "shore y'u don't think i'd run off if my dad got in a fight?" she flashed. "i hope you will." "i'm a jorth," she said, darkly, and dropped her head again. sprague nodded gloomily. evidently he was perplexed and worried, and strongly swayed by affection for her. "would you go away with me?" he asked. "we could pack over to the mazatzals an' live thar till this blows over." "thank y'u, uncle john. y'u're kind and good. but i'll stay with my father. his troubles are mine." "ahuh! ... wal, i might hev reckoned so.... ellen, how do you stand on this hyar sheep an' cattle question?" "i think what's fair for one is fair for another. i don't like sheep as much as i like cattle. but that's not the point. the range is free. suppose y'u had cattle and i had sheep. i'd feel as free to run my sheep anywhere as y'u were to ran your cattle." "right. but what if you throwed your sheep round my range an' sheeped off the grass so my cattle would hev to move or starve?" "shore i wouldn't throw my sheep round y'ur range," she declared, stoutly. "wal, you've answered half of the question. an' now supposin' a lot of my cattle was stolen by rustlers, but not a single one of your sheep. what 'd you think then?" "i'd shore think rustlers chose to steal cattle because there was no profit in stealin' sheep." "egzactly. but wouldn't you hev a queer idee aboot it?" "i don't know. why queer? what 're y'u drivin' at, uncle john?" "wal, wouldn't you git kind of a hunch thet the rustlers was--say a leetle friendly toward the sheepmen?" ellen felt a sudden vibrating shock. the blood rushed to her temples. trembling all over, she rose. "uncle john!" she cried. "now, girl, you needn't fire up thet way. set down an' don't--" "dare y'u insinuate my father has--" "ellen, i ain't insinuatin' nothin'," interrupted the old man. "i'm jest askin' you to think. thet's all. you're 'most grown into a young woman now. an' you've got sense. thar's bad times ahead, ellen. an' i hate to see you mix in them." "oh, y'u do make me think," replied ellen, with smarting tears in her eyes. "y'u make me unhappy. oh, i know my dad is not liked in this cattle country. but it's unjust. he happened to go in for sheep raising. i wish he hadn't. it was a mistake. dad always was a cattleman till we came heah. he made enemies--who--who ruined him. and everywhere misfortune crossed his trail.... but, oh, uncle john, my dad is an honest man." "wal, child, i--i didn't mean to--to make you cry," said the old man, feelingly, and he averted his troubled gaze. "never mind what i said. i'm an old meddler. i reckon nothin' i could do or say would ever change what's goin' to happen. if only you wasn't a girl! ... thar i go ag'in. ellen, face your future an' fight your way. all youngsters hev to do thet. an' it's the right kind of fight thet makes the right kind of man or woman. only you must be sure to find yourself. an' by thet i mean to find the real, true, honest-to-god best in you an' stick to it an' die fightin' for it. you're a young woman, almost, an' a blamed handsome one. which means you'll hev more trouble an' a harder fight. this country ain't easy on a woman when once slander has marked her. "what do i care for the talk down in that basin?" returned ellen. "i know they think i'm a hussy. i've let them think it. i've helped them to." "you're wrong, child," said sprague, earnestly. "pride an' temper! you must never let anyone think bad of you, much less help them to." "i hate everybody down there," cried ellen, passionately. "i hate them so i'd glory in their thinkin' me bad.... my mother belonged to the best blood in texas. i am her daughter. i know who and what i am. that uplifts me whenever i meet the sneaky, sly suspicions of these basin people. it shows me the difference between them and me. that's what i glory in." "ellen, you're a wild, headstrong child," rejoined the old man, in severe tones. "word has been passed ag'in' your good name--your honor.... an' hevn't you given cause fer thet?" ellen felt her face blanch and all her blood rush back to her heart in sickening force. the shock of his words was like a stab from a cold blade. if their meaning and the stem, just light of the old man's glance did not kill her pride and vanity they surely killed her girlishness. she stood mute, staring at him, with her brown, trembling hands stealing up toward her bosom, as if to ward off another and a mortal blow. "ellen!" burst out sprague, hoarsely. "you mistook me. aw, i didn't mean--what you think, i swear.... ellen, i'm old an' blunt. i ain't used to wimmen. but i've love for you, child, an' respect, jest the same as if you was my own.... an' i know you're good.... forgive me.... i meant only hevn't you been, say, sort of--careless?" "care-less?" queried ellen, bitterly and low. "an' powerful thoughtless an'--an' blind--lettin' men kiss you an' fondle you--when you're really a growed-up woman now?" "yes--i have," whispered ellen. "wal, then, why did you let them? "i--i don't know.... i didn't think. the men never let me alone--never--never! i got tired everlastingly pushin' them away. and sometimes--when they were kind--and i was lonely for something i--i didn't mind if one or another fooled round me. i never thought. it never looked as y'u have made it look.... then--those few times ridin' the trail to grass valley--when people saw me--then i guess i encouraged such attentions.... oh, i must be--i am a shameless little hussy!" "hush thet kind of talk," said the old man, as he took her hand. "ellen, you're only young an' lonely an' bitter. no mother--no friends--no one but a lot of rough men! it's a wonder you hev kept yourself good. but now your eyes are open, ellen. they're brave an' beautiful eyes, girl, an' if you stand by the light in them you will come through any trouble. an' you'll be happy. don't ever forgit that. life is hard enough, god knows, but it's unfailin' true in the end to the man or woman who finds the best in them an' stands by it." "uncle john, y'u talk so--so kindly. yu make me have hope. there seemed really so little for me to live for--hope for.... but i'll never be a coward again--nor a thoughtless fool. i'll find some good in me--or make some--and never fail it, come what will. i'll remember your words. i'll believe the future holds wonderful things for me.... i'm only eighteen. shore all my life won't be lived heah. perhaps this threatened fight over sheep and cattle will blow over.... somewhere there must be some nice girl to be a friend--a sister to me.... and maybe some man who'd believe, in spite of all they say--that i'm not a hussy." "wal, ellen, you remind me of what i was wantin' to tell you when you just got here.... yestiddy i heerd you called thet name in a barroom. an' thar was a fellar thar who raised hell. he near killed one man an' made another plumb eat his words. an' he scared thet crowd stiff." old john sprague shook his grizzled head and laughed, beaming upon ellen as if the memory of what he had seen had warmed his heart. "was it--y'u?" asked ellen, tremulously. "me? aw, i wasn't nowhere. ellen, this fellar was quick as a cat in his actions an' his words was like lightnin'.' "who? she whispered. "wal, no one else but a stranger jest come to these parts--an isbel, too. jean isbel." "oh!" exclaimed ellen, faintly. "in a barroom full of men--almost all of them in sympathy with the sheep crowd--most of them on the jorth side--this jean isbel resented an insult to ellen jorth." "no!" cried ellen. something terrible was happening to her mind or her heart. "wal, he sure did," replied the old man, "an' it's goin' to be good fer you to hear all about it." chapter v old john sprague launched into his narrative with evident zest. "i hung round greaves' store most of two days. an' i heerd a heap. some of it was jest plain ole men's gab, but i reckon i got the drift of things concernin' grass valley. yestiddy mornin' i was packin' my burros in greaves' back yard, takin' my time carryin' out supplies from the store. an' as last when i went in i seen a strange fellar was thar. strappin' young man--not so young, either--an' he had on buckskin. hair black as my burros, dark face, sharp eyes--you'd took him fer an injun. he carried a rifle--one of them new forty-fours--an' also somethin' wrapped in paper thet he seemed partickler careful about. he wore a belt round his middle an' thar was a bowie-knife in it, carried like i've seen scouts an' injun fighters hev on the frontier in the 'seventies. that looked queer to me, an' i reckon to the rest of the crowd thar. no one overlooked the big six-shooter he packed texas fashion. wal, i didn't hev no idee this fellar was an isbel until i heard greaves call him thet. "'isbel,' said greaves, 'reckon your money's counterfeit hyar. i cain't sell you anythin'.' "'counterfeit? not much,' spoke up the young fellar, an' he flipped some gold twenties on the bar, where they rung like bells. 'why not? ain't this a store? i want a cinch strap.' "greaves looked particular sour thet mornin'. i'd been watchin' him fer two days. he hedn't hed much sleep, fer i hed my bed back of the store, an' i heerd men come in the night an' hev long confabs with him. whatever was in the wind hedn't pleased him none. an' i calkilated thet young isbel wasn't a sight good fer greaves' sore eyes, anyway. but he paid no more attention to isbel. acted jest as if he hedn't heerd isbel say he wanted a cinch strap. "i stayed inside the store then. thar was a lot of fellars i'd seen, an' some i knowed. couple of card games goin', an' drinkin', of course. i soon gathered thet the general atmosphere wasn't friendly to jean isbel. he seen thet quick enough, but he didn't leave. between you an' me i sort of took a likin' to him. an' i sure watched him as close as i could, not seemin' to, you know. reckon they all did the same, only you couldn't see it. it got jest about the same as if isbel hedn't been in thar, only you knowed it wasn't really the same. thet was how i got the hunch the crowd was all sheepmen or their friends. the day before i'd heerd a lot of talk about this young isbel, an' what he'd come to grass valley fer, an' what a bad hombre he was. an' when i seen him i was bound to admit he looked his reputation. "wal, pretty soon in come two more fellars, an' i knowed both of them. you know them, too, i'm sorry to say. fer i'm comin' to facts now thet will shake you. the first fellar was your father's mexican foreman, lorenzo, and the other was simm bruce. i reckon bruce wasn't drunk, but he'd sure been lookin' on red licker. when he seen isbel darn me if he didn't swell an' bustle all up like a mad ole turkey gobbler. "'greaves,' he said, 'if thet fellar's jean isbel i ain't hankerin' fer the company y'u keep.' an' he made no bones of pointin' right at isbel. greaves looked up dry an' sour an' he bit out spiteful-like: 'wal, simm, we ain't hed a hell of a lot of choice in this heah matter. thet's jean isbel shore enough. mebbe you can persuade him thet his company an' his custom ain't wanted round heah!' "jean isbel set on the counter an took it all in, but he didn't say nothin'. the way he looked at bruce was sure enough fer me to see thet thar might be a surprise any minnit. i've looked at a lot of men in my day, an' can sure feel events comin'. bruce got himself a stiff drink an' then he straddles over the floor in front of isbel. "'air you jean isbel, son of ole gass isbel?' asked bruce, sort of lolling back an' givin' a hitch to his belt. "'yes sir, you've identified me,' said isbel, nice an' polite. "'my name's bruce. i'm rangin' sheep heahaboots, an' i hev interest in kurnel lee jorth's bizness.' "'hod do, mister bruce,' replied isbel, very civil ant cool as you please. bruce hed an eye fer the crowd thet was now listenin' an' watchin'. he swaggered closer to isbel. "'we heerd y'u come into the tonto basin to run us sheepmen off the range. how aboot thet?' "'wal, you heerd wrong,' said isbel, quietly. 'i came to work fer my father. thet work depends on what happens.' "bruce began to git redder of face, an' he shook a husky hand in front of isbel. 'i'll tell y'u this heah, my nez perce isbel--' an' when he sort of choked fer more wind greaves spoke up, 'simm, i shore reckon thet nez perce handle will stick.' an' the crowd haw-hawed. then bruce got goin' ag'in. 'i'll tell y'u this heah, nez perce. thar's been enough happen already to run y'u out of arizona.' "'wal, you don't say! what, fer instance?, asked isbel, quick an' sarcastic. "thet made bruce bust out puffin' an' spittin': 'wha-tt, fer instance? huh! why, y'u darn half-breed, y'u'll git run out fer makin' up to ellen jorth. thet won't go in this heah country. not fer any isbel.' "'you're a liar,' called isbel, an' like a big cat he dropped off the counter. i heerd his moccasins pat soft on the floor. an' i bet to myself thet he was as dangerous as he was quick. but his voice an' his looks didn't change even a leetle. "'i'm not a liar,' yelled bruce. 'i'll make y'u eat thet. i can prove what i say.... y'u was seen with ellen jorth--up on the rim--day before yestiddy. y'u was watched. y'u was with her. y'u made up to her. y'u grabbed her an' kissed her! ... an' i'm heah to say, nez perce, thet y'u're a marked man on this range.' "'who saw me?' asked isbel, quiet an' cold. i seen then thet he'd turned white in the face. "'yu cain't lie out of it,' hollered bruce, wavin' his hands. 'we got y'u daid to rights. lorenzo saw y'u--follered y'u--watched y'u.' bruce pointed at the grinnin' greaser. 'lorenzo is kurnel jorth's foreman. he seen y'u maulin' of ellen jorth. an' when he tells the kurnel an' tad jorth an' jackson jorth! ... haw! haw! haw! why, hell 'd be a cooler place fer yu then this heah tonto.' "greaves an' his gang hed come round, sure tickled clean to thar gizzards at this mess. i noticed, howsomever, thet they was texans enough to keep back to one side in case this isbel started any action.... wal, isbel took a look at lorenzo. then with one swift grab he jerked the little greaser off his feet an' pulled him close. lorenzo stopped grinnin'. he began to look a leetle sick. but it was plain he hed right on his side. "'you say you saw me?' demanded isbel. "'si, senor,' replied lorenzo. "what did you see?' "'i see senor an' senorita. i hide by manzanita. i see senorita like grande senor ver mooch. she like senor keese. she--' "then isbel hit the little greaser a back-handed crack in the mouth. sure it was a crack! lorenzo went over the counter backward an' landed like a pack load of wood. an' he didn't git up. "'mister bruce,' said isbel, 'an' you fellars who heerd thet lyin' greaser, i did meet ellen jorth. an' i lost my head. i 'i kissed her.... but it was an accident. i meant no insult. i apologized--i tried to explain my crazy action.... thet was all. the greaser lied. ellen jorth was kind enough to show me the trail. we talked a little. then--i suppose--because she was young an' pretty an' sweet--i lost my head. she was absolutely innocent. thet damned greaser told a bare-faced lie when he said she liked me. the fact was she despised me. she said so. an' when she learned i was jean isbel she turned her back on me an' walked away."' at this point of his narrative the old man halted as if to impress ellen not only with what just had been told, but particularly with what was to follow. the reciting of this tale had evidently given sprague an unconscious pleasure. he glowed. he seemed to carry the burden of a secret that he yearned to divulge. as for ellen, she was deadlocked in breathless suspense. all her emotions waited for the end. she begged sprague to hurry. "wal, i wish i could skip the next chapter an' hev only the last to tell," rejoined the old man, and he put a heavy, but solicitous, hand upon hers.... simm bruce haw-hawed loud an' loud.... 'say, nez perce,' he calls out, most insolent-like, 'we air too good sheepmen heah to hev the wool pulled over our eyes. we shore know what y'u meant by ellen jorth. but y'u wasn't smart when y'u told her y'u was jean isbel! ... haw-haw!' "isbel flashed a strange, surprised look from the red-faced bruce to greaves and to the other men. i take it he was wonderin' if he'd heerd right or if they'd got the same hunch thet 'd come to him. an' i reckon he determined to make sure. "'why wasn't i smart?' he asked. "'shore y'u wasn't smart if y'u was aimin' to be one of ellen jorth's lovers,' said bruce, with a leer. 'fer if y'u hedn't give y'urself away y'u could hev been easy enough.' "thar was no mistakin' bruce's meanin' an' when he got it out some of the men thar laughed. isbel kept lookin' from one to another of them. then facin' greaves, he said, deliberately: 'greaves, this drunken bruce is excuse enough fer a show-down. i take it that you are sheepmen, an' you're goin' on jorth's side of the fence in the matter of this sheep rangin'.' "'wal, nez perce, i reckon you hit plumb center,' said greaves, dryly. he spread wide his big hands to the other men, as if to say they'd might as well own the jig was up. "'all right. you're jorth's backers. have any of you a word to say in ellen jorth's defense? i tell you the mexican lied. believin' me or not doesn't matter. but this vile-mouthed bruce hinted against thet girl's honor.' "ag'in some of the men laughed, but not so noisy, an' there was a nervous shufflin' of feet. isbel looked sort of queer. his neck had a bulge round his collar. an' his eyes was like black coals of fire. greaves spread his big hands again, as if to wash them of this part of the dirty argument. "'when it comes to any wimmen i pass--much less play a hand fer a wildcat like jorth's gurl,' said greaves, sort of cold an' thick. 'bruce shore ought to know her. accordin' to talk heahaboots an' what he says, ellen jorth has been his gurl fer two years.' "then isbel turned his attention to bruce an' i fer one begun to shake in my boots. "'say thet to me!' he called. "'shore she's my gurl, an' thet's why im a-goin' to hev y'u run off this range.' "isbel jumped at bruce. 'you damned drunken cur! you vile-mouthed liar! ... i may be an isbel, but by god you cain't slander thet girl to my face! ... then he moved so quick i couldn't see what he did. but i heerd his fist hit bruce. it sounded like an ax ag'in' a beef. bruce fell clear across the room. an' by jinny when he landed isbel was thar. as bruce staggered up, all bloody-faced, bellowin' an' spittin' out teeth isbel eyed greaves's crowd an' said: 'if any of y'u make a move it 'll mean gun-play.' nobody moved, thet's sure. in fact, none of greaves's outfit was packin' guns, at least in sight. when bruce got all the way up--he's a tall fellar--why isbel took a full swing at him an' knocked him back across the room ag'in' the counter. y'u know when a fellar's hurt by the way he yells. bruce got thet second smash right on his big red nose.... i never seen any one so quick as isbel. he vaulted over thet counter jest the second bruce fell back on it, an' then, with greaves's gang in front so he could catch any moves of theirs, he jest slugged bruce right an' left, an' banged his head on the counter. then as bruce sunk limp an' slipped down, lookin' like a bloody sack, isbel let him fall to the floor. then he vaulted back over the counter. wipin' the blood off his hands, he throwed his kerchief down in bruce's face. bruce wasn't dead or bad hurt. he'd jest been beaten bad. he was moanin' an' slobberin'. isbel kicked him, not hard, but jest sort of disgustful. then he faced thet crowd. 'greaves, thet's what i think of your simm bruce. tell him next time he sees me to run or pull a gun.' an' then isbel grabbed his rifle an' package off the counter an' went out. he didn't even look back. i seen him nount his horse an' ride away.... now, girl, what hev you to say?" ellen could only say good-by and the word was so low as to be almost inaudible. she ran to her burro. she could not see very clearly through tear-blurred eyes, and her shaking fingers were all thumbs. it seemed she had to rush away--somewhere, anywhere--not to get away from old john sprague, but from herself--this palpitating, bursting self whose feet stumbled down the trail. all--all seemed ended for her. that interminable story! it had taken so long. and every minute of it she had been helplessly torn asunder by feelings she had never known she possessed. this ellen jorth was an unknown creature. she sobbed now as she dragged the burro down the canyon trail. she sat down only to rise. she hurried only to stop. driven, pursued, barred, she had no way to escape the flaying thoughts, no time or will to repudiate them. the death of her girlhood, the rending aside of a veil of maiden mystery only vaguely instinctively guessed, the barren, sordid truth of her life as seen by her enlightened eyes, the bitter realization of the vileness of men of her clan in contrast to the manliness and chivalry of an enemy, the hard facts of unalterable repute as created by slander and fostered by low minds, all these were forces in a cataclysm that had suddenly caught her heart and whirled her through changes immense and agonizing, to bring her face to face with reality, to force upon her suspicion and doubt of all she had trusted, to warn her of the dark, impending horror of a tragic bloody feud, and lastly to teach her the supreme truth at once so glorious and so terrible--that she could not escape the doom of womanhood. about noon that day ellen jorth arrived at the knoll, which was the location of her father's ranch. three canyons met there to form a larger one. the knoll was a symmetrical hill situated at the mouth of the three canyons. it was covered with brush and cedars, with here and there lichened rocks showing above the bleached grass. below the knoll was a wide, grassy flat or meadow through which a willow-bordered stream cut its rugged boulder-strewn bed. water flowed abundantly at this season, and the deep washes leading down from the slopes attested to the fact of cloudbursts and heavy storms. this meadow valley was dotted with horses and cattle, and meandered away between the timbered slopes to lose itself in a green curve. a singular feature of this canyon was that a heavy growth of spruce trees covered the slope facing northwest; and the opposite slope, exposed to the sun and therefore less snowbound in winter, held a sparse growth of yellow pines. the ranch house of colonel jorth stood round the rough corner of the largest of the three canyons, and rather well hidden, it did not obtrude its rude and broken-down log cabins, its squalid surroundings, its black mud-holes of corrals upon the beautiful and serene meadow valley. ellen jorth approached her home slowly, with dragging, reluctant steps; and never before in the three unhappy years of her existence there had the ranch seemed so bare, so uncared for, so repugnant to her. as she had seen herself with clarified eyes, so now she saw her home. the cabin that ellen lived in with her father was a single-room structure with one door and no windows. it was about twenty feet square. the huge, ragged, stone chimney had been built on the outside, with the wide open fireplace set inside the logs. smoke was rising from the chimney. as ellen halted at the door and began unpacking her burro she heard the loud, lazy laughter of men. an adjoining log cabin had been built in two sections, with a wide roofed hall or space between them. the door in each cabin faced the other, and there was a tall man standing in one. ellen recognized daggs, a neighbor sheepman, who evidently spent more time with her father than at his own home, wherever that was. ellen had never seen it. she heard this man drawl, "jorth, heah's your kid come home." ellen carried her bed inside the cabin, and unrolled it upon a couch built of boughs in the far corner. she had forgotten jean isbel's package, and now it fell out under her sight. quickly she covered it. a mexican woman, relative of antonio, and the only servant about the place, was squatting indian fashion before the fireplace, stirring a pot of beans. she and ellen did not get along well together, and few words ever passed between them. ellen had a canvas curtain stretched upon a wire across a small triangular corner, and this afforded her a little privacy. her possessions were limited in number. the crude square table she had constructed herself. upon it was a little old-fashioned walnut-framed mirror, a brush and comb, and a dilapidated ebony cabinet which contained odds and ends the sight of which always brought a smile of derisive self-pity to her lips. under the table stood an old leather trunk. it had come with her from texas, and contained clothing and belongings of her mother's. above the couch on pegs hung her scant wardrobe. a tiny shelf held several worn-out books. when her father slept indoors, which was seldom except in winter, he occupied a couch in the opposite corner. a rude cupboard had been built against the logs next to the fireplace. it contained supplies and utensils. toward the center, somewhat closer to the door, stood a crude table and two benches. the cabin was dark and smelled of smoke, of the stale odors of past cooked meals, of the mustiness of dry, rotting timber. streaks of light showed through the roof where the rough-hewn shingles had split or weathered. a strip of bacon hung upon one side of the cupboard, and upon the other a haunch of venison. ellen detested the mexican woman because she was dirty. the inside of the cabin presented the same unkempt appearance usual to it after ellen had been away for a few days. whatever ellen had lost during the retrogression of the jorths, she had kept her habits of cleanliness, and straightway upon her return she set to work. the mexican woman sullenly slouched away to her own quarters outside and ellen was left to the satisfaction of labor. her mind was as busy as her hands. as she cleaned and swept and dusted she heard from time to time the voices of men, the clip-clop of shod horses, the bellow of cattle. and a considerable time elapsed before she was disturbed. a tall shadow darkened the doorway. "howdy, little one!" said a lazy, drawling voice. "so y'u-all got home?" ellen looked up. a superbly built man leaned against the doorpost. like most texans, he was light haired and light eyed. his face was lined and hard. his long, sandy mustache hid his mouth and drooped with a curl. spurred, booted, belted, packing a heavy gun low down on his hip, he gave ellen an entirely new impression. indeed, she was seeing everything strangely. "hello, daggs!" replied ellen. "where's my dad?" "he's playin' cairds with jackson an' colter. shore's playin' bad, too, an' it's gone to his haid." "gamblin'?" queried ellen. "mah child, when'd kurnel jorth ever play for fun?" said daggs, with a lazy laugh. "there's a stack of gold on the table. reckon yo' uncle jackson will win it. colter's shore out of luck." daggs stepped inside. he was graceful and slow. his long' spurs clinked. he laid a rather compelling hand on ellen's shoulder. "heah, mah gal, give us a kiss," he said. "daggs, i'm not your girl," replied ellen as she slipped out from under his hand. then daggs put his arm round her, not with violence or rudeness, but with an indolent, affectionate assurance, at once bold and self-contained. ellen, however, had to exert herself to get free of him, and when she had placed the table between them she looked him square in the eyes. "daggs, y'u keep your paws off me," she said. "aw, now, ellen, i ain't no bear," he remonstrated. "what's the matter, kid?" "i'm not a kid. and there's nothin' the matter. y'u're to keep your hands to yourself, that's all." he tried to reach her across the table, and his movements were lazy and slow, like his smile. his tone was coaxing. "mah dear, shore you set on my knee just the other day, now, didn't you?" ellen felt the blood sting her cheeks. "i was a child," she returned. "wal, listen to this heah grown-up young woman. all in a few days! ... doon't be in a temper, ellen.... come, give us a kiss." she deliberately gazed into his eyes. like the eyes of an eagle, they were clear and hard, just now warmed by the dalliance of the moment, but there was no light, no intelligence in them to prove he understood her. the instant separated ellen immeasurably from him and from all of his ilk. "daggs, i was a child," she said. "i was lonely--hungry for affection--i was innocent. then i was careless, too, and thoughtless when i should have known better. but i hardly understood y'u men. i put such thoughts out of my mind. i know now--know what y'u mean--what y'u have made people believe i am." "ahuh! shore i get your hunch," he returned, with a change of tone. "but i asked you to marry me?" "yes y'u did. the first day y'u got heah to my dad's house. and y'u asked me to marry y'u after y'u found y'u couldn't have your way with me. to y'u the one didn't mean any more than the other." "shore i did more than simm bruce an' colter," he retorted. "they never asked you to marry." "no, they didn't. and if i could respect them at all i'd do it because they didn't ask me." "wal, i'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated daggs, thoughtfully, as he stroked his long mustache. "i'll say to them what i've said to y'u," went on ellen. "i'll tell dad to make y'u let me alone. i wouldn't marry one of y'u--y'u loafers to save my life. i've my suspicions about y'u. y'u're a bad lot." daggs changed subtly. the whole indolent nonchalance of the man vanished in an instant. "wal, miss jorth, i reckon you mean we're a bad lot of sheepmen?" he queried, in the cool, easy speech of a texan. "no," flashed ellen. "shore i don't say sheepmen. i say y'u're a bad lot." "oh, the hell you say!" daggs spoke as he might have spoken to a man; then turning swiftly on his heel he left her. outside he encountered ellen's father. she heard daggs speak: "lee, your little wildcat is shore heah. an' take mah hunch. somebody has been talkin' to her." "who has?" asked her father, in his husky voice. ellen knew at once that he had been drinking. "lord only knows," replied daggs. "but shore it wasn't any friends of ours." "we cain't stop people's tongues," said jorth, resignedly "wal, i ain't so shore," continued daggs, with his slow, cool laugh. "reckon i never yet heard any daid men's tongues wag." then the musical tinkle of his spurs sounded fainter. a moment later ellen's father entered the cabin. his dark, moody face brightened at sight of her. ellen knew she was the only person in the world left for him to love. and she was sure of his love. her very presence always made him different. and through the years, the darker their misfortunes, the farther he slipped away from better days, the more she loved him. "hello, my ellen!" he said, and he embraced her. when he had been drinking he never kissed her. "shore i'm glad you're home. this heah hole is bad enough any time, but when you're gone it's black.... i'm hungry." ellen laid food and drink on the table; and for a little while she did not look directly at him. she was concerned about this new searching power of her eyes. in relation to him she vaguely dreaded it. lee jorth had once been a singularly handsome man. he was tall, but did not have the figure of a horseman. his dark hair was streaked with gray, and was white over his ears. his face was sallow and thin, with deep lines. under his round, prominent, brown eyes, like deadened furnaces, were blue swollen welts. he had a bitter mouth and weak chin, not wholly concealed by gray mustache and pointed beard. he wore a long frock coat and a wide-brimmed sombrero, both black in color, and so old and stained and frayed that along with the fashion of them they betrayed that they had come from texas with him. jorth always persisted in wearing a white linen shirt, likewise a relic of his southern prosperity, and to-day it was ragged and soiled as usual. ellen watched her father eat and waited for him to speak. it occured to her strangely that he never asked about the sheep or the new-born lambs. she divined with a subtle new woman's intuition that he cared nothing for his sheep. "ellen, what riled daggs?" inquired her father, presently. "he shore had fire in his eye." long ago ellen had betrayed an indignity she had suffered at the hands of a man. her father had nearly killed him. since then she had taken care to keep her troubles to herself. if her father had not been blind and absorbed in his own brooding he would have seen a thousand things sufficient to inflame his southern pride and temper. "daggs asked me to marry him again and i said he belonged to a bad lot," she replied. jorth laughed in scorn. "fool! my god! ellen, i must have dragged you low--that every damned ru--er--sheepman--who comes along thinks he can marry you." at the break in his words, the incompleted meaning, ellen dropped her eyes. little things once never noted by her were now come to have a fascinating significance. "never mind, dad," she replied. "they cain't marry me." "daggs said somebody had been talkin' to you. how aboot that?" "old john sprague has just gotten back from grass valley," said ellen. "i stopped in to see him. shore he told me all the village gossip." "anythin' to interest me?" he queried, darkly. "yes, dad, i'm afraid a good deal," she said, hesitatingly. then in accordance with a decision ellen had made she told him of the rumored war between sheepmen and cattlemen; that old isbel had blaisdell, gordon, fredericks, blue and other well-known ranchers on his side; that his son jean isbel had come from oregon with a wonderful reputation as fighter and scout and tracker; that it was no secret how colonel lee jorth was at the head of the sheepmen; that a bloody war was sure to come. "hah!" exclaimed jorth, with a stain of red in his sallow cheek. "reckon none of that is news to me. i knew all that." ellen wondered if he had heard of her meeting with jean isbel. if not he would hear as soon as simm bruce and lorenzo came back. she decided to forestall them. "dad, i met jean isbel. he came into my camp. asked the way to the rim. i showed him. we--we talked a little. and shore were gettin' acquainted when--when he told me who he was. then i left him--hurried back to camp." "colter met isbel down in the woods," replied jorth, ponderingly. "said he looked like an indian--a hard an' slippery customer to reckon with." "shore i guess i can indorse what colter said," returned ellen, dryly. she could have laughed aloud at her deceit. still she had not lied. "how'd this heah young isbel strike you?" queried her father, suddenly glancing up at her. ellen felt the slow, sickening, guilty rise of blood in her face. she was helpless to stop it. but her father evidently never saw it. he was looking at her without seeing her. "he--he struck me as different from men heah," she stammered. "did sprague tell you aboot this half-indian isbel--aboot his reputation?" "yes." "did he look to you like a real woodsman?" "indeed he did. he wore buckskin. he stepped quick and soft. he acted at home in the woods. he had eyes black as night and sharp as lightnin'. they shore saw about all there was to see." jorth chewed at his mustache and lost himself in brooding thought. "dad, tell me, is there goin' to be a war?" asked ellen, presently. what a red, strange, rolling flash blazed in his eyes! his body jerked. "shore. you might as well know." "between sheepmen and cattlemen?" "yes." "with y'u, dad, at the haid of one faction and gaston isbel the other?" "daughter, you have it correct, so far as you go." "oh! ... dad, can't this fight be avoided?" "you forget you're from texas," he replied. "cain't it be helped?" she repeated, stubbornly. "no!" he declared, with deep, hoarse passion. "why not?" "wal, we sheepmen are goin' to run sheep anywhere we like on the range. an' cattlemen won't stand for that." "but, dad, it's so foolish," declared ellen, earnestly. "y'u sheepmen do not have to run sheep over the cattle range." "i reckon we do." "dad, that argument doesn't go with me. i know the country. for years to come there will be room for both sheep and cattle without overrunnin'. if some of the range is better in water and grass, then whoever got there first should have it. that shore is only fair. it's common sense, too." "ellen, i reckon some cattle people have been prejudicin' you," said jorth, bitterly. "dad!" she cried, hotly. this had grown to be an ordeal for jorth. he seemed a victim of contending tides of feeling. some will or struggle broke within him and the change was manifest. haggard, shifty-eyed, with wabbling chin, he burst into speech. "see heah, girl. you listen. there's a clique of ranchers down in the basin, all those you named, with isbel at their haid. they have resented sheepmen comin' down into the valley. they want it all to themselves. that's the reason. shore there's another. all the isbels are crooked. they're cattle an' horse thieves--have been for years. gaston isbel always was a maverick rustler. he's gettin' old now an' rich, so he wants to cover his tracks. he aims to blame this cattle rustlin' an' horse stealin' on to us sheepmen, an' run us out of the country." gravely ellen jorth studied her father's face, and the newly found truth-seeing power of her eyes did not fail her. in part, perhaps in all, he was telling lies. she shuddered a little, loyally battling against the insidious convictions being brought to fruition. perhaps in his brooding over his failures and troubles he leaned toward false judgments. ellen could not attach dishonor to her father's motives or speeches. for long, however, something about him had troubled her, perplexed her. fearfully she believed she was coming to some revelation, and, despite her keen determination to know, she found herself shrinking. "dad, mother told me before she died that the isbels had ruined you," said ellen, very low. it hurt her so to see her father cover his face that she could hardly go on. "if they ruined you they ruined all of us. i know what we had once--what we lost again and again--and i see what we are come to now. mother hated the isbels. she taught me to hate the very name. but i never knew how they ruined you--or why--or when. and i want to know now." then it was not the face of a liar that jorth disclosed. the present was forgotten. he lived in the past. he even seemed younger 'in the revivifying flash of hate that made his face radiant. the lines burned out. hate gave him back the spirit of his youth. "gaston isbel an' i were boys together in weston, texas," began jorth, in swift, passionate voice. "we went to school together. we loved the same girl--your mother. when the war broke out she was engaged to isbel. his family was rich. they influenced her people. but she loved me. when isbel went to war she married me. he came back an' faced us. god! i'll never forget that. your mother confessed her unfaithfulness--by heaven! she taunted him with it. isbel accused me of winnin' her by lies. but she took the sting out of that. "isbel never forgave her an' he hounded me to ruin. he made me out a card-sharp, cheatin' my best friends. i was disgraced. later he tangled me in the courts--he beat me out of property--an' last by convictin' me of rustlin' cattle he run me out of texas." black and distorted now, jorth's face was a spectacle to make ellen sick with a terrible passion of despair and hate. the truth of her father's ruin and her own were enough. what mattered all else? jorth beat the table with fluttering, nerveless hands that seemed all the more significant for their lack of physical force. "an' so help me god, it's got to be wiped out in blood!" he hissed. that was his answer to the wavering and nobility of ellen. and she in her turn had no answer to make. she crept away into the corner behind the curtain, and there on her couch in the semidarkness she lay with strained heart, and a resurging, unconquerable tumult in her mind. and she lay there from the middle of that afternoon until the next morning. when she awakened she expected to be unable to rise--she hoped she could not--but life seemed multiplied in her, and inaction was impossible. something young and sweet and hopeful that had been in her did not greet the sun this morning. in their place was a woman's passion to learn for herself, to watch events, to meet what must come, to survive. after breakfast, at which she sat alone, she decided to put isbel's package out of the way, so that it would not be subjecting her to continual annoyance. the moment she picked it up the old curiosity assailed her. "shore i'll see what it is, anyway," she muttered, and with swift hands she opened the package. the action disclosed two pairs of fine, soft shoes, of a style she had never seen, and four pairs of stockings, two of strong, serviceable wool, and the others of a finer texture. ellen looked at them in amaze. of all things in the world, these would have been the last she expected to see. and, strangely, they were what she wanted and needed most. naturally, then, ellen made the mistake of taking them in her hands to feel their softness and warmth. "shore! he saw my bare legs! and he brought me these presents he'd intended for his sister.... he was ashamed for me--sorry for me.... and i thought he looked at me bold-like, as i'm used to be looked at heah! isbel or not, he's shore..." but ellen jorth could not utter aloud the conviction her intelligence tried to force upon her. "it'd be a pity to burn them," she mused. "i cain't do it. sometime i might send them to ann isbel." whereupon she wrapped them up again and hid them in the bottom of the old trunk, and slowly, as she lowered the lid, looking darkly, blankly at the wall, she whispered: "jean isbel! ... i hate him!" later when ellen went outdoors she carried her rifle, which was unusual for her, unless she intended to go into the woods. the morning was sunny and warm. a group of shirt-sleeved men lounged in the hall and before the porch of the double cabin. her father was pacing up and down, talking forcibly. ellen heard his hoarse voice. as she approached he ceased talking and his listeners relaxed their attention. ellen's glance ran over them swiftly--daggs, with his superb head, like that of a hawk, uncovered to the sun; colter with his lowered, secretive looks, his sand-gray lean face; jackson jorth, her uncle, huge, gaunt, hulking, with white in his black beard and hair, and the fire of a ghoul in his hollow eyes; tad jorth, another brother of her father's, younger, red of eye and nose, a weak-chinned drinker of rum. three other limber-legged texans lounged there, partners of daggs, and they were sun-browned, light-haired, blue-eyed men singularly alike in appearance, from their dusty high-heeled boots to their broad black sombreros. they claimed to be sheepmen. all ellen could be sure of was that rock wells spent most of his time there, doing nothing but look for a chance to waylay her; springer was a gambler; and the third, who answered to the strange name of queen, was a silent, lazy, watchful-eyed man who never wore a glove on his right hand and who never was seen without a gun within easy reach of that hand. "howdy, ellen. shore you ain't goin' to say good mawnin' to this heah bad lot?" drawled daggs, with good-natured sarcasm. "why, shore! good morning, y'u hard-working industrious manana sheep raisers," replied ellen, coolly. daggs stared. the others appeared taken back by a greeting so foreign from any to which they were accustomed from her. jackson jorth let out a gruff haw-haw. some of them doffed their sombreros, and rock wells managed a lazy, polite good morning. ellen's father seemed most significantly struck by her greeting, and the least amused. "ellen, i'm not likin' your talk," he said, with a frown. "dad, when y'u play cards don't y'u call a spade a spade?" "why, shore i do." "well, i'm calling spades spades." "ahuh!" grunted jorth, furtively dropping his eyes. "where you goin' with your gun? i'd rather you hung round heah now." "reckon i might as well get used to packing my gun all the time," replied ellen. "reckon i'll be treated more like a man." then the event ellen had been expecting all morning took place. simm bruce and lorenzo rode around the slope of the knoll and trotted toward the cabin. interest in ellen was relegated to the background. "shore they're bustin' with news," declared daggs. "they been ridin' some, you bet," remarked another. "huh!" exclaimed jorth. "bruce shore looks queer to me." "red liquor," said tad jorth, sententiously. "you-all know the brand greaves hands out." "naw, simm ain't drunk," said jackson jorth. "look at his bloody shirt." the cool, indolent interest of the crowd vanished at the red color pointed out by jackson jorth. daggs rose in a single springy motion to his lofty height. the face bruce turned to jorth was swollen and bruised, with unhealed cuts. where his right eye should have been showed a puffed dark purple bulge. his other eye, however, gleamed with hard and sullen light. he stretched a big shaking hand toward jorth. "thet nez perce isbel beat me half to death," he bellowed. jorth stared hard at the tragic, almost grotesque figure, at the battered face. but speech failed him. it was daggs who answered bruce. "wal, simm, i'll be damned if you don't look it." "beat you! what with?" burst out jorth, explosively. "i thought he was swingin' an ax, but greaves swore it was his fists," bawled bruce, in misery and fury. "where was your gun?" queried jorth, sharply. "gun? hell!" exclaimed bruce, flinging wide his arms. "ask lorenzo. he had a gun. an' he got a biff in the jaw before my turn come. ask him?" attention thus directed to the mexican showed a heavy discolored swelling upon the side of his olive-skinned face. lorenzo looked only serious. "hah! speak up," shouted jorth, impatiently. "senor isbel heet me ver quick," replied lorenzo, with expressive gesture. "i see thousand stars--then moocho black--all like night." at that some of daggs's men lolled back with dry crisp laughter. daggs's hard face rippled with a smile. but there was no humor in anything for colonel jorth. "tell us what come off. quick!" he ordered. "where did it happen? why? who saw it? what did you do?" bruce lapsed into a sullen impressiveness. "wal, i happened in greaves's store an' run into jean isbel. shore was lookin' fer him. i had my mind made up what to do, but i got to shootin' off my gab instead of my gun. i called him nez perce--an' i throwed all thet talk in his face about old gass isbel sendin' fer him---an' i told him he'd git run out of the tonto. reckon i was jest warmin' up.... but then it all happened. he slugged lorenzo jest one. an' lorenzo slid peaceful-like to bed behind the counter. i hadn't time to think of throwin' a gun before he whaled into me. he knocked out two of my teeth. an' i swallered one of them." ellen stood in the background behind three of the men and in the shadow. she did not join in the laugh that followed bruce's remarks. she had known that he would lie. uncertain yet of her reaction to this, but more bitter and furious as he revealed his utter baseness, she waited for more to be said. "wal, i'll be doggoned," drawled daggs. "what do you make of this kind of fightin'?" queried jorth, "darn if i know," replied daggs in perplexity. "shore an' sartin it's not the way of a texan. mebbe this young isbel really is what old gass swears he is. shore bruce ain't nothin' to give an edge to a real gun fighter. looks to me like isbel bluffed greaves an' his gang an' licked your men without throwin' a gun." "maybe isbel doesn't want the name of drawin' first blood," suggested jorth. "that 'd be like gass," spoke up rock wells, quietly. "i onct rode fer gass in texas." "say, bruce," said daggs, "was this heah palaverin' of yours an' jean isbel's aboot the old stock dispute? aboot his father's range an' water? an' partickler aboot, sheep?" "wal--i--i yelled a heap," declared bruce, haltingly, "but i don't recollect all i said--i was riled.... shore, though it was the same old argyment thet's been fetchin' us closer an' closer to trouble." daggs removed his keen hawklike gaze from bruce. "wal, jorth, all i'll say is this. if bruce is tellin' the truth we ain't got a hell of a lot to fear from this young isbel. i've known a heap of gun fighters in my day. an' jean isbel don't ran true to class. shore there never was a gunman who'd risk cripplin' his right hand by sluggin' anybody." "wal," broke in bruce, sullenly. "you-all can take it daid straight or not. i don't give a damn. but you've shore got my hunch thet nez perce isbel is liable to handle any of you fellars jest as he did me, an' jest as easy. what's more, he's got greaves figgered. an' you-all know thet greaves is as deep in--" "shut up that kind of gab," demanded jorth, stridently. "an' answer me. was the row in greaves's barroom aboot sheep?" "aw, hell! i said so, didn't i?" shouted bruce, with a fierce uplift of his distorted face. ellen strode out from the shadow of the tall men who had obscured her. "bruce, y'u're a liar," she said, bitingly. the surprise of her sudden appearance seemed to root bruce to the spot. all but the discolored places on his face turned white. he held his breath a moment, then expelled it hard. his effort to recover from the shock was painfully obvious. he stammered incoherently. "shore y'u're more than a liar, too," cried ellen, facing him with blazing eyes. and the rifle, gripped in both hands, seemed to declare her intent of menace. "that row was not about sheep.... jean isbel didn't beat y'u for anythin' about sheep.... old john sprague was in greaves's store. he heard y'u. he saw jean isbel beat y'u as y'u deserved.... an' he told me!" ellen saw bruce shrink in fear of his life; and despite her fury she was filled with disgust that he could imagine she would have his blood on her hands. then she divined that bruce saw more in the gathering storm in her father's eyes than he had to fear from her. "girl, what the hell are y'u sayin'?" hoarsely called jorth, in dark amaze. "dad, y'u leave this to me," she retorted. daggs stepped beside jorth, significantly on his right side. "let her alone lee," he advised, coolly. "she's shore got a hunch on bruce." "simm bruce, y'u cast a dirty slur on my name," cried ellen, passionately. it was then that daggs grasped jorth's right arm and held it tight, "jest what i thought," he said. "stand still, lee. let's see the kid make him showdown." "that's what jean isbel beat y'u for," went on ellen. "for slandering a girl who wasn't there.... me! y'u rotten liar!" "but, ellen, it wasn't all lies," said bruce, huskily. "i was half drunk--an' horrible jealous.... you know lorenzo seen isbel kissin' you. i can prove thet." ellen threw up her head and a scarlet wave of shame and wrath flooded her face. "yes," she cried, ringingly. "he saw jean isbel kiss me. once! ... an' it was the only decent kiss i've had in years. he meant no insult. i didn't know who he was. an' through his kiss i learned a difference between men.... y'u made lorenzo lie. an' if i had a shred of good name left in grass valley you dishonored it.... y'u made him think i was your girl! damn y'u! i ought to kill y'u.... eat your words now--take them back--or i'll cripple y'u for life!" ellen lowered the cocked rifle toward his feet. "shore, ellen, i take back--all i said," gulped bruce. he gazed at the quivering rifle barrel and then into the face of ellen's father. instinct told him where his real peril lay. here the cool and tactful daggs showed himself master of the situation. "heah, listen!" he called. "ellen, i reckon bruce was drunk an' out of his haid. he's shore ate his words. now, we don't want any cripples in this camp. let him alone. your dad got me heah to lead the jorths, an' that's my say to you.... simm, you're shore a low-down lyin' rascal. keep away from ellen after this or i'll bore you myself.... jorth, it won't be a bad idee for you to forget you're a texan till you cool off. let bruce stop some isbel lead. shore the jorth-isbel war is aboot on, an' i reckon we'd be smart to believe old gass's talk aboot his nez perce son." chapter vi from this hour ellen jorth bent all of her lately awakened intelligence and will to the only end that seemed to hold possible salvation for her. in the crisis sure to come she did not want to be blind or weak. dreaming and indolence, habits born in her which were often a comfort to one as lonely as she, would ill fit her for the hard test she divined and dreaded. in the matter of her father's fight she must stand by him whatever the issue or the outcome; in what pertained to her own principles, her womanhood, and her soul she stood absolutely alone. therefore, ellen put dreams aside, and indolence of mind and body behind her. many tasks she found, and when these were done for a day she kept active in other ways, thus earning the poise and peace of labor. jorth rode off every day, sometimes with one or two of the men, often with a larger number. if he spoke of such trips to ellen it was to give an impression of visiting the ranches of his neighbors or the various sheep camps. often he did not return the day he left. when he did get back he smelled of rum and appeared heavy from need of sleep. his horses were always dust and sweat covered. during his absences ellen fell victim to anxious dread until he returned. daily he grew darker and more haggard of face, more obsessed by some impending fate. often he stayed up late, haranguing with the men in the dim-lit cabin, where they drank and smoked, but seldom gambled any more. when the men did not gamble something immediate and perturbing was on their minds. ellen had not yet lowered herself to the deceit and suspicion of eavesdropping, but she realized that there was a climax approaching in which she would deliberately do so. in those closing may days ellen learned the significance of many things that previously she had taken as a matter of course. her father did not run a ranch. there was absolutely no ranching done, and little work. often ellen had to chop wood herself. jorth did not possess a plow. ellen was bound to confess that the evidence of this lack dumfounded her. even old john sprague raised some hay, beets, turnips. jorth's cattle and horses fared ill during the winter. ellen remembered how they used to clean up four-inch oak saplings and aspens. many of them died in the snow. the flocks of sheep, however, were driven down into the basin in the fall, and across the reno pass to phoenix and maricopa. ellen could not discover a fence post on the ranch, nor a piece of salt for the horses and cattle, nor a wagon, nor any sign of a sheep-shearing outfit. she had never seen any sheep sheared. ellen could never keep track of the many and different horses running loose and hobbled round the ranch. there were droves of horses in the woods, and some of them wild as deer. according to her long-established understanding, her father and her uncles were keen on horse trading and buying. then the many trails leading away from the jorth ranch--these grew to have a fascination for ellen; and the time came when she rode out on them to see for herself where they led. the sheep ranch of daggs, supposed to be only a few miles across the ridges, down in bear canyon, never materialized at all for ellen. this circumstance so interested her that she went up to see her friend sprague and got him to direct her to bear canyon, so that she would be sure not to miss it. and she rode from the narrow, maple-thicketed head of it near the rim down all its length. she found no ranch, no cabin, not even a corral in bear canyon. sprague said there was only one canyon by that name. daggs had assured her of the exact location on his place, and so had her father. had they lied? were they mistaken in the canyon? there were many canyons, all heading up near the rim, all running and widening down for miles through the wooded mountain, and vastly different from the deep, short, yellow-walled gorges that cut into the rim from the basin side. ellen investigated the canyons within six or eight miles of her home, both to east and to west. all she discovered was a couple of old log cabins, long deserted. still, she did not follow out all the trails to their ends. several of them led far into the deepest, roughest, wildest brakes of gorge and thicket that she had seen. no cattle or sheep had ever been driven over these trails. this riding around of ellen's at length got to her father's ears. ellen expected that a bitter quarrel would ensue, for she certainly would refuse to be confined to the camp; but her father only asked her to limit her riding to the meadow valley, and straightway forgot all about it. in fact, his abstraction one moment, his intense nervousness the next, his harder drinking and fiercer harangues with the men, grew to be distressing for ellen. they presaged his further deterioration and the ever-present evil of the growing feud. one day jorth rode home in the early morning, after an absence of two nights. ellen heard the clip-clop of, horses long before she saw them. "hey, ellen! come out heah," called her father. ellen left her work and went outside. a stranger had ridden in with her father, a young giant whose sharp-featured face appeared marked by ferret-like eyes and a fine, light, fuzzy beard. he was long, loose jointed, not heavy of build, and he had the largest hands and feet ellen bad ever seen. next ellen espied a black horse they had evidently brought with them. her father was holding a rope halter. at once the black horse struck ellen as being a beauty and a thoroughbred. "ellen, heah's a horse for you," said jorth, with something of pride. "i made a trade. reckon i wanted him myself, but he's too gentle for me an' maybe a little small for my weight." delight visited ellen for the first time in many days. seldom had she owned a good horse, and never one like this. "oh, dad!" she exclaimed, in her gratitude. "shore he's yours on one condition," said her father. "what's that?" asked ellen, as she laid caressing hands on the restless horse. "you're not to ride him out of the canyon." "agreed.... all daid black, isn't he, except that white face? what's his name, dad? "i forgot to ask," replied jorth, as he began unsaddling his own horse. "slater, what's this heah black's name?" the lanky giant grinned. "i reckon it was spades." "spades?" ejaculated ellen, blankly. "what a name! ... well, i guess it's as good as any. he's shore black." "ellen, keep him hobbled when you're not ridin' him," was her father's parting advice as he walked off with the stranger. spades was wet and dusty and his satiny skin quivered. he had fine, dark, intelligent eyes that watched ellen's every move. she knew how her father and his friends dragged and jammed horses through the woods and over the rough trails. it did not take her long to discover that this horse had been a pet. ellen cleaned his coat and brushed him and fed him. then she fitted her bridle to suit his head and saddled him. his evident response to her kindness assured her that he was gentle, so she mounted and rode him, to discover he had the easiest gait she had ever experienced. he walked and trotted to suit her will, but when left to choose his own gait he fell into a graceful little pace that was very easy for her. he appeared quite ready to break into a run at her slightest bidding, but ellen satisfied herself on this first ride with his slower gaits. "spades, y'u've shore cut out my burro jinny," said ellen, regretfully. "well, i reckon women are fickle." next day she rode up the canyon to show spades to her friend john sprague. the old burro breeder was not at home. as his door was open, however, and a fire smoldering, ellen concluded he would soon return. so she waited. dismounting, she left spades free to graze on the new green grass that carpeted the ground. the cabin and little level clearing accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the forest. ellen always liked it here and had once been in the habit of visiting the old man often. but of late she had stayed away, for the reason that sprague's talk and his news and his poorly hidden pity depressed her. presently she heard hoof beats on the hard, packed trail leading down the canyon in the direction from which she had come. scarcely likely was it that sprague should return from this direction. ellen thought her father had sent one of the herders for her. but when she caught a glimpse of the approaching horseman, down in the aspens, she failed to recognize him. after he had passed one of the openings she heard his horse stop. probably the man had seen her; at least she could not otherwise account for his stopping. the glimpse she had of him had given her the impression that he was bending over, peering ahead in the trail, looking for tracks. then she heard the rider come on again, more slowly this time. at length the horse trotted out into the opening, to be hauled up short. ellen recognized the buckskin-clad figure, the broad shoulders, the dark face of jean isbel. ellen felt prey to the strangest quaking sensation she had ever suffered. it took violence of her new-born spirit to subdue that feeling. isbel rode slowly across the clearing toward her. for ellen his approach seemed singularly swift--so swift that her surprise, dismay, conjecture, and anger obstructed her will. the outwardly calm and cold ellen jorth was a travesty that mocked her--that she felt he would discern. the moment isbel drew close enough for ellen to see his face she experienced a strong, shuddering repetition of her first shock of recognition. he was not the same. the light, the youth was gone. this, however, did not cause her emotion. was it not a sudden transition of her nature to the dominance of hate? ellen seemed to feel the shadow of her unknown self standing with her. isbel halted his horse. ellen had been standing near the trunk of a fallen pine and she instinctively backed against it. how her legs trembled! isbel took off his cap and crushed it nervously in his bare, brown hand. "good mornin', miss ellen!" he said. ellen did not return his greeting, but queried, almost breathlessly, "did y'u come by our ranch?" "no. i circled," he replied. "jean isbel! what do y'u want heah?" she demanded. "don't you know?" he returned. his eyes were intensely black and piercing. they seemed to search ellen's very soul. to meet their gaze was an ordeal that only her rousing fury sustained. ellen felt on her lips a scornful allusion to his half-breed indian traits and the reputation that had preceded him. but she could not utter it. "no," she replied. "it's hard to call a woman a liar," he returned, bitterly. but you must be--seein' you're a jorth. "liar! not to y'u, jean isbel," she retorted. "i'd not lie to y'u to save my life." he studied her with keen, sober, moody intent. the dark fire of his eyes thrilled her. "if that's true, i'm glad," he said. "shore it's true. i've no idea why y'u came heah." ellen did have a dawning idea that she could not force into oblivion. but if she ever admitted it to her consciousness, she must fail in the contempt and scorn and fearlessness she chose to throw in this man's face. "does old sprague live here?" asked isbel. "yes. i expect him back soon.... did y'u come to see him?" "no.... did sprague tell you anythin' about the row he saw me in?" "he--did not," replied ellen, lying with stiff lips. she who had sworn she could not lie! she felt the hot blood leaving her heart, mounting in a wave. all her conscious will seemed impelled to deceive. what had she to hide from jean isbel? and a still, small voice replied that she had to hide the ellen jorth who had waited for him that day, who had spied upon him, who had treasured a gift she could not destroy, who had hugged to her miserable heart the fact that he had fought for her name. "i'm glad of that," isbel was saying, thoughtfully. "did you come heah to see me?" interrupted ellen. she felt that she could not endure this reiterated suggestion of fineness, of consideration in him. she would betray herself--betray what she did not even realize herself. she must force other footing--and that should be the one of strife between the jorths and isbels. "no--honest, i didn't, miss ellen," he rejoined, humbly. "i'll tell you, presently, why i came. but it wasn't to see you.... i don't deny i wanted ... but that's no matter. you didn't meet me that day on the rim." "meet y'u!" she echoed, coldly. "shore y'u never expected me?" "somehow i did," he replied, with those penetrating eyes on her. "i put somethin' in your tent that day. did you find it?" "yes," she replied, with the same casual coldness. "what did you do with it?" "i kicked it out, of course," she replied. she saw him flinch. "and you never opened it?" "certainly not," she retorted, as if forced. "doon't y'u know anythin' about--about people? ... shore even if y'u are an isbel y'u never were born in texas." "thank god i wasn't!" he replied. "i was born in a beautiful country of green meadows and deep forests and white rivers, not in a barren desert where men live dry and hard as the cactus. where i come from men don't live on hate. they can forgive." "forgive! ... could y'u forgive a jorth?" "yes, i could." "shore that's easy to say--with the wrongs all on your side," she declared, bitterly. "ellen jorth, the first wrong was on your side," retorted jean, his voice fall. "your father stole my father's sweetheart--by lies, by slander, by dishonor, by makin' terrible love to her in his absence." "it's a lie," cried ellen, passionately. "it is not," he declared, solemnly. "jean isbel, i say y'u lie!" "no! i say you've been lied to," he thundered. the tremendous force of his spirit seemed to fling truth at ellen. it weakened her. "but--mother loved dad--best." "yes, afterward. no wonder, poor woman! ... but it was the action of your father and your mother that ruined all these lives. you've got to know the truth, ellen jorth.... all the years of hate have borne their fruit. god almighty can never save us now. blood must be spilled. the jorths and the isbels can't live on the same earth.... and you've got to know the truth because the worst of this hell falls on you and me." the hate that he spoke of alone upheld her. "never, jean isbel!" she cried. "i'll never know truth from y'u.... i'll never share anythin' with y'u--not even hell." isbel dismounted and stood before her, still holding his bridle reins. the bay horse champed his bit and tossed his head. "why do you hate me so?" he asked. "i just happen to be my father's son. i never harmed you or any of your people. i met you ... fell in love with you in a flash--though i never knew it till after.... why do you hate me so terribly?" ellen felt a heavy, stifling pressure within her breast. "y'u're an isbel.... doon't speak of love to me." "i didn't intend to. but your--your hate seems unnatural. and we'll probably never meet again.... i can't help it. i love you. love at first sight! jean isbel and ellen jorth! strange, isn't it? ... it was all so strange. my meetin' you so lonely and unhappy, my seein' you so sweet and beautiful, my thinkin' you so good in spite of--" "shore it was strange," interrupted ellen, with scornful laugh. she had found her defense. in hurting him she could hide her own hurt. "thinking me so good in spite of-- ha-ha! and i said i'd been kissed before!" "yes, in spite of everything," he said. ellen could not look at him as he loomed over her. she felt a wild tumult in her heart. all that crowded to her lips for utterance was false. "yes--kissed before i met you--and since," she said, mockingly. "and i laugh at what y'u call love, jean isbel." "laugh if you want--but believe it was sweet, honorable--the best in me," he replied, in deep earnestness. "bah!" cried ellen, with all the force of her pain and shame and hate. "by heaven, you must be different from what i thought!" exclaimed isbel, huskily. "shore if i wasn't, i'd make myself.... now, mister jean isbel, get on your horse an' go!" something of composure came to ellen with these words of dismissal, and she glanced up at him with half-veiled eyes. his changed aspect prepared her for some blow. "that's a pretty black horse." "yes," replied ellen, blankly. "do you like him?" "i--i love him." "all right, i'll give him to you then. he'll have less work and kinder treatment than if i used him. i've got some pretty hard rides ahead of me." "y'u--y'u give--" whispered ellen, slowly stiffening. "yes. he's mine," replied isbel. with that he turned to whistle. spades threw up his head, snorted, and started forward at a trot. he came faster the closer he got, and if ever ellen saw the joy of a horse at sight of a beloved master she saw it then. isbel laid a hand on the animal's neck and caressed him, then, turning back to ellen, he went on speaking: "i picked him from a lot of fine horses of my father's. we got along well. my sister ann rode him a good deal.... he was stolen from our pasture day before yesterday. i took his trail and tracked him up here. never lost his trail till i got to your ranch, where i had to circle till i picked it up again." "stolen--pasture--tracked him up heah?" echoed ellen, without any evidence of emotion whatever. indeed, she seemed to have been turned to stone. "trackin' him was easy. i wish for your sake it 'd been impossible," he said, bluntly. "for my sake?" she echoed, in precisely the same tone, manifestly that tone irritated isbel beyond control. he misunderstood it. with a hand far from gentle he pushed her bent head back so he could look into her face. "yes, for your sake!" he declared, harshly. "haven't you sense enough to see that? ... what kind of a game do you think you can play with me?" "game i ... game of what?" she asked. "why, a--a game of ignorance--innocence--any old game to fool a man who's tryin' to be decent." this time ellen mutely looked her dull, blank questioning. and it inflamed isbel. "you know your father's a horse thief!" he thundered. outwardly ellen remained the same. she had been prepared for an unknown and a terrible blow. it had fallen. and her face, her body, her hands, locked with the supreme fortitude of pride and sustained by hate, gave no betrayal of the crashing, thundering ruin within her mind and soul. motionless she leaned there, meeting the piercing fire of isbel's eyes, seeing in them a righteous and terrible scorn. in one flash the naked truth seemed blazed at her. the faith she had fostered died a sudden death. a thousand perplexing problems were solved in a second of whirling, revealing thought. "ellen jorth, you know your father's in with this hash knife gang of rustlers," thundered isbel. "shore," she replied, with the cool, easy, careless defiance of a texan. "you know he's got this daggs to lead his faction against the isbels?" "shore." "you know this talk of sheepmen buckin' the cattlemen is all a blind?" "shore," reiterated ellen. isbel gazed darkly down upon her. with his anger spent for the moment, he appeared ready to end the interview. but he seemed fascinated by the strange look of her, by the incomprehensible something she emanated. havoc gleamed in his pale, set face. he shook his dark head and his broad hand went to his breast. "to think i fell in love with such as you!" he exclaimed, and his other hand swept out in a tragic gesture of helpless pathos and impotence. the hell isbel had hinted at now possessed ellen--body, mind, and soul. disgraced, scorned by an isbel! yet loved by him! in that divination there flamed up a wild, fierce passion to hurt, to rend, to flay, to fling back upon him a stinging agony. her thought flew upon her like whips. pride of the jorths! pride of the old texan blue blood! it lay dead at her feet, killed by the scornful words of the last of that family to whom she owed her degradation. daughter of a horse thief and rustler! dark and evil and grim set the forces within her, accepting her fate, damning her enemies, true to the blood of the jorths. the sins of the father must be visited upon the daughter. "shore y'u might have had me--that day on the rim--if y'u hadn't told your name," she said, mockingly, and she gazed into his eyes with all the mystery of a woman's nature. isbel's powerful frame shook as with an ague. "girl, what do you mean?" "shore, i'd have been plumb fond of havin' y'u make up to me," she drawled. it possessed her now with irresistible power, this fact of the love he could not help. some fiendish woman's satisfaction dwelt in her consciousness of her power to kill the noble, the faithful, the good in him. "ellen jorth, you lie!" he burst out, hoarsely. "jean, shore i'd been a toy and a rag for these rustlers long enough. i was tired of them.... i wanted a new lover.... and if y'u hadn't give yourself away--" isbel moved so swiftly that she did not realize his intention until his hard hand smote her mouth. instantly she tasted the hot, salty blood from a cut lip. "shut up, you hussy!" he ordered, roughly. "have you no shame? ... my sister ann spoke well of you. she made excuses--she pitied you." that for ellen seemed the culminating blow under which she almost sank. but one moment longer could she maintain this unnatural and terrible poise. "jean isbel--go along with y'u," she said, impatiently. "i'm waiting heah for simm bruce!" at last it was as if she struck his heart. because of doubt of himself and a stubborn faith in her, his passion and jealousy were not proof against this last stab. instinctive subtlety inherent in ellen had prompted the speech that tortured isbel. how the shock to him rebounded on her! she gasped as he lunged for her, too swift for her to move a hand. one arm crushed round her like a steel band; the other, hard across her breast and neck, forced her head back. then she tried to wrestle away. but she was utterly powerless. his dark face bent down closer and closer. suddenly ellen ceased trying to struggle. she was like a stricken creature paralyzed by the piercing, hypnotic eyes of a snake. yet in spite of her terror, if he meant death by her, she welcomed it. "ellen jorth, i'm thinkin' yet--you lie!" he said, low and tense between his teeth. "no! no!" she screamed, wildly. her nerve broke there. she could no longer meet those terrible black eyes. her passionate denial was not only the last of her shameful deceit; it was the woman of her, repudiating herself and him, and all this sickening, miserable situation. isbel took her literally. she had convinced him. and the instant held blank horror for ellen. "by god--then i'll have somethin'--of you anyway!" muttered isbel, thickly. ellen saw the blood bulge in his powerful neck. she saw his dark, hard face, strange now, fearful to behold, come lower and lower, till it blurred and obstructed her gaze. she felt the swell and ripple and stretch--then the bind of his muscles, like huge coils of elastic rope. then with savage rude force his mouth closed on hers. all ellen's senses reeled, as if she were swooning. she was suffocating. the spasm passed, and a bursting spurt of blood revived her to acute and terrible consciousness. for the endless period of one moment he held her so that her breast seemed crushed. his kisses burned and braised her lips. and then, shifting violently to her neck, they pressed so hard that she choked under them. it was as if a huge bat had fastened upon her throat. suddenly the remorseless binding embraces--the hot and savage kisses--fell away from her. isbel had let go. she saw him throw up his hands, and stagger back a little, all the while with his piercing gaze on her. his face had been dark purple: now it was white. "no--ellen jorth," he panted, "i don't--want any of you--that way." and suddenly he sank on the log and covered his face with his hands. "what i loved in you--was what i thought--you were." like a wildcat ellen sprang upon him, beating him with her fists, tearing at his hair, scratching his face, in a blind fury. isbel made no move to stop her, and her violence spent itself with her strength. she swayed back from him, shaking so that she could scarcely stand. "y'u--damned--isbel!" she gasped, with hoarse passion. "y'u insulted me!" "insulted you?..." laughed isbel, in bitter scorn. "it couldn't be done." "oh! ... i'll kill y'u!" she hissed. isbel stood up and wiped the red scratches on his face. "go ahead. there's my gun," he said, pointing to his saddle sheath. "somebody's got to begin this jorth-isbel feud. it'll be a dirty business. i'm sick of it already.... kill me! ... first blood for ellen jorth!" suddenly the dark grim tide that had seemed to engulf ellen's very soul cooled and receded, leaving her without its false strength. she began to sag. she stared at isbel's gun. "kill him," whispered the retreating voices of her hate. but she was as powerless as if she were still held in jean isbel's giant embrace. "i--i want to--kill y'u," she whispered, "but i cain't.... leave me." "you're no jorth--the same as i'm no isbel. we oughtn't be mixed in this deal," he said, somberly. "i'm sorrier for you than i am for myself.... you're a girl.... you once had a good mother--a decent home. and this life you've led here--mean as it's been--is nothin' to what you'll face now. damn the men that brought you to this! i'm goin' to kill some of them." with that he mounted and turned away. ellen called out for him to take his horse. he did not stop nor look back. she called again, but her voice was fainter, and isbel was now leaving at a trot. slowly she sagged against the tree, lower and lower. he headed into the trail leading up the canyon. how strange a relief ellen felt! she watched him ride into the aspens and start up the slope, at last to disappear in the pines. it seemed at the moment that he took with him something which had been hers. a pain in her head dulled the thoughts that wavered to and fro. after he had gone she could not see so well. her eyes were tired. what had happened to her? there was blood on her hands. isbel's blood! she shuddered. was it an omen? lower she sank against the tree and closed her eyes. old john sprague did not return. hours dragged by--dark hours for ellen jorth lying prostrate beside the tree, hiding the blue sky and golden sunlight from her eyes. at length the lethargy of despair, the black dull misery wore away; and she gradually returned to a condition of coherent thought. what had she learned? sight of the black horse grazing near seemed to prompt the trenchant replies. spades belonged to jean isbel. he had been stolen by her father or by one of her father's accomplices. isbel's vaunted cunning as a tracker had been no idle boast. her father was a horse thief, a rustler, a sheepman only as a blind, a consort of daggs, leader of the hash knife gang. ellen well remembered the ill repute of that gang, way back in texas, years ago. her father had gotten in with this famous band of rustlers to serve his own ends--the extermination of the isbels. it was all very plain now to ellen. "daughter of a horse thief an' rustler!" she muttered. and her thoughts sped back to the days of her girlhood. only the very early stage of that time had been happy. in the light of isbel's revelation the many changes of residence, the sudden moves to unsettled parts of texas, the periods of poverty and sudden prosperity, all leading to the final journey to this god-forsaken arizona--these were now seen in their true significance. as far back as she could remember her father had been a crooked man. and her mother had known it. he had dragged her to her ruin. that degradation had killed her. ellen realized that with poignant sorrow, with a sudden revolt against her father. had gaston isbel truly and dishonestly started her father on his downhill road? ellen wondered. she hated the isbels with unutterable and growing hate, yet she had it in her to think, to ponder, to weigh judgments in their behalf. she owed it to something in herself to be fair. but what did it matter who was to blame for the jorth-isbel feud? somehow ellen was forced to confess that deep in her soul it mattered terribly. to be true to herself--the self that she alone knew--she must have right on her side. if the jorths were guilty, and she clung to them and their creed, then she would be one of them. "but i'm not," she mused, aloud. "my name's jorth, an' i reckon i have bad blood.... but it never came out in me till to-day. i've been honest. i've been good--yes, good, as my mother taught me to be--in spite of all.... shore my pride made me a fool.... an' now have i any choice to make? i'm a jorth. i must stick to my father." all this summing up, however, did not wholly account for the pang in her breast. what had she done that day? and the answer beat in her ears like a great throbbing hammer-stroke. in an agony of shame, in the throes of hate, she had perjured herself. she had sworn away her honor. she had basely made herself vile. she had struck ruthlessly at the great heart of a man who loved her. ah! that thrust had rebounded to leave this dreadful pang in her breast. loved her? yes, the strange truth, the insupportable truth! she had to contend now, not with her father and her disgrace, not with the baffling presence of jean isbel, but with the mysteries of her own soul. wonder of all wonders was it that such love had been born for her. shame worse than all other shame was it that she should kill it by a poisoned lie. by what monstrous motive had she done that? to sting isbel as he had stung her! but that had been base. never could she have stopped so low except in a moment of tremendous tumult. if she had done sore injury to isbel what bad she done to herself? how strange, how tenacious had been his faith in her honor! could she ever forget? she must forget it. but she could never forget the way he had scorned those vile men in greaves's store--the way he had beaten bruce for defiling her name--the way he had stubbornly denied her own insinuations. she was a woman now. she had learned something of the complexity of a woman's heart. she could not change nature. and all her passionate being thrilled to the manhood of her defender. but even while she thrilled she acknowledged her hate. it was the contention between the two that caused the pang in her breast. "an' now what's left for me?" murmured ellen. she did not analyze the significance of what had prompted that query. the most incalculable of the day's disclosures was the wrong she had done herself. "shore i'm done for, one way or another.... i must stick to dad.... or kill myself?" ellen rode spades back to the ranch. she rode like the wind. when she swung out of the trail into the open meadow in plain sight of the ranch her appearance created a commotion among the loungers before the cabin. she rode spades at a full run. "who's after you?" yelled her father, as she pulled the black to a halt. jorth held a rifle. daggs, colter, the other jorths were there, likewise armed, and all watchful, strung with expectancy. "shore nobody's after me," replied ellen. "cain't i run a horse round heah without being chased?" jorth appeared both incensed and relieved. "hah! ... what you mean, girl, runnin' like a streak right down on us? you're actin' queer these days, an' you look queer. i'm not likin' it." "reckon these are queer times--for the jorths," replied ellen, sarcastically. "daggs found strange horse tracks crossin' the meadow," said her father. "an' that worried us. some one's been snoopin' round the ranch. an' when we seen you runnin' so wild we shore thought you was bein' chased." "no. i was only trying out spades to see how fast he could run," returned ellen. "reckon when we do get chased it'll take some running to catch me." "haw! haw!" roared daggs. "it shore will, ellen." "girl, it's not only your runnin' an' your looks that's queer," declared jorth, in dark perplexity. "you talk queer." "shore, dad, y'u're not used to hearing spades called spades," said ellen, as she dismounted. "humph!" ejaculated her father, as if convinced of the uselessness of trying to understand a woman. "say, did you see any strange horse tracks?" "i reckon i did. and i know who made them." jorth stiffened. all the men behind him showed a sudden intensity of suspense. "who?" demanded jorth. "shore it was jean isbel," replied ellen, coolly. "he came up heah tracking his black horse." "jean--isbel--trackin'--his--black horse," repeated her father. "yes. he's not overrated as a tracker, that's shore." blank silence ensued. ellen cast a slow glance over her father and the others, then she began to loosen the cinches of her saddle. presently jorth burst the silence with a curse, and daggs followed with one of his sardonic laughs. "wal, boss, what did i tell you?" he drawled. jorth strode to ellen, and, whirling her around with a strong hand, he held her facing him. "did y'u see isbel?" "yes," replied ellen, just as sharply as her father had asked. "did y'u talk to him?" "yes." "what did he want up heah?" "i told y'u. he was tracking the black horse y'u stole." jorth's hand and arm dropped limply. his sallow face turned a livid hue. amaze merged into discomfiture and that gave place to rage. he raised a hand as if to strike ellen. and suddenly daggs's long arm shot out to clutch jorth's wrist. wrestling to free himself, jorth cursed under his breath. "let go, daggs," he shouted, stridently. "am i drunk that you grab me?" "wal, y'u ain't drunk, i reckon," replied the rustler, with sarcasm. "but y'u're shore some things i'll reserve for your private ear." jorth gained a semblance of composure. but it was evident that he labored under a shock. "ellen, did jean isbel see this black horse?" "yes. he asked me how i got spades an' i told him." "did he say spades belonged to him?" "shore i reckon he, proved it. y'u can always tell a horse that loves its master." "did y'u offer to give spades back?" "yes. but isbel wouldn't take him." "hah! ... an' why not?" "he said he'd rather i kept him. he was about to engage in a dirty, blood-spilling deal, an' he reckoned he'd not be able to care for a fine horse.... i didn't want spades. i tried to make isbel take him. but he rode off.... and that's all there is to that." "maybe it's not," replied jorth, chewing his mustache and eying ellen with dark, intent gaze. "y'u've met this isbel twice." "it wasn't any fault of mine," retorted ellen. "i heah he's sweet on y'u. how aboot that?" ellen smarted under the blaze of blood that swept to neck and cheek and temple. but it was only memory which fired this shame. what her father and his crowd might think were matters of supreme indifference. yet she met his suspicious gaze with truthful blazing eyes. "i heah talk from bruce an' lorenzo," went on her father. "an' daggs heah--" "daggs nothin'!" interrupted that worthy. "don't fetch me in. i said nothin' an' i think nothin'." "yes, jean isbel was sweet on me, dad ... but he will never be again," returned ellen, in low tones. with that she pulled her saddle off spades and, throwing it over her shoulder, she walked off to her cabin. hardly had she gotten indoors when her father entered. "ellen, i didn't know that horse belonged to isbel," he began, in the swift, hoarse, persuasive voice so familiar to ellen. "i swear i didn't. i bought him--traded with slater for him.... honest to god, i never had any idea he was stolen! ... why, when y'u said 'that horse y'u stole,' i felt as if y'u'd knifed me...." ellen sat at the table and listened while her father paced to and fro and, by his restless action and passionate speech, worked himself into a frenzy. he talked incessantly, as if her silence was condemnatory and as if eloquence alone could convince her of his honesty. it seemed that ellen saw and heard with keener faculties than ever before. he had a terrible thirst for her respect. not so much for her love, she divined, but that she would not see how he had fallen! she pitied him with all her heart. she was all he had, as he was all the world to her. and so, as she gave ear to his long, illogical rigmarole of argument and defense, she slowly found that her pity and her love were making vital decisions for her. as of old, in poignant moments, her father lapsed at last into a denunciation of the isbels and what they had brought him to. his sufferings were real, at least, in ellen's presence. she was the only link that bound him to long-past happier times. she was her mother over again--the woman who had betrayed another man for him and gone with him to her ruin and death. "dad, don't go on so," said ellen, breaking in upon her father's rant. "i will be true to y'u--as my mother was.... i am a jorth. your place is my place--your fight is my fight.... never speak of the past to me again. if god spares us through this feud we will go away and begin all over again, far off where no one ever heard of a jorth.... if we're not spared we'll at least have had our whack at these damned isbels." chapter vii during june jean isbel did not ride far away from grass valley. another attempt had been made upon gaston isbel's life. another cowardly shot had been fired from ambush, this time from a pine thicket bordering the trail that led to blaisdell's ranch. blaisdell heard this shot, so near his home was it fired. no trace of the hidden foe could be found. the 'ground all around that vicinity bore a carpet of pine needles which showed no trace of footprints. the supposition was that this cowardly attempt had been perpetrated, or certainly instigated, by the jorths. but there was no proof. and gaston isbel had other enemies in the tonto basin besides the sheep clan. the old man raged like a lion about this sneaking attack on him. and his friend blaisdell urged an immediate gathering of their kin and friends. "let's quit ranchin' till this trouble's settled," he declared. "let's arm an' ride the trails an' meet these men half-way.... it won't help our side any to wait till you're shot in the back." more than one of isbel's supporters offered the same advice. "no; we'll wait till we know for shore," was the stubborn cattleman's reply to all these promptings. "know! wal, hell! didn't jean find the black hoss up at jorth's ranch?" demanded blaisdell. "what more do we want?" "jean couldn't swear jorth stole the black." "wal, by thunder, i can swear to it!" growled blaisdell. "an' we're losin' cattle all the time. who's stealin' 'em?" "we've always lost cattle ever since we started ranchin' heah." "gas, i reckon yu want jorth to start this fight in the open." "it'll start soon enough," was isbel's gloomy reply. jean had not failed altogether in his tracking of lost or stolen cattle. circumstances had been against him, and there was something baffling about this rustling. the summer storms set in early, and it had been his luck to have heavy rains wash out fresh tracks that he might have followed. the range was large and cattle were everywhere. sometimes a loss was not discovered for weeks. gaston isbel's sons were now the only men left to ride the range. two of his riders had quit because of the threatened war, and isbel had let another go. so that jean did not often learn that cattle had been stolen until their tracks were old. added to that was the fact that this grass valley country was covered with horse tracks and cattle tracks. the rustlers, whoever they were, had long been at the game, and now that there was reason for them to show their cunning they did it. early in july the hot weather came. down on the red ridges of the tonto it was hot desert. the nights were cool, the early mornings were pleasant, but the day was something to endure. when the white cumulus clouds rolled up out of the southwest, growing larger and thicker and darker, here and there coalescing into a black thundercloud, jean welcomed them. he liked to see the gray streamers of rain hanging down from a canopy of black, and the roar of rain on the trees as it approached like a trampling army was always welcome. the grassy flats, the red ridges, the rocky slopes, the thickets of manzanita and scrub oak and cactus were dusty, glaring, throat-parching places under the hot summer sun. jean longed for the cool heights of the rim, the shady pines, the dark sweet verdure under the silver spruces, the tinkle and murmur of the clear rills. he often had another longing, too, which he bitterly stifled. jean's ally, the keen-nosed shepherd clog, had disappeared one day, and had never returned. among men at the ranch there was a difference of opinion as to what had happened to shepp. the old rancher thought he had been poisoned or shot; bill and guy isbel believed he had been stolen by sheep herders, who were always stealing dogs; and jean inclined to the conviction that shepp had gone off with the timber wolves. the fact was that shepp did not return, and jean missed him. one morning at dawn jean heard the cattle bellowing and trampling out in the valley; and upon hurrying to a vantage point he was amazed to see upward of five hundred steers chasing a lone wolf. jean's father had seen such a spectacle as this, but it was a new one for jean. the wolf was a big gray and black fellow, rangy and powerful, and until he got the steers all behind him he was rather hard put to it to keep out of their way. probably he had dogged the herd, trying to sneak in and pull down a yearling, and finally the steers had charged him. jean kept along the edge of the valley in the hope they would chase him within range of a rifle. but the wary wolf saw jean and sheered off, gradually drawing away from his pursuers. jean returned to the house for his breakfast, and then set off across the valley. his father owned one small flock of sheep that had not yet been driven up on the rim, where all the sheep in the country were run during the hot, dry summer down on the tonto. young evarts and a mexican boy named bernardino had charge of this flock. the regular mexican herder, a man of experience, had given up his job; and these boys were not equal to the task of risking the sheep up in the enemies' stronghold. this flock was known to be grazing in a side draw, well up from grass valley, where the brush afforded some protection from the sun, and there was good water and a little feed. before jean reached his destination he heard a shot. it was not a rifle shot, which fact caused jean a little concern. evarts and bernardino had rifles, but, to his knowledge, no small arms. jean rode up on one of the black-brushed conical hills that rose on the south side of grass valley, and from there he took a sharp survey of the country. at first he made out only cattle, and bare meadowland, and the low encircling ridges and hills. but presently up toward the head of the valley he descried a bunch of horsemen riding toward the village. he could not tell their number. that dark moving mass seemed to jean to be instinct with life, mystery, menace. who were they? it was too far for him to recognize horses, let alone riders. they were moving fast, too. jean watched them out of sight, then turned his horse downhill again, and rode on his quest. a number of horsemen like that was a very unusual sight around grass valley at any time. what then did it portend now? jean experienced a little shock of uneasy dread that was a new sensation for him. brooding over this he proceeded on his way, at length to turn into the draw where the camp of the sheep-herders was located. upon coming in sight of it he heard a hoarse shout. young evarts appeared running frantically out of the brush. jean urged his horse into a run and soon covered the distance between them. evarts appeared beside himself with terror. "boy! what's the matter?" queried jean, as he dismounted, rifle in hand, peering quickly from evarts's white face to the camp, and all around. "ber-nardino! ber-nardino!" gasped the boy, wringing his hands and pointing. jean ran the few remaining rods to the sheep camp. he saw the little teepee, a burned-out fire, a half-finished meal--and then the mexican lad lying prone on the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastly face. near him lay an old six-shooter. "whose gun is that?" demanded jean, as he picked it up. "ber-nardino's," replied evarts, huskily. "he--he jest got it--the other day." "did he shoot himself accidentally?" "oh no! no! he didn't do it--atall." "who did, then?" "the men--they rode up--a gang-they did it," panted evarts. "did you know who they were?" "no. i couldn't tell. i saw them comin' an' i was skeered. bernardino had gone fer water. i run an' hid in the brush. i wanted to yell, but they come too close.... then i heerd them talkin'. bernardino come back. they 'peared friendly-like. thet made me raise up, to look. an' i couldn't see good. i heerd one of them ask bernardino to let him see his gun. an' bernardino handed it over. he looked at the gun an' haw-hawed, an' flipped it up in the air, an' when it fell back in his hand it--it went off bang! ... an' bernardino dropped.... i hid down close. i was skeered stiff. i heerd them talk more, but not what they said. then they rode away.... an' i hid there till i seen y'u comin'." "have you got a horse?" queried jean, sharply. "no. but i can ride one of bernardino's burros." "get one. hurry over to blaisdell. tell him to send word to blue and gordon and fredericks to ride like the devil to my father's ranch. hurry now!" young evarts ran off without reply. jean stood looking down at the limp and pathetic figure of the mexican boy. "by heaven!" he exclaimed, grimly "the jorth-isbel war is on! ... deliberate, cold-blooded murder! i'll gamble daggs did this job. he's been given the leadership. he's started it.... bernardino, greaser or not, you were a faithful lad, and you won't go long unavenged." jean had no time to spare. tearing a tarpaulin out of the teepee he covered the lad with it and then ran for, his horse. mounting, he galloped down the draw, over the little red ridges, out into the valley, where he put his horse to a run. action changed the sickening horror that sight of bernardino had engendered. jean even felt a strange, grim relief. the long, dragging days of waiting were over. jorth's gang had taken the initiative. blood had begun to flow. and it would continue to flow now till the last man of one faction stood over the dead body of the last man of the other. would it be a jorth or an isbel? "my instinct was right," he muttered, aloud. "that bunch of horses gave me a queer feelin'." jean gazed all around the grassy, cattle-dotted valley he was crossing so swiftly, and toward the village, but he did not see any sign of the dark group of riders. they had gone on to greaves's store, there, no doubt, to drink and to add more enemies of the isbels to their gang. suddenly across jean's mind flashed a thought of ellen jorth. "what 'll become of her? ... what 'll become of all the women? my sister? ... the little ones?" no one was in sight around the ranch. never had it appeared more peaceful and pastoral to jean. the grazing cattle and horses in the foreground, the haystack half eaten away, the cows in the fenced pasture, the column of blue smoke lazily ascending, the cackle of hens, the solid, well-built cabins--all these seemed to repudiate jean's haste and his darkness of mind. this place was, his father's farm. there was not a cloud in the blue, summer sky. as jean galloped up the lane some one saw him from the door, and then bill and guy and their gray-headed father came out upon the porch. jean saw how he' waved the womenfolk back, and then strode out into the lane. bill and guy reached his side as jean pulled his heaving horse to a halt. they all looked at jean, swiftly and intently, with a little, hard, fiery gleam strangely identical in the eyes of each. probably before a word was spoken they knew what to expect. "wal, you shore was in a hurry," remarked the father. "what the hell's up?" queried bill, grimly. guy isbel remained silent and it was he who turned slightly pale. jean leaped off his horse. "bernardino has just been killed--murdered with his own gun." gaston isbel seemed to exhale a long-dammed, bursting breath that let his chest sag. a terrible deadly glint, pale and cold as sunlight on ice, grew slowly to dominate his clear eyes. "a-huh!" ejaculated bill isbel, hoarsely. not one of the three men asked who had done the killing. they were silent a moment, motionless, locked in the secret seclusion of their own minds. then they listened with absorption to jean's brief story. "wal, that lets us in," said his father. "i wish we had more time. reckon i'd done better to listen to you boys an' have my men close at hand. jacobs happened to ride over. that makes five of us besides the women." "aw, dad, you don't reckon they'll round us up heah?" asked guy isbel. "boys, i always feared they might," replied the old man. "but i never really believed they'd have the nerve. shore i ought to have figgered daggs better. this heah secret bizness an' shootin' at us from ambush looked aboot jorth's size to me. but i reckon now we'll have to fight without our friends." "let them come," said jean. "i sent for blaisdell, blue, gordon, and fredericks. maybe they'll get here in time. but if they don't it needn't worry us much. we can hold out here longer than jorth's gang can hang around. we'll want plenty of water, wood, and meat in the house." "wal, i'll see to that," rejoined his father. "jean, you go out close by, where you can see all around, an' keep watch." "who's goin' to tell the women?" asked guy isbel. the silence that momentarily ensued was an eloquent testimony to the hardest and saddest aspect of this strife between men. the inevitableness of it in no wise detracted from its sheer uselessness. men from time immemorial had hated, and killed one another, always to the misery and degradation of their women. old gaston isbel showed this tragic realization in his lined face. "wal, boys, i'll tell the women," he said. "shore you needn't worry none aboot them. they'll be game." jean rode away to an open knoll a short distance from the house, and here he stationed himself to watch all points. the cedared ridge back of the ranch was the one approach by which jorth's gang might come close without being detected, but even so, jean could see them and ride to the house in time to prevent a surprise. the moments dragged by, and at the end of an hour jean was in hopes that blaisdell would soon come. these hopes were well founded. presently he heard a clatter of hoofs on hard ground to the south, and upon wheeling to look he saw the friendly neighbor coming fast along the road, riding a big white horse. blaisdell carried a rifle in his hand, and the sight of him gave jean a glow of warmth. he was one of the texans who would stand by the isbels to the last man. jean watched him ride to the house--watched the meeting between him and his lifelong friend. there floated out to jean old blaisdell's roar of rage. then out on the green of grass valley, where a long, swelling plain swept away toward the village, there appeared a moving dark patch. a bunch of horses! jean's body gave a slight start--the shock of sudden propulsion of blood through all his veins. those horses bore riders. they were coming straight down the open valley, on the wagon road to isbel's ranch. no subterfuge nor secrecy nor sneaking in that advance! a hot thrill ran over jean. "by heaven! they mean business!" he muttered. up to the last moment he had unconsciously hoped jorth's gang would not come boldly like that. the verifications of all a texan's inherited instincts left no doubts, no hopes, no illusions--only a grim certainty that this was not conjecture nor probability, but fact. for a moment longer jean watched the slowly moving dark patch of horsemen against the green background, then he hurried back to the ranch. his father saw him coming--strode out as before. "dad--jorth is comin'," said jean, huskily. how he hated to be forced to tell his father that! the boyish love of old had flashed up. "whar?" demanded the old man, his eagle gaze sweeping the horizon. "down the road from grass valley. you can't see from here." "wal, come in an' let's get ready." isbel's house had not been constructed with the idea of repelling an attack from a band of apaches. the long living room of the main cabin was the one selected for defense and protection. this room had two windows and a door facing the lane, and a door at each end, one of which opened into the kitchen and the other into an adjoining and later-built cabin. the logs of this main cabin were of large size, and the doors and window coverings were heavy, affording safer protection from bullets than the other cabins. when jean went in he seemed to see a host of white faces lifted to him. his sister ann, his two sisters-in-law, the children, all mutely watched him with eyes that would haunt him. "wal, blaisdell, jean says jorth an' his precious gang of rustlers are on the way heah," announced the rancher. "damn me if it's not a bad day fer lee jorth!" declared blaisdell. "clear off that table," ordered isbel, "an' fetch out all the guns an' shells we got." once laid upon the table these presented a formidable arsenal, which consisted of the three new . winchesters that jean had brought with him from the coast; the enormous buffalo, or so-called "needle" gun, that gaston isbel had used for years; a henry rifle which blaisdell had brought, and half a dozen six-shooters. piles and packages of ammunition littered the table. "sort out these heah shells," said isbel. "everybody wants to get hold of his own." jacobs, the neighbor who was present, was a thick-set, bearded man, rather jovial among those lean-jawed texans. he carried a . rifle of an old pattern. "wal, boys, if i'd knowed we was in fer some fun i'd hev fetched more shells. only got one magazine full. mebbe them new . 's will fit my gun." it was discovered that the ammunition jean had brought in quantity fitted jacob's rifle, a fact which afforded peculiar satisfaction to all the men present. "wal, shore we're lucky," declared gaston isbel. the women sat apart, in the corner toward the kitchen, and there seemed to be a strange fascination for them in the talk and action of the men. the wife of jacobs was a little woman, with homely face and very bright eyes. jean thought she would be a help in that household during the next doubtful hours. every moment jean would go to the window and peer out down the road. his companions evidently relied upon him, for no one else looked out. now that the suspense of days and weeks was over, these texans faced the issue with talk and act not noticeably different from those of ordinary moments. at last jean espied the dark mass of horsemen out in the valley road. they were close together, walking their mounts, and evidently in earnest conversation. after several ineffectual attempts jean counted eleven horses, every one of which he was sure bore a rider. "dad, look out!" called jean. gaston isbel strode to the door and stood looking, without a word. the other men crowded to the windows. blaisdell cursed under his breath. jacobs said: "by golly! come to pay us a call!" the women sat motionless, with dark, strained eyes. the children ceased their play and looked fearfully to their mother. when just out of rifle shot of the cabins the band of horsemen halted and lined up in a half circle, all facing the ranch. they were close enough for jean to see their gestures, but he could not recognize any of their faces. it struck him singularly that not one of them wore a mask. "jean, do you know any of them?" asked his father "no, not yet. they're too far off." "dad, i'll get your old telescope," said guy isbel, and he ran out toward the adjoining cabin. blaisdell shook his big, hoary head and rumbled out of his bull-like neck, "wal, now you're heah, you sheep fellars, what are you goin' to do aboot it?" guy isbel returned with a yard-long telescope, which he passed to his father. the old man took it with shaking hands and leveled it. suddenly it was as if he had been transfixed; then he lowered the glass, shaking violently, and his face grew gray with an exceeding bitter wrath. "jorth!" he swore, harshly. jean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had been like a mortal shock. it passed. again the rancher leveled the glass. "wal, blaisdell, there's our old texas friend, daggs," he drawled, dryly. "an' greaves, our honest storekeeper of grass valley. an' there's stonewall jackson jorth. an' tad jorth, with the same old red nose! ... an', say, damn if one of that gang isn't queen, as bad a gun fighter as texas ever bred. shore i thought he'd been killed in the big bend country. so i heard.... an' there's craig, another respectable sheepman of grass valley. haw-haw! an', wal, i don't recognize any more of them." jean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces of that group of horsemen. "simm bruce," he said, instantly. "i see colter. and, yes, greaves is there. i've seen the man next to him--face like a ham...." "shore that is craig," interrupted his father. jean knew the dark face of lee jorth by the resemblance it bore to ellen's, and the recognition brought a twinge. he thought, too, that he could tell the other jorths. he asked his father to describe daggs and then queen. it was not likely that jean would fail to know these several men in the future. then blaisdell asked for the telescope and, when he got through looking and cursing, he passed it on to others, who, one by one, took a long look, until finally it came back to the old rancher. "wal, daggs is wavin' his hand heah an' there, like a general aboot to send out scouts. haw-haw! ... an' 'pears to me he's not overlookin' our hosses. wal, that's natural for a rustler. he'd have to steal a hoss or a steer before goin' into a fight or to dinner or to a funeral." "it 'll be his funeral if he goes to foolin' 'round them hosses," declared guy isbel, peering anxiously out of the door. "wal, son, shore it 'll be somebody's funeral," replied his father. jean paid but little heed to the conversation. with sharp eyes fixed upon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. daggs pointed to the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house. these animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to guy isbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. his horses were his passion. "looks like they'd do some horse stealin'," said jean. "lend me that glass," demanded guy, forcefully. he surveyed the band of men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to jean. "i'm goin' out there after my hosses," he declared. "no!" exclaimed his father. "that gang come to steal an' not to fight. can't you see that? if they meant to fight they'd do it. they're out there arguin' about my hosses." guy picked up his rifle. he looked sullenly determined and the gleam in his eye was one of fearlessness. "son, i know daggs," said his father. "an' i know jorth. they've come to kill us. it 'll be shore death for y'u to go out there." "i'm goin', anyhow. they can't steal my hosses out from under my eyes. an' they ain't in range." "wal, guy, you ain't goin' alone," spoke up jacobs, cheerily, as he came forward. the red-haired young wife of guy isbel showed no change of her grave face. she had been reared in a stern school. she knew men in times like these. but jacobs's wife appealed to him, "bill, don't risk your life for a horse or two." jacobs laughed and answered, "not much risk," and went out with guy. to jean their action seemed foolhardy. he kept a keen eye on them and saw instantly when the band became aware of guy's and jacobs's entrance into the pasture. it took only another second then to realize that daggs and jorth had deadly intent. jean saw daggs slip out of his saddle, rifle in hand. others of the gang did likewise, until half of them were dismounted. "dad, they're goin' to shoot," called out jean, sharply. "yell for guy and jacobs. make them come back." the old man shouted; bill isbel yelled; blaisdell lifted his stentorian voice. jean screamed piercingly: "guy! run! run!" but guy isbel and his companion strode on into the pasture, as if they had not heard, as if no menacing horse thieves were within miles. they had covered about a quarter of the distance across the pasture, and were nearing the horses, when jean saw red flashes and white puffs of smoke burst out from the front of that dark band of rustlers. then followed the sharp, rattling crack of rifles. guy isbel stopped short, and, dropping his gun, he threw up his arms and fell headlong. jacobs acted as if he had suddenly encountered an invisible blow. he had been hit. turning, he began to run and ran fast for a few paces. there were more quick, sharp shots. he let go of his rifle. his running broke. walking, reeling, staggering, he kept on. a hoarse cry came from him. then a single rifle shot pealed out. jean heard the bullet strike. jacobs fell to his knees, then forward on his face. jean isbel felt himself turned to marble. the suddenness of this tragedy paralyzed him. his gaze remained riveted on those prostrate forms. a hand clutched his arm--a shaking woman's hand, slim and hard and tense. "bill's--killed!" whispered a broken voice. "i was watchin'.... they're both dead!" the wives of jacobs and guy isbel had slipped up behind jean and from behind him they had seen the tragedy. "i asked bill--not to--go," faltered the jacobs woman, and, covering her face with her hands, she groped back to the corner of the cabin, where the other women, shaking and white, received her in their arms. guy isbel's wife stood at the window, peering over jean's shoulder. she had the nerve of a man. she had looked out upon death before. "yes, they're dead," she said, bitterly. "an' how are we goin' to get their bodies?" at this gaston isbel seemed to rouse from the cold spell that had transfixed him. "god, this is hell for our women," he cried out, hoarsely. "my son--my son! ... murdered by the jorths!" then he swore a terrible oath. jean saw the remainder of the mounted rustlers get off, and then, all of them leading their horses, they began to move around to the left. "dad, they're movin' round," said jean. "up to some trick," declared bill isbel. "bill, you make a hole through the back wall, say aboot the fifth log up," ordered the father. "shore we've got to look out." the elder son grasped a tool and, scattering the children, who had been playing near the back corner, he began to work at the point designated. the little children backed away with fixed, wondering, grave eyes. the women moved their chairs, and huddled together as if waiting and listening. jean watched the rustlers until they passed out of his sight. they had moved toward the sloping, brushy ground to the north and west of the cabins. "let me know when you get a hole in the back wall," said jean, and he went through the kitchen and cautiously out another door to slip into a low-roofed, shed-like end of the rambling cabin. this small space was used to store winter firewood. the chinks between the walls had not been filled with adobe clay, and he could see out on three sides. the rustlers were going into the juniper brush. they moved out of sight, and presently reappeared without their horses. it looked to jean as if they intended to attack the cabins. then they halted at the edge of the brush and held a long consultation. jean could see them distinctly, though they were too far distant for him to recognize any particular man. one of them, however, stood and moved apart from the closely massed group. evidently, from his strides and gestures, he was exhorting his listeners. jean concluded this was either daggs or jorth. whoever it was had a loud, coarse voice, and this and his actions impressed jean with a suspicion that the man was under the influence of the bottle. presently bill isbel called jean in a low voice. "jean, i got the hole made, but we can't see anyone." "i see them," jean replied. "they're havin' a powwow. looks to me like either jorth or daggs is drunk. he's arguin' to charge us, an' the rest of the gang are holdin' back.... tell dad, an' all of you keep watchin'. i'll let you know when they make a move." jorth's gang appeared to be in no hurry to expose their plan of battle. gradually the group disintegrated a little; some of them sat down; others walked to and fro. presently two of them went into the brush, probably back to the horses. in a few moments they reappeared, carrying a pack. and when this was deposited on the ground all the rustlers sat down around it. they had brought food and drink. jean had to utter a grim laugh at their coolness; and he was reminded of many dare-devil deeds known to have been perpetrated by the hash knife gang. jean was glad of a reprieve. the longer the rustlers put off an attack the more time the allies of the isbels would have to get here. rather hazardous, however, would it be now for anyone to attempt to get to the isbel cabins in the daytime. night would be more favorable. twice bill isbel came through the kitchen to whisper to jean. the strain in the large room, from which the rustlers could not be seen, must have been great. jean told him all he had seen and what he thought about it. "eatin' an' drinkin'!" ejaculated bill. "well, i'll be--! that 'll jar the old man. he wants to get the fight over. "tell him i said it'll be over too quick--for us--unless are mighty careful," replied jean, sharply. bill went back muttering to himself. then followed a long wait, fraught with suspense, during which jean watched the rustlers regale themselves. the day was hot and still. and the unnatural silence of the cabin was broken now and then by the gay laughter of the children. the sound shocked and haunted jean. playing children! then another sound, so faint he had to strain to hear it, disturbed and saddened him--his father's slow tread up and down the cabin floor, to and fro, to and fro. what must be in his father's heart this day! at length the rustlers rose and, with rifles in hand, they moved as one man down the slope. they came several hundred yards closer, until jean, grimly cocking his rifle, muttered to himself that a few more rods closer would mean the end of several of that gang. they knew the range of a rifle well enough, and once more sheered off at right angles with the cabin. when they got even with the line of corrals they stooped down and were lost to jean's sight. this fact caused him alarm. they were, of course, crawling up on the cabins. at the end of that line of corrals ran a ditch, the bank of which was high enough to afford cover. moreover, it ran along in front of the cabins, scarcely a hundred yards, and it was covered with grass and little clumps of brush, from behind which the rustlers could fire into the windows and through the clay chinks without any considerable risk to themselves. as they did not come into sight again, jean concluded he had discovered their plan. still, he waited awhile longer, until he saw faint, little clouds of dust rising from behind the far end of the embankment. that discovery made him rush out, and through the kitchen to the large cabin, where his sudden appearance startled the men. "get back out of sight!" he ordered, sharply, and with swift steps he reached the door and closed it. "they're behind the bank out there by the corrals. an' they're goin' to crawl down the ditch closer to us.... it looks bad. they'll have grass an' brush to shoot from. we've got to be mighty careful how we peep out." "ahuh! all right," replied his father. "you women keep the kids with you in that corner. an' you all better lay down flat." blaisdell, bill isbel, and the old man crouched at the large window, peeping through cracks in the rough edges of the logs. jean took his post beside the small window, with his keen eyes vibrating like a compass needle. the movement of a blade of grass, the flight of a grasshopper could not escape his trained sight. "look sharp now!" he called to the other men. "i see dust.... they're workin' along almost to that bare spot on the bank.... i saw the tip of a rifle ... a black hat ... more dust. they're spreadin' along behind the bank." loud voices, and then thick clouds of yellow dust, coming from behind the highest and brushiest line of the embankment, attested to the truth of jean's observation, and also to a reckless disregard of danger. suddenly jean caught a glint of moving color through the fringe of brush. instantly he was strung like a whipcord. then a tall, hatless and coatless man stepped up in plain sight. the sun shone on his fair, ruffled hair. daggs! "hey, you -- -- isbels!" he bawled, in magnificent derisive boldness. "come out an' fight!" quick as lightning jean threw up his rifle and fired. he saw tufts of fair hair fly from daggs's head. he saw the squirt of red blood. then quick shots from his comrades rang out. they all hit the swaying body of the rustler. but jean knew with a terrible thrill that his bullet had killed daggs before the other three struck. daggs fell forward, his arms and half his body resting over, the embankment. then the rustlers dragged him back out of sight. hoarse shouts rose. a cloud of yellow dust drifted away from the spot. "daggs!" burst out gaston isbel. "jean, you knocked off the top of his haid. i seen that when i was pullin' trigger. shore we over heah wasted our shots." "god! he must have been crazy or drunk--to pop up there--an' brace us that way," said blaisdell, breathing hard. "arizona is bad for texans," replied isbel, sardonically. "shore it's been too peaceful heah. rustlers have no practice at fightin'. an' i reckon daggs forgot." "daggs made as crazy a move as that of guy an' jacobs," spoke up jean. "they were overbold, an' he was drunk. let them be a lesson to us." jean had smelled whisky upon his entrance to this cabin. bill was a hard drinker, and his father was not immune. blaisdell, too, drank heavily upon occasions. jean made a mental note that he would not permit their chances to become impaired by liquor. rifles began to crack, and puffs of smoke rose all along the embankment for the space of a hundred feet. bullets whistled through the rude window casing and spattered on the heavy door, and one split the clay between the logs before jean, narrowly missing him. another volley followed, then another. the rustlers had repeating rifles and they were emptying their magazines. jean changed his position. the other men profited by his wise move. the volleys had merged into one continuous rattling roar of rifle shots. then came a sudden cessation of reports, with silence of relief. the cabin was full of dust, mingled with the smoke from the shots of jean and his companions. jean heard the stifled breaths of the children. evidently they were terror-stricken, but they did not cry out. the women uttered no sound. a loud voice pealed from behind the embankment. "come out an' fight! do you isbels want to be killed like sheep?" this sally gained no reply. jean returned to his post by the window and his comrades followed his example. and they exercised extreme caution when they peeped out. "boys, don't shoot till you see one," said gaston isbel. "maybe after a while they'll get careless. but jorth will never show himself." the rustlers did not again resort to volleys. one by one, from different angles, they began to shoot, and they were not firing at random. a few bullets came straight in at the windows to pat into the walls; a few others ticked and splintered the edges of the windows; and most of them broke through the clay chinks between the logs. it dawned upon jean that these dangerous shots were not accident. they were well aimed, and most of them hit low down. the cunning rustlers had some unerring riflemen and they were picking out the vulnerable places all along the front of the cabin. if jean had not been lying flat he would have been hit twice. presently he conceived the idea of driving pegs between the logs, high up, and, kneeling on these, he managed to peep out from the upper edge of the window. but this position was awkward and difficult to hold for long. he heard a bullet hit one of his comrades. whoever had been struck never uttered a sound. jean turned to look. bill isbel was holding his shoulder, where red splotches appeared on his shirt. he shook his head at jean, evidently to make light of the wound. the women and children were lying face down and could not see what was happening. plain is was that bill did not want them to know. blaisdell bound up the bloody shoulder with a scarf. steady firing from the rustlers went on, at the rate of one shot every few minutes. the isbels did not return these. jean did not fire again that afternoon. toward sunset, when the besiegers appeared to grow restless or careless, blaisdell fired at something moving behind the brush; and gaston isbel's huge buffalo gun boomed out. "wal, what 're they goin' to do after dark, an' what 're we goin' to do?" grumbled blaisdell. "reckon they'll never charge us," said gaston. "they might set fire to the cabins," added bill isbel. he appeared to be the gloomiest of the isbel faction. there was something on his mind. "wal, the jorths are bad, but i reckon they'd not burn us alive," replied blaisdell. "hah!" ejaculated gaston isbel. "much you know aboot lee jorth. he would skin me alive an' throw red-hot coals on my raw flesh." so they talked during the hour from sunset to dark. jean isbel had little to say. he was revolving possibilities in his mind. darkness brought a change in the attack of the rustlers. they stationed men at four points around the cabins; and every few minutes one of these outposts would fire. these bullets embedded themselves in the logs, causing but little anxiety to the isbels. "jean, what you make of it?" asked the old rancher. "looks to me this way," replied jean. "they're set for a long fight. they're shootin' just to let us know they're on the watch." "ahuh! wal, what 're you goin' to do aboot it?" "i'm goin' out there presently." gaston isbel grunted his satisfaction at this intention of jean's. all was pitch dark inside the cabin. the women had water and food at hand. jean kept a sharp lookout from his window while he ate his supper of meat, bread, and milk. at last the children, worn out by the long day, fell asleep. the women whispered a little in their corner. about nine o'clock jean signified his intention of going out to reconnoitre. "dad, they've got the best of us in the daytime," he said, "but not after dark." jean buckled on a belt that carried shells, a bowie knife, and revolver, and with rifle in hand he went out through the kitchen to the yard. the night was darker than usual, as some of the stars were hidden by clouds. he leaned against the log cabin, waiting for his eyes to become perfectly adjusted to the darkness. like an indian, jean could see well at night. he knew every point around cabins and sheds and corrals, every post, log, tree, rock, adjacent to the ranch. after perhaps a quarter of an hour watching, during which time several shots were fired from behind the embankment and one each from the rustlers at the other locations, jean slipped out on his quest. he kept in the shadow of the cabin walls, then the line of orchard trees, then a row of currant bushes. here, crouching low, he halted to look and listen. he was now at the edge of the open ground, with the gently rising slope before him. he could see the dark patches of cedar and juniper trees. on the north side of the cabin a streak of fire flashed in the blackness, and a shot rang out. jean heard the bullet bit the cabin. then silence enfolded the lonely ranch and the darkness lay like a black blanket. a low hum of insects pervaded the air. dull sheets of lightning illumined the dark horizon to the south. once jean heard voices, but could not tell from which direction they came. to the west of him then flared out another rifle shot. the bullet whistled down over jean to thud into the cabin. jean made a careful study of the obscure, gray-black open before him and then the background to his rear. so long as he kept the dense shadows behind him he could not be seen. he slipped from behind his covert and, gliding with absolutely noiseless footsteps, he gained the first clump of junipers. here he waited patiently and motionlessly for another round of shots from the rustlers. after the second shot from the west side jean sheered off to the right. patches of brush, clumps of juniper, and isolated cedars covered this slope, affording jean a perfect means for his purpose, which was to make a detour and come up behind the rustler who was firing from that side. jean climbed to the top of the ridge, descended the opposite slope, made his turn to the left, and slowly worked up behind the point near where he expected to locate the rustler. long habit in the open, by day and night, rendered his sense of direction almost as perfect as sight itself. the first flash of fire he saw from this side proved that he had come straight up toward his man. jean's intention was to crawl up on this one of the jorth gang and silently kill him with a knife. if the plan worked successfully, jean meant to work round to the next rustler. laying aside his rifle, he crawled forward on hands and knees, making no more sound than a cat. his approach was slow. he had to pick his way, be careful not to break twigs nor rattle stones. his buckskin garments made no sound against the brush. jean located the rustler sitting on the top of the ridge in the center of an open space. he was alone. jean saw the dull-red end of the cigarette he was smoking. the ground on the ridge top was rocky and not well adapted for jean's purpose. he had to abandon the idea of crawling up on the rustler. whereupon, jean turned back, patiently and slowly, to get his rifle. upon securing it he began to retrace his course, this time more slowly than before, as he was hampered by the rifle. but he did not make the slightest sound, and at length he reached the edge of the open ridge top, once more to espy the dark form of the rustler silhouetted against the sky. the distance was not more than fifty yards. as jean rose to his knee and carefully lifted his rifle round to avoid the twigs of a juniper he suddenly experienced another emotion besides the one of grim, hard wrath at the jorths. it was an emotion that sickened him, made him weak internally, a cold, shaking, ungovernable sensation. suppose this man was ellen jorth's father! jean lowered the rifle. he felt it shake over his knee. he was trembling all over. the astounding discovery that he did not want to kill ellen's father--that he could not do it--awakened jean to the despairing nature of his love for her. in this grim moment of indecision, when he knew his indian subtlety and ability gave him a great advantage over the jorths, he fully realized his strange, hopeless, and irresistible love for the girl. he made no attempt to deny it any longer. like the night and the lonely wilderness around him, like the inevitableness of this jorth-isbel feud, this love of his was a thing, a fact, a reality. he breathed to his own inward ear, to his soul--he could not kill ellen jorth's father. feud or no feud, isbel or not, he could not deliberately do it. and why not? there was no answer. was he not faithless to his father? he had no hope of ever winning ellen jorth. he did not want the love of a girl of her character. but he loved her. and his struggle must be against the insidious and mysterious growth of that passion. it swayed him already. it made him a coward. through his mind and heart swept the memory of ellen jorth, her beauty and charm, her boldness and pathos, her shame and her degradation. and the sweetness of her outweighed the boldness. and the mystery of her arrayed itself in unquenchable protest against her acknowledged shame. jean lifted his face to the heavens, to the pitiless white stars, to the infinite depths of the dark-blue sky. he could sense the fact of his being an atom in the universe of nature. what was he, what was his revengeful father, what were hate and passion and strife in comparison to the nameless something, immense and everlasting, that he sensed in this dark moment? but the rustlers--daggs--the jorths--they had killed his brother guy--murdered him brutally and ruthlessly. guy had been a playmate of jean's--a favorite brother. bill had been secretive and selfish. jean had never loved him as he did guy. guy lay dead down there on the meadow. this feud had begun to run its bloody course. jean steeled his nerve. the hot blood crept back along his veins. the dark and masterful tide of revenge waved over him. the keen edge of his mind then cut out sharp and trenchant thoughts. he must kill when and where he could. this man could hardly be ellen jorth's father. jorth would be with the main crowd, directing hostilities. jean could shoot this rustler guard and his shot would be taken by the gang as the regular one from their comrade. then swiftly jean leveled his rifle, covered the dark form, grew cold and set, and pressed the trigger. after the report he rose and wheeled away. he did not look nor listen for the result of his shot. a clammy sweat wet his face, the hollow of his hands, his breast. a horrible, leaden, thick sensation oppressed his heart. nature had endowed him with indian gifts, but the exercise of them to this end caused a revolt in his soul. nevertheless, it was the isbel blood that dominated him. the wind blew cool on his face. the burden upon his shoulders seemed to lift. the clamoring whispers grew fainter in his ears. and by the time he had retraced his cautious steps back to the orchard all his physical being was strung to the task at hand. something had come between his reflective self and this man of action. crossing the lane, he took to the west line of sheds, and passed beyond them into the meadow. in the grass he crawled silently away to the right, using the same precaution that had actuated him on the slope, only here he did not pause so often, nor move so slowly. jean aimed to go far enough to the right to pass the end of the embankment behind which the rustlers had found such efficient cover. this ditch had been made to keep water, during spring thaws and summer storms, from pouring off the slope to flood the corrals. jean miscalculated and found he had come upon the embankment somewhat to the left of the end, which fact, however, caused him no uneasiness. he lay there awhile to listen. again he heard voices. after a time a shot pealed out. he did not see the flash, but he calculated that it had come from the north side of the cabins. the next quarter of an hour discovered to jean that the nearest guard was firing from the top of the embankment, perhaps a hundred yards distant, and a second one was performing the same office from a point apparently only a few yards farther on. two rustlers close together! jean had not calculated upon that. for a little while he pondered on what was best to do, and at length decided to crawl round behind them, and as close as the situation made advisable. he found the ditch behind the embankment a favorable path by which to stalk these enemies. it was dry and sandy, with borders of high weeds. the only drawback was that it was almost impossible for him to keep from brushing against the dry, invisible branches of the weeds. to offset this he wormed his way like a snail, inch by inch, taking a long time before he caught sight of the sitting figure of a man, black against the dark-blue sky. this rustler had fired his rifle three times during jean's slow approach. jean watched and listened a few moments, then wormed himself closer and closer, until the man was within twenty steps of him. jean smelled tobacco smoke, but could see no light of pipe or cigarette, because the fellow's back was turned. "say, ben," said this man to his companion sitting hunched up a few yards distant, "shore it strikes me queer thet somers ain't shootin' any over thar." jean recognized the dry, drawling voice of greaves, and the shock of it seemed to contract the muscles of his whole thrilling body, like that of a panther about to spring. chapter viii "was shore thinkin' thet same," said the other man. "an', say, didn't thet last shot sound too sharp fer somers's forty-five?" "come to think of it, i reckon it did," replied greaves. "wal, i'll go around over thar an' see." the dark form of the rustler slipped out of sight over the embankment. "better go slow an' careful," warned greaves. "an' only go close enough to call somers.... mebbe thet damn half-breed isbel is comin' some injun on us." jean heard the soft swish of footsteps through wet grass. then all was still. he lay flat, with his cheek on the sand, and he had to look ahead and upward to make out the dark figure of greaves on the bank. one way or another he meant to kill greaves, and he had the will power to resist the strongest gust of passion that had ever stormed his breast. if he arose and shot the rustler, that act would defeat his plan of slipping on around upon the other outposts who were firing at the cabins. jean wanted to call softly to greaves, "you're right about the half-breed!" and then, as he wheeled aghast, to kill him as he moved. but it suited jean to risk leaping upon the man. jean did not waste time in trying to understand the strange, deadly instinct that gripped him at the moment. but he realized then he had chosen the most perilous plan to get rid of greaves. jean drew a long, deep breath and held it. he let go of his rifle. he rose, silently as a lifting shadow. he drew the bowie knife. then with light, swift bounds he glided up the bank. greaves must have heard a rustling--a soft, quick pad of moccasin, for he turned with a start. and that instant jean's left arm darted like a striking snake round greaves's neck and closed tight and hard. with his right hand free, holding the knife, jean might have ended the deadly business in just one move. but when his bared arm felt the hot, bulging neck something terrible burst out of the depths of him. to kill this enemy of his father's was not enough! physical contact had unleashed the savage soul of the indian. yet there was more, and as jean gave the straining body a tremendous jerk backward, he felt the same strange thrill, the dark joy that he had known when his fist had smashed the face of simm bruce. greaves had leered--he had corroborated bruce's vile insinuation about ellen jorth. so it was more than hate that actuated jean isbel. greaves was heavy and powerful. he whirled himself, feet first, over backward, in a lunge like that of a lassoed steer. but jean's hold held. they rolled down the bank into the sandy ditch, and jean landed uppermost, with his body at right angles with that of his adversary. "greaves, your hunch was right," hissed jean. "it's the half-breed.... an' i'm goin' to cut you--first for ellen jorth--an' then for gaston isbel!" jean gazed down into the gleaming eyes. then his right arm whipped the big blade. it flashed. it fell. low down, as far as jean could reach, it entered greaves's body. all the heavy, muscular frame of greaves seemed to contract and burst. his spring was that of an animal in terror and agony. it was so tremendous that it broke jean's hold. greaves let out a strangled yell that cleared, swelling wildly, with a hideous mortal note. he wrestled free. the big knife came out. supple and swift, he got to his, knees. he had his gun out when jean reached him again. like a bear jean enveloped him. greaves shot, but he could not raise the gun, nor twist it far enough. then jean, letting go with his right arm, swung the bowie. greaves's strength went out in an awful, hoarse cry. his gun boomed again, then dropped from his hand. he swayed. jean let go. and that enemy of the isbels sank limply in the ditch. jean's eyes roved for his rifle and caught the starlit gleam of it. snatching it up, he leaped over the embankment and ran straight for the cabins. from all around yells of the jorth faction attested to their excitement and fury. a fence loomed up gray in the obscurity. jean vaulted it, darted across the lane into the shadow of the corral, and soon gained the first cabin. here he leaned to regain his breath. his heart pounded high and seemed too large for his breast. the hot blood beat and surged all over his body. sweat poured off him. his teeth were clenched tight as a vise, and it took effort on his part to open his mouth so he could breathe more freely and deeply. but these physical sensations were as nothing compared to the tumult of his mind. then the instinct, the spell, let go its grip and he could think. he had avenged guy, he had depleted the ranks of the jorths, he had made good the brag of his father, all of which afforded him satisfaction. but these thoughts were not accountable for all that he felt, especially for the bittersweet sting of the fact that death to the defiler of ellen jorth could not efface the doubt, the regret which seemed to grow with the hours. groping his way into the woodshed, he entered the kitchen and, calling low, he went on into the main cabin. "jean! jean!" came his father's shaking voice. "yes, i'm back," replied jean. "are--you--all right?" "yes. i think i've got a bullet crease on my leg. i didn't know i had it till now.... it's bleedin' a little. but it's nothin'." jean heard soft steps and some one reached shaking hands for him. they belonged to his sister ann. she embraced him. jean felt the heave and throb of her breast. "why, ann, i'm not hurt," he said, and held her close. "now you lie down an' try to sleep." in the black darkness of the cabin jean led her back to the corner and his heart was full. speech was difficult, because the very touch of ann's hands had made him divine that the success of his venture in no wise changed the plight of the women. "wal, what happened out there?" demanded blaisdell. "i got two of them," replied jean. "that fellow who was shootin' from the ridge west. an' the other was greaves." "hah!" exclaimed his father. "shore then it was greaves yellin'," declared blaisdell. "by god, i never heard such yells! whad 'd you do, jean?" "i knifed him. you see, i'd planned to slip up on one after another. an' i didn't want to make noise. but i didn't get any farther than greaves." "wal, i reckon that 'll end their shootin' in the dark," muttered gaston isbel. "we've got to be on the lookout for somethin' else--fire, most likely." the old rancher's surmise proved to be partially correct. jorth's faction ceased the shooting. nothing further was seen or heard from them. but this silence and apparent break in the siege were harder to bear than deliberate hostility. the long, dark hours dragged by. the men took turns watching and resting, but none of them slept. at last the blackness paled and gray dawn stole out of the east. the sky turned rose over the distant range and daylight came. the children awoke hungry and noisy, having slept away their fears. the women took advantage of the quiet morning hour to get a hot breakfast. "maybe they've gone away," suggested guy isbel's wife, peering out of the window. she had done that several times since daybreak. jean saw her somber gaze search the pasture until it rested upon the dark, prone shape of her dead husband, lying face down in the grass. her look worried jean. "no, esther, they've not gone yet," replied jean. "i've seen some of them out there at the edge of the brush." blaisdell was optimistic. he said jean's night work would have its effect and that the jorth contingent would not renew the siege very determinedly. it turned out, however, that blaisdell was wrong. directly after sunrise they began to pour volleys from four sides and from closer range. during the night jorth's gang had thrown earth banks and constructed log breastworks, from behind which they were now firing. jean and his comrades could see the flashes of fire and streaks of smoke to such good advantage that they began to return the volleys. in half an hour the cabin was so full of smoke that jean could not see the womenfolk in their corner. the fierce attack then abated somewhat, and the firing became more intermittent, and therefore more carefully aimed. a glancing bullet cut a furrow in blaisdell's hoary head, making a painful, though not serious wound. it was esther isbel who stopped the flow of blood and bound blaisdell's head, a task which she performed skillfully and without a tremor. the old texan could not sit still during this operation. sight of the blood on his hands, which he tried to rub off, appeared to inflame him to a great degree. "isbel, we got to go out thar," he kept repeating, "an' kill them all." "no, we're goin' to stay heah," replied gaston isbel. "shore i'm lookin' for blue an' fredericks an' gordon to open up out there. they ought to be heah, an' if they are y'u shore can bet they've got the fight sized up." isbel's hopes did not materialize. the shooting continued without any lull until about midday. then the jorth faction stopped. "wal, now what's up?" queried isbel. "boys, hold your fire an' let's wait." gradually the smoke wafted out of the windows and doors, until the room was once more clear. and at this juncture esther isbel came over to take another gaze out upon the meadows. jean saw her suddenly start violently, then stiffen, with a trembling hand outstretched. "look!" she cried. "esther, get back," ordered the old rancher. "keep away from that window." "what the hell!" muttered blaisdell. "she sees somethin', or she's gone dotty." esther seemed turned to stone. "look! the hogs have broken into the pasture! ... they'll eat guy's body!" everyone was frozen with horror at esther's statement. jean took a swift survey of the pasture. a bunch of big black hogs had indeed appeared on the scene and were rooting around in the grass not far from where lay the bodies of guy isbel and jacobs. this herd of hogs belonged to the rancher and was allowed to run wild. "jane, those hogs--" stammered esther isbel, to the wife of jacobs. "come! look! ... do y'u know anythin' about hogs?" the woman ran to the window and looked out. she stiffened as had esther. "dad, will those hogs--eat human flesh?" queried jean, breathlessly. the old man stared out of the window. surprise seemed to hold him. a completely unexpected situation had staggered him. "jean--can you--can you shoot that far?" he asked, huskily. "to those hogs? no, it's out of range." "then, by god, we've got to stay trapped in heah an' watch an awful sight," ejaculated the old man, completely unnerved. "see that break in the fence! ... jorth's done that.... to let in the hogs!" "aw, isbel, it's not so bad as all that," remonstrated blaisdell, wagging his bloody head. "jorth wouldn't do such a hell-bent trick." "it's shore done." "wal, mebbe the hogs won't find guy an' jacobs," returned blaisdell, weakly. plain it was that he only hoped for such a contingency and certainly doubted it. "look!" cried esther isbel, piercingly. "they're workin' straight up the pasture!" indeed, to jean it appeared to be the fatal truth. he looked blankly, feeling a little sick. ann isbel came to peer out of the window and she uttered a cry. jacobs's wife stood mute, as if dazed. blaisdell swore a mighty oath. "-- -- --! isbel, we cain't stand heah an' watch them hogs eat our people!" "wal, we'll have to. what else on earth can we do?" esther turned to the men. she was white and cold, except her eyes, which resembled gray flames. "somebody can run out there an' bury our dead men," she said. "why, child, it'd be shore death. y'u saw what happened to guy an' jacobs.... we've jest got to bear it. shore nobody needn't look out--an' see." jean wondered if it would be possible to keep from watching. the thing had a horrible fascination. the big hogs were rooting and tearing in the grass, some of them lazy, others nimble, and all were gradually working closer and closer to the bodies. the leader, a huge, gaunt boar, that had fared ill all his life in this barren country, was scarcely fifty feet away from where guy isbel lay. "ann, get me some of your clothes, an' a sunbonnet--quick," said jean, forced out of his lethargy. "i'll run out there disguised. maybe i can go through with it." "no!" ordered his father, positively, and with dark face flaming. "guy an' jacobs are dead. we cain't help them now." "but, dad--" pleaded jean. he had been wrought to a pitch by esther's blaze of passion, by the agony in the face of the other woman. "i tell y'u no!" thundered gaston isbel, flinging his arms wide. "i will go!" cried esther, her voice ringing. "you won't go alone!" instantly answered the wife of jacobs, repeating unconsciously the words her husband had spoken. "you stay right heah," shouted gaston isbel, hoarsely. "i'm goin'," replied esther. "you've no hold over me. my husband is dead. no one can stop me. i'm goin' out there to drive those hogs away an' bury him." "esther, for heaven's sake, listen," replied isbel. "if y'u show yourself outside, jorth an' his gang will kin y'u." "they may be mean, but no white men could be so low as that." then they pleaded with her to give up her purpose. but in vain! she pushed them back and ran out through the kitchen with jacobs's wife following her. jean turned to the window in time to see both women run out into the lane. jean looked fearfully, and listened for shots. but only a loud, "haw! haw!" came from the watchers outside. that coarse laugh relieved the tension in jean's breast. possibly the jorths were not as black as his father painted them. the two women entered an open shed and came forth with a shovel and spade. "shore they've got to hurry," burst out gaston isbel. shifting his gaze, jean understood the import of his father's speech. the leader of the hogs had no doubt scented the bodies. suddenly he espied them and broke into a trot. "run, esther, run!" yelled jean, with all his might. that urged the women to flight. jean began to shoot. the hog reached the body of guy. jean's shots did not reach nor frighten the beast. all the hogs now had caught a scent and went ambling toward their leader. esther and her companion passed swiftly out of sight behind a corral. loud and piercingly, with some awful note, rang out their screams. the hogs appeared frightened. the leader lifted his long snout, looked, and turned away. the others had halted. then they, too, wheeled and ran off. all was silent then in the cabin and also outside wherever the jorth faction lay concealed. all eyes manifestly were fixed upon the brave wives. they spaded up the sod and dug a grave for guy isbel. for a shroud esther wrapped him in her shawl. then they buried him. next they hurried to the side of jacobs, who lay some yards away. they dug a grave for him. mrs. jacobs took off her outer skirt to wrap round him. then the two women labored hard to lift him and lower him. jacobs was a heavy man. when he had been covered his widow knelt beside his grave. esther went back to the other. but she remained standing and did not look as if she prayed. her aspect was tragic--that of a woman who had lost father, mother, sisters, brother, and now her husband, in this bloody arizona land. the deed and the demeanor of these wives of the murdered men surely must have shamed jorth and his followers. they did not fire a shot during the ordeal nor give any sign of their presence. inside the cabin all were silent, too. jean's eyes blurred so that he continually had to wipe them. old isbel made no effort to hide his tears. blaisdell nodded his shaggy head and swallowed hard. the women sat staring into space. the children, in round-eyed dismay, gazed from one to the other of their elders. "wal, they're comin' back," declared isbel, in immense relief. "an' so help me--jorth let them bury their daid!" the fact seemed to have been monstrously strange to gaston isbel. when the women entered the old man said, brokenly: "i'm shore glad.... an' i reckon i was wrong to oppose you ... an' wrong to say what i did aboot jorth." no one had any chance to reply to isbel, for the jorth gang, as if to make up for lost time and surcharged feelings of shame, renewed the attack with such a persistent and furious volleying that the defenders did not risk a return shot. they all had to lie flat next to the lowest log in order to keep from being hit. bullets rained in through the window. and all the clay between the logs low down was shot away. this fusillade lasted for more than an hour, then gradually the fire diminished on one side and then on the other until it became desultory and finally ceased. "ahuh! shore they've shot their bolt," declared gaston isbel. "wal, i doon't know aboot that," returned blaisdell, "but they've shot a hell of a lot of shells." "listen," suddenly called jean. "somebody's yellin'." "hey, isbel!" came in loud, hoarse voice. "let your women fight for you." gaston isbel sat up with a start and his face turned livid. jean needed no more to prove that the derisive voice from outside had belonged to jorth. the old rancher lunged up to his full height and with reckless disregard of life he rushed to the window. "jorth," he roared, "i dare you to meet me--man to man!" this elicited no answer. jean dragged his father away from the window. after that a waiting silence ensued, gradually less fraught with suspense. blaisdell started conversation by saying he believed the fight was over for that particular time. no one disputed him. evidently gaston isbel was loath to believe it. jean, however, watching at the back of the kitchen, eventually discovered that the jorth gang had lifted the siege. jean saw them congregate at the edge of the brush, somewhat lower down than they had been the day before. a team of mules, drawing a wagon, appeared on the road, and turned toward the slope. saddled horses were led down out of the junipers. jean saw bodies, evidently of dead men, lifted into the wagon, to be hauled away toward the village. seven mounted men, leading four riderless horses, rode out into the valley and followed the wagon. "dad, they've gone," declared jean. "we had the best of this fight.... if only guy an' jacobs had listened!" the old man nodded moodily. he had aged considerably during these two trying days. his hair was grayer. now that the blaze and glow of the fight had passed he showed a subtle change, a fixed and morbid sadness, a resignation to a fate he had accepted. the ordinary routine of ranch life did not return for the isbels. blaisdell returned home to settle matters there, so that he could devote all his time to this feud. gaston isbel sat down to wait for the members of his clan. the male members of the family kept guard in turn over the ranch that night. and another day dawned. it brought word from blaisdell that blue, fredericks, gordon, and colmor were all at his house, on the way to join the isbels. this news appeared greatly to rejuvenate gaston isbel. but his enthusiasm did not last long. impatient and moody by turns, he paced or moped around the cabin, always looking out, sometimes toward blaisdell's ranch, but mostly toward grass valley. it struck jean as singular that neither esther isbel nor mrs. jacobs suggested a reburial of their husbands. the two bereaved women did not ask for assistance, but repaired to the pasture, and there spent several hours working over the graves. they raised mounds, which they sodded, and then placed stones at the heads and feet. lastly, they fenced in the graves. "i reckon i'll hitch up an' drive back home," said mrs. jacobs, when she returned to the cabin. "i've much to do an' plan. probably i'll go to my mother's home. she's old an' will be glad to have me." "if i had any place to go to i'd sure go," declared esther isbel, bitterly. gaston isbel heard this remark. he raised his face from his hands, evidently both nettled and hurt. "esther, shore that's not kind," he said. the red-haired woman--for she did not appear to be a girl any more--halted before his chair and gazed down at him, with a terrible flare of scorn in her gray eyes. "gaston isbel, all i've got to say to you is this," she retorted, with the voice of a man. "seein' that you an' lee jorth hate each other, why couldn't you act like men? ... you damned texans, with your bloody feuds, draggin' in every relation, every friend to murder each other! that's not the way of arizona men.... we've all got to suffer--an' we women be ruined for life--because you had differences with jorth. if you were half a man you'd go out an' kill him yourself, an' not leave a lot of widows an' orphaned children!" jean himself writhed under the lash of her scorn. gaston isbel turned a dead white. he could not answer her. he seemed stricken with merciless truth. slowly dropping his head, he remained motionless, a pathetic and tragic figure; and he did not stir until the rapid beat of hoofs denoted the approach of horsemen. blaisdell appeared on his white charger, leading a pack animal. and behind rode a group of men, all heavily armed, and likewise with packs. "get down an' come in," was isbel's greeting. "bill--you look after their packs. better leave the hosses saddled." the booted and spurred riders trooped in, and their demeanor fitted their errand. jean was acquainted with all of them. fredericks was a lanky texan, the color of dust, and he had yellow, clear eyes, like those of a hawk. his mother had been an isbel. gordon, too, was related to jean's family, though distantly. he resembled an industrious miner more than a prosperous cattleman. blue was the most striking of the visitors, as he was the most noted. a little, shrunken gray-eyed man, with years of cowboy written all over him, he looked the quiet, easy, cool, and deadly texan he was reputed to be. blue's texas record was shady, and was seldom alluded to, as unfavorable comment had turned out to be hazardous. he was the only one of the group who did not carry a rifle. but he packed two guns, a habit not often noted in texans, and almost never in arizonians. colmor, ann isbel's fiance, was the youngest member of the clan, and the one closest to jean. his meeting with ann affected jean powerfully, and brought to a climax an idea that had been developing in jean's mind. his sister devotedly loved this lean-faced, keen-eyed arizonian; and it took no great insight to discover that colmor reciprocated her affection. they were young. they had long life before them. it seemed to jean a pity that colmor should be drawn into this war. jean watched them, as they conversed apart; and he saw ann's hands creep up to colmor's breast, and he saw her dark eyes, eloquent, hungry, fearful, lifted with queries her lips did not speak. jean stepped beside them, and laid an arm over both their shoulders. "colmor, for ann's sake you'd better back out of this jorth-isbel fight," he whispered. colmor looked insulted. "but, jean, it's ann's father," he said. "i'm almost one of the family." "you're ann's sweetheart, an', by heaven, i say you oughtn't to go with us!" whispered jean. "go--with--you," faltered ann. "yes. dad is goin' straight after jorth. can't you tell that? an' there 'll be one hell of a fight." ann looked up into colmor's face with all her soul in her eyes, but she did not speak. her look was noble. she yearned to guide him right, yet her lips were sealed. and colmor betrayed the trouble of his soul. the code of men held him bound, and he could not break from it, though he divined in that moment how truly it was wrong. "jean, your dad started me in the cattle business," said colmor, earnestly. "an' i'm doin' well now. an' when i asked him for ann he said he'd be glad to have me in the family.... well, when this talk of fight come up, i asked your dad to let me go in on his side. he wouldn't hear of it. but after a while, as the time passed an' he made more enemies, he finally consented. i reckon he needs me now. an' i can't back out, not even for ann." "i would if i were you," replied jean, and knew that he lied. "jean, i'm gamblin' to come out of the fight," said colmor, with a smile. he had no morbid fears nor presentiments, such as troubled jean. "why, sure--you stand as good a chance as anyone," rejoined jean. "it wasn't that i was worryin' about so much." "what was it, then?" asked ann, steadily. "if andrew does come through alive he'll have blood on his hands," returned jean, with passion. "he can't come through without it.... i've begun to feel what it means to have killed my fellow men.... an' i'd rather your husband an' the father of your children never felt that." colmor did not take jean as subtly as ann did. she shrunk a little. her dark eyes dilated. but colmor showed nothing of her spiritual reaction. he was young. he had wild blood. he was loyal to the isbels. "jean, never worry about my conscience," he said, with a keen look. "nothin' would tickle me any more than to get a shot at every damn one of the jorths." that established colmor's status in regard to the jorth-isbel feud. jean had no more to say. he respected ann's friend and felt poignant sorrow for ann. gaston isbel called for meat and drink to be set on the table for his guests. when his wishes had been complied with the women took the children into the adjoining cabin and shut the door. "hah! wal, we can eat an' talk now." first the newcomers wanted to hear particulars of what had happened. blaisdell had told all he knew and had seen, but that was not sufficient. they plied gaston isbel with questions. laboriously and ponderously he rehearsed the experiences of the fight at the ranch, according to his impressions. bill isbel was exhorted to talk, but he had of late manifested a sullen and taciturn disposition. in spite of jean's vigilance bill had continued to imbibe red liquor. then jean was called upon to relate all he had seen and done. it had been jean's intention to keep his mouth shut, first for his own sake and, secondly, because he did not like to talk of his deeds. but when thus appealed to by these somber-faced, intent-eyed men he divined that the more carefully he described the cruelty and baseness of their enemies, and the more vividly he presented his participation in the first fight of the feud the more strongly he would bind these friends to the isbel cause. so he talked for an hour, beginning with his meeting with colter up on the rim and ending with an account of his killing greaves. his listeners sat through this long narrative with unabated interest and at the close they were leaning forward, breathless and tense. "ah! so greaves got his desserts at last," exclaimed gordon. all the men around the table made comments, and the last, from blue, was the one that struck jean forcibly. "shore thet was a strange an' a hell of a way to kill greaves. why'd you do thet, jean?" "i told you. i wanted to avoid noise an' i hoped to get more of them." blue nodded his lean, eagle-like head and sat thoughtfully, as if not convinced of anything save jean's prowess. after a moment blue spoke again. "then, goin' back to jean's tellin' aboot trackin' rustled cattle, i've got this to say. i've long suspected thet somebody livin' right heah in the valley has been drivin' off cattle an' dealin' with rustlers. an' now i'm shore of it." this speech did not elicit the amaze from gaston isbel that jean expected it would. "you mean greaves or some of his friends?" "no. they wasn't none of them in the cattle business, like we are. shore we all knowed greaves was crooked. but what i'm figgerin' is thet some so-called honest man in our settlement has been makin' crooked deals." blue was a man of deeds rather than words, and so much strong speech from him, whom everybody knew to be remarkably reliable and keen, made a profound impression upon most of the isbel faction. but, to jean's surprise, his father did not rave. it was blaisdell who supplied the rage and invective. bill isbel, also, was strangely indifferent to this new element in the condition of cattle dealing. suddenly jean caught a vague flash of thought, as if he had intercepted the thought of another's mind, and he wondered--could his brother bill know anything about this crooked work alluded to by blue? dismissing the conjecture, jean listened earnestly. "an' if it's true it shore makes this difference--we cain't blame all the rustlin' on to jorth," concluded blue. "wal, it's not true," declared gaston isbel, roughly. "jorth an' his hash knife gang are at the bottom of all the rustlin' in the valley for years back. an' they've got to be wiped out!" "isbel, i reckon we'd all feel better if we talk straight," replied blue, coolly. "i'm heah to stand by the isbels. an' y'u know what thet means. but i'm not heah to fight jorth because he may be a rustler. the others may have their own reasons, but mine is this--you once stood by me in texas when i was needin' friends. wal, i'm standin' by y'u now. jorth is your enemy, an' so he is mine." gaston isbel bowed to this ultimatum, scarcely less agitated than when esther isbel had denounced him. his rabid and morbid hate of jorth had eaten into his heart to take possession there, like the parasite that battened upon the life of its victim. blue's steely voice, his cold, gray eyes, showed the unbiased truth of the man, as well as his fidelity to his creed. here again, but in a different manner, gaston isbel had the fact flung at him that other men must suffer, perhaps die, for his hate. and the very soul of the old rancher apparently rose in passionate revolt against the blind, headlong, elemental strength of his nature. so it seemed to jean, who, in love and pity that hourly grew, saw through his father. was it too late? alas! gaston isbel could never be turned back! yet something was altering his brooding, fixed mind. "wal," said blaisdell, gruffly, "let's get down to business.... i'm for havin' blue be foreman of this heah outfit, an' all of us to do as he says." gaston isbel opposed this selection and indeed resented it. he intended to lead the isbel faction. "all right, then. give us a hunch what we're goin' to do," replied blaisdell. "we're goin' to ride off on jorth's trail--an' one way or another--kill him--kill him! ... i reckon that'll end the fight." what did old isbel have in his mind? his listeners shook their heads. "no," asserted blaisdell. "killin' jorth might be the end of your desires, isbel, but it 'd never end our fight. we'll have gone too far.... if we take jorth's trail from heah it means we've got to wipe out that rustier gang, or stay to the last man." "yes, by god!" exclaimed fredericks. "let's drink to thet!" said blue. strangely they turned to this texas gunman, instinctively recognizing in him the brain and heart, and the past deeds, that fitted him for the leadership of such a clan. blue had all in life to lose, and nothing to gain. yet his spirit was such that he could not lean to all the possible gain of the future, and leave a debt unpaid. then his voice, his look, his influence were those of a fighter. they all drank with him, even jean, who hated liquor. and this act of drinking seemed the climax of the council. preparations were at once begun for their departure on jorth's trail. jean took but little time for his own needs. a horse, a blanket, a knapsack of meat and bread, a canteen, and his weapons, with all the ammunition he could pack, made up his outfit. he wore his buckskin suit, leggings, and moccasins. very soon the cavalcade was ready to depart. jean tried not to watch bill isbel say good-by to his children, but it was impossible not to. whatever bill was, as a man, he was father of those children, and he loved them. how strange that the little ones seemed to realize the meaning of this good-by? they were grave, somber-eyed, pale up to the last moment, then they broke down and wept. did they sense that their father would never come back? jean caught that dark, fatalistic presentiment. bill isbel's convulsed face showed that he also caught it. jean did not see bill say good-by to his wife. but he heard her. old gaston isbel forgot to speak to the children, or else could not. he never looked at them. and his good-by to ann was as if he were only riding to the village for a day. jean saw woman's love, woman's intuition, woman's grief in her eyes. he could not escape her. "oh, jean! oh, brother!" she whispered as she enfolded him. "it's awful! it's wrong! wrong! wrong! ... good-by! ... if killing must be--see that y'u kill the jorths! ... good-by!" even in ann, gentle and mild, the isbel blood spoke at the last. jean gave ann over to the pale-faced colmor, who took her in his arms. then jean fled out to his horse. this cold-blooded devastation of a home was almost more than he could bear. there was love here. what would be left? colmor was the last one to come out to the horses. he did not walk erect, nor as one whose sight was clear. then, as the silent, tense, grim men mounted their horses, bill isbel's eldest child, the boy, appeared in the door. his little form seemed instinct with a force vastly different from grief. his face was the face of an isbel. "daddy--kill 'em all!" he shouted, with a passion all the fiercer for its incongruity to the treble voice. so the poison had spread from father to son. chapter ix half a mile from the isbel ranch the cavalcade passed the log cabin of evarts, father of the boy who had tended sheep with bernardino. it suited gaston isbel to halt here. no need to call! evarts and his son appeared so quickly as to convince observers that they had been watching. "howdy, jake!" said isbel. "i'm wantin' a word with y'u alone." "shore, boss, git down an' come in," replied evarts. isbel led him aside, and said something forcible that jean divined from the very gesture which accompanied it. his father was telling evarts that he was not to join in the isbel-jorth war. evarts had worked for the isbels a long time, and his faithfulness, along with something stronger and darker, showed in his rugged face as he stubbornly opposed isbel. the old man raised his voice: "no, i tell you. an' that settles it." they returned to the horses, and, before mounting, isbel, as if he remembered something, directed his somber gaze on young evarts. "son, did you bury bernardino?" "dad an' me went over yestiddy," replied the lad. "i shore was glad the coyotes hadn't been round." "how aboot the sheep?" "i left them there. i was goin' to stay, but bein' all alone--i got skeered.... the sheep was doin' fine. good water an' some grass. an' this ain't time fer varmints to hang round." "jake, keep your eye on that flock," returned isbel. "an' if i shouldn't happen to come back y'u can call them sheep yours.... i'd like your boy to ride up to the village. not with us, so anybody would see him. but afterward. we'll be at abel meeker's." again jean was confronted with an uneasy premonition as to some idea or plan his father had not shared with his followers. when the cavalcade started on again jean rode to his father's side and asked him why he had wanted the evarts boy to come to grass valley. and the old man replied that, as the boy could run to and fro in the village without danger, he might be useful in reporting what was going on at greaves's store, where undoubtedly the jorth gang would hold forth. this appeared reasonable enough, therefore jean smothered the objection he had meant to make. the valley road was deserted. when, a mile farther on, the riders passed a group of cabins, just on the outskirts of the village, jean's quick eye caught sight of curious and evidently frightened people trying to see while they avoided being seen. no doubt the whole settlement was in a state of suspense and terror. not unlikely this dark, closely grouped band of horsemen appeared to them as jorth's gang had looked to jean. it was an orderly, trotting march that manifested neither hurry nor excitement. but any western eye could have caught the singular aspect of such a group, as if the intent of the riders was a visible thing. soon they reached the outskirts of the village. here their approach bad been watched for or had been already reported. jean saw men, women, children peeping from behind cabins and from half-opened doors. farther on jean espied the dark figures of men, slipping out the back way through orchards and gardens and running north, toward the center of the village. could these be friends of the jorth crowd, on the way with warnings of the approach of the isbels? jean felt convinced of it. he was learning that his father had not been absolutely correct in his estimation of the way jorth and his followers were regarded by their neighbors. not improbably there were really many villagers who, being more interested in sheep raising than in cattle, had an honest leaning toward the jorths. some, too, no doubt, had leanings that were dishonest in deed if not in sincerity. gaston isbel led his clan straight down the middle of the wide road of grass valley until he reached a point opposite abel meeker's cabin. jean espied the same curiosity from behind meeker's door and windows as had been shown all along the road. but presently, at isbel's call, the door opened and a short, swarthy man appeared. he carried a rifle. "howdy, gass!" he said. "what's the good word?" "wal, abel, it's not good, but bad. an' it's shore started," replied isbel. "i'm askin' y'u to let me have your cabin." "you're welcome. i'll send the folks 'round to jim's," returned meeker. "an' if y'u want me, i'm with y'u, isbel." "thanks, abel, but i'm not leadin' any more kin an' friends into this heah deal." "wal, jest as y'u say. but i'd like damn bad to jine with y'u.... my brother ted was shot last night." "ted! is he daid?" ejaculated isbel, blankly. "we can't find out," replied meeker. "jim says thet jeff campbell said thet ted went into greaves's place last night. greaves allus was friendly to ted, but greaves wasn't thar--" "no, he shore wasn't," interrupted isbel, with a dark smile, "an' he never will be there again." meeker nodded with slow comprehension and a shade crossed his face. "wal, campbell claimed he'd heerd from some one who was thar. anyway, the jorths were drinkin' hard, an' they raised a row with ted--same old sheep talk an' somebody shot him. campbell said ted was thrown out back, an' he was shore he wasn't killed." "ahuh! wal, i'm sorry, abel, your family had to lose in this. maybe ted's not bad hurt. i shore hope so.... an' y'u an' jim keep out of the fight, anyway." "all right, isbel. but i reckon i'll give y'u a hunch. if this heah fight lasts long the whole damn basin will be in it, on one side or t'other." "abe, you're talkin' sense," broke in blaisdell. "an' that's why we're up heah for quick action." "i heerd y'u got daggs," whispered meeker, as he peered all around. "wal, y'u heerd correct," drawled blaisdell. meeker muttered strong words into his beard. "say, was daggs in thet jorth outfit?" "he was. but he walked right into jean's forty-four.... an' i reckon his carcass would show some more." "an' whar's guy isbel?" demanded meeker. "daid an' buried, abel," replied gaston isbel. "an' now i'd be obliged if y'u 'll hurry your folks away, an' let us have your cabin an' corral. have yu got any hay for the hosses?" "shore. the barn's half full," replied meeker, as he turned away. "come on in." "no. we'll wait till you've gone." when meeker had gone, isbel and his men sat their horses and looked about them and spoke low. their advent had been expected, and the little town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. inside meeker's house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and the bustle incident to a hurried vacating. across the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding, others walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little groups. down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood greaves's fort-like stone house. low, flat, isolated, with its dark, eye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. jean distinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves, come to the wide door and look down the road. "wal, i reckon only aboot five hundred good hoss steps are separatin' us from that outfit," drawled blaisdell. no one replied to his jocularity. gaston isbel's eyes narrowed to a slit in his furrowed face and he kept them fastened upon greaves's store. blue, likewise, had a somber cast of countenance, not, perhaps, any darker nor grimmer than those of his comrades, but more representative of intense preoccupation of mind. the look of him thrilled jean, who could sense its deadliness, yet could not grasp any more. altogether, the manner of the villagers and the watchful pacing to and fro of the jorth followers and the silent, boding front of isbel and his men summed up for jean the menace of the moment that must very soon change to a terrible reality. at a call from meeker, who stood at the back of the cabin, gaston isbel rode into the yard, followed by the others of his party. "somebody look after the hosses," ordered isbel, as he dismounted and took his rifle and pack. "better leave the saddles on, leastways till we see what's comin' off." jean and bill isbel led the horses back to the corral. while watering and feeding them, jean somehow received the impression that bill was trying to speak, to confide in him, to unburden himself of some load. this peculiarity of bill's had become marked when he was perfectly sober. yet he had never spoken or even begun anything unusual. upon the present occasion, however, jean believed that his brother might have gotten rid of his emotion, or whatever it was, had they not been interrupted by colmor. "boys, the old man's orders are for us to sneak round on three sides of greaves's store, keepin' out of gunshot till we find good cover, an' then crawl closer an' to pick off any of jorth's gang who shows himself." bill isbel strode off without a reply to colmor. "well, i don't think so much of that," said jean, ponderingly. "jorth has lots of friends here. somebody might pick us off." "i kicked, but the old man shut me up. he's not to be bucked ag'in' now. struck me as powerful queer. but no wonder." "maybe he knows best. did he say anythin' about what he an' the rest of them are goin' to do?" "nope. blue taxed him with that an' got the same as me. i reckon we'd better try it out, for a while, anyway." "looks like he wants us to keep out of the fight," replied jean, thoughtfully. "maybe, though ... dad's no fool. colmor, you wait here till i get out of sight. i'll go round an' come up as close as advisable behind greaves's store. you take the right side. an' keep hid." with that jean strode off, going around the barn, straight out the orchard lane to the open flat, and then climbing a fence to the north of the village. presently he reached a line of sheds and corrals, to which he held until he arrived at the road. this point was about a quarter of a mile from greaves's store, and around the bend. jean sighted no one. the road, the fields, the yards, the backs of the cabins all looked deserted. a blight had settled down upon the peaceful activities of grass valley. crossing the road, jean began to circle until he came close to several cabins, around which he made a wide detour. this took him to the edge of the slope, where brush and thickets afforded him a safe passage to a line directly back of greaves's store. then he turned toward it. soon he was again approaching a cabin of that side, and some of its inmates descried him, their actions attested to their alarm. jean half expected a shot from this quarter, such were his growing doubts, but he was mistaken. a man, unknown to jean, closely watched his guarded movements and then waved a hand, as if to signify to jean that he had nothing to fear. after this act he disappeared. jean believed that he had been recognized by some one not antagonistic to the isbels. therefore he passed the cabin and, coming to a thick scrub-oak tree that offered shelter, he hid there to watch. from this spot he could see the back of greaves's store, at a distance probably too far for a rifle bullet to reach. before him, as far as the store, and on each side, extended the village common. in front of the store ran the road. jean's position was such that he could not command sight of this road down toward meeker's house, a fact that disturbed him. not satisfied with this stand, he studied his surroundings in the hope of espying a better. and he discovered what he thought would be a more favorable position, although he could not see much farther down the road. jean went back around the cabin and, coming out into the open to the right, he got the corner of greaves's barn between him and the window of the store. then he boldly hurried into the open, and soon reached an old wagon, from behind which he proposed to watch. he could not see either window or door of the store, but if any of the jorth contingent came out the back way they would be within reach of his rifle. jean took the risk of being shot at from either side. so sharp and roving was his sight that he soon espied colmor slipping along behind the trees some hundred yards to the left. all his efforts to catch a glimpse of bill, however, were fruitless. and this appeared strange to jean, for there were several good places on the right from which bill could have commanded the front of greaves's store and the whole west side. colmor disappeared among some shrubbery, and jean seemed left alone to watch a deserted, silent village. watching and listening, he felt that the time dragged. yet the shadows cast by the sun showed him that, no matter how tense he felt and how the moments seemed hours, they were really flying. suddenly jean's ears rang with the vibrant shock of a rifle report. he jerked up, strung and thrilling. it came from in front of the store. it was followed by revolver shots, heavy, booming. three he counted, and the rest were too close together to enumerate. a single hoarse yell pealed out, somehow trenchant and triumphant. other yells, not so wild and strange, muffled the first one. then silence clapped down on the store and the open square. jean was deadly certain that some of the jorth clan would show themselves. he strained to still the trembling those sudden shots and that significant yell had caused him. no man appeared. no more sounds caught jean's ears. the suspense, then, grew unbearable. it was not that he could not wait for an enemy to appear, but that he could not wait to learn what had happened. every moment that he stayed there, with hands like steel on his rifle, with eyes of a falcon, but added to a dreadful, dark certainty of disaster. a rifle shot swiftly followed by revolver shots! what could, they mean? revolver shots of different caliber, surely fired by different men! what could they mean? it was not these shots that accounted for jean's dread, but the yell which had followed. all his intelligence and all his nerve were not sufficient to fight down the feeling of calamity. and at last, yielding to it, he left his post, and ran like a deer across the open, through the cabin yard, and around the edge of the slope to the road. here his caution brought him to a halt. not a living thing crossed his vision. breaking into a run, he soon reached the back of meeker's place and entered, to hurry forward to the cabin. colmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in front of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. the road, to jean's flashing glance, was apparently deserted. blue sat on the doorstep, lighting a cigarette. then on the moment blaisdell strode to the door of the cabin. jean had never seen him look like that. "jean--look--down the road," he said, brokenly, and with big hand shaking he pointed down toward greaves's store. like lightning jean's glance shot down--down--down--until it stopped to fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road. a man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in the dust--dead! jean's recognition was as swift as his sight. his father! they had killed him! the jorths! it was done. his father's premonition of death had not been false. and then, after these flashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost oblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart. that pain jean had known only at the death of his mother. it passed, this agonizing pang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as hell. "who--did it?" whispered jean. "jorth!" replied blaisdell, huskily. "son, we couldn't hold your dad back.... we couldn't. he was like a lion.... an' he throwed his life away! oh, if it hadn't been for that it 'd not be so awful. shore, we come heah to shoot an' be shot. but not like that.... by god, it was murder--murder!" jean's mute lips framed a query easily read. "tell him, blue. i cain't," continued blaisdell, and he tramped back into the cabin. "set down, jean, an' take things easy," said blue, calmly. "you know we all reckoned we'd git plugged one way or another in this deal. an' shore it doesn't matter much how a fellar gits it. all thet ought to bother us is to make shore the other outfit bites the dust--same as your dad had to." under this man's tranquil presence, all the more quieting because it seemed to be so deadly sure and cool, jean felt the uplift of his dark spirit, the acceptance of fatality, the mounting control of faculties that must wait. the little gunman seemed to have about his inert presence something that suggested a rattlesnake's inherent knowledge of its destructiveness. jean sat down and wiped his clammy face. "jean, your dad reckoned to square accounts with jorth, an' save us all," began blue, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "but he reckoned too late. mebbe years; ago--or even not long ago--if he'd called jorth out man to man there'd never been any jorth-isbel war. gaston isbel's conscience woke too late. that's how i figger it." "hurry! tell me--how it--happen," panted jean. "wal, a little while after y'u left i seen your dad writin' on a leaf he tore out of a book--meeker's bible, as yu can see. i thought thet was funny. an' blaisdell gave me a hunch. pretty soon along comes young evarts. the old man calls him out of our hearin' an' talks to him. then i seen him give the boy somethin', which i afterward figgered was what he wrote on the leaf out of the bible. me an' blaisdell both tried to git out of him what thet meant. but not a word. i kept watchin' an' after a while i seen young evarts slip out the back way. mebbe half an hour i seen a bare-legged kid cross, the road an' go into greaves's store.... then shore i tumbled to your dad. he'd sent a note to jorth to come out an' meet him face to face, man to man! ... shore it was like readin' what your dad had wrote. but i didn't say nothin' to blaisdell. i jest watched." blue drawled these last words, as if he enjoyed remembrance of his keen reasoning. a smile wreathed his thin lips. he drew twice on the cigarette and emitted another cloud of smoke. quite suddenly then he changed. he made a rapid gesture--the whip of a hand, significant and passionate. and swift words followed: "colonel lee jorth stalked out of the store--out into the road--mebbe a hundred steps. then he halted. he wore his long black coat an' his wide black hat, an' he stood like a stone. "'what the hell!' burst out blaisdell, comin' out of his trance. "the rest of us jest looked. i'd forgot your dad, for the minnit. so had all of us. but we remembered soon enough when we seen him stalk out. everybody had a hunch then. i called him. blaisdell begged him to come back. all the fellars; had a say. no use! then i shore cussed him an' told him it was plain as day thet jorth didn't hit me like an honest man. i can sense such things. i knew jorth had trick up his sleeve. i've not been a gun fighter fer nothin'. "your dad had no rifle. he packed his gun at his hip. he jest stalked down thet road like a giant, goin' faster an' faster, holdin' his head high. it shore was fine to see him. but i was sick. i heerd blaisdell groan, an' fredericks thar cussed somethin' fierce.... when your dad halted--i reckon aboot fifty steps from jorth--then we all went numb. i heerd your dad's voice--then jorth's. they cut like knives. y'u could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other." blue had become a little husky. his speech had grown gradually to denote his feeling. underneath his serenity there was a different order of man. "i reckon both your dad an' jorth went fer their guns at the same time--an even break. but jest as they drew, some one shot a rifle from the store. must hev been a forty-five seventy. a big gun! the bullet must have hit your dad low down, aboot the middle. he acted thet way, sinkin' to his knees. an' he was wild in shootin'--so wild thet he must hev missed. then he wabbled--an' jorth run in a dozen steps, shootin' fast, till your dad fell over.... jorth run closer, bent over him, an' then straightened up with an apache yell, if i ever heerd one.... an' then jorth backed slow--lookin' all the time--backed to the store, an' went in." blue's voice ceased. jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling magnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. blue's lean face grew hazy. then jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there, while a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. he grew deathly cold and deathly sick. this paroxysm slowly wore away, and jean grew conscious of a dull amaze at the apparent deadness of his spirit. blaisdell placed a huge, kindly hand on his shoulder. "brace up, son!" he said, with voice now clear and resonant. "shore it's what your dad expected--an' what we all must look for.... if yu was goin' to kill jorth before--think how -- -- shore y'u're goin' to kill him now." "blaisdell's talkin'," put in blue, and his voice had a cold ring. "lee jorth will never see the sun rise ag'in!" these calls to the primitive in jean, to the indian, were not in vain. but even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting consciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him. strangely ellen jorth's face floated back in the depths of his vision, pale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by. "blue," said blaisdell, "let's get isbel's body soon as we dare, an' bury it. reckon we can, right after dark." "shore," replied blue. "but y'u fellars figger thet out. i'm thinkin' hard. i've got somethin' on my mind." jean grew fascinated by the looks and speech and action of the little gunman. blue, indeed, had something on his mind. and it boded ill to the men in that dark square stone house down the road. he paced to and fro in the yard, back and forth on the path to the gate, and then he entered the cabin to stalk up and down, faster and faster, until all at once he halted as if struck, to upfling his right arm in a singular fierce gesture. "jean, call the men in," he said, tersely. they all filed in, sinister and silent, with eager faces turned to the little texan. his dominance showed markedly. "gordon, y'u stand in the door an' keep your eye peeled," went on blue. "... now, boys, listen! i've thought it all out. this game of man huntin' is the same to me as cattle raisin' is to y'u. an' my life in texas all comes back to me, i reckon, in good stead fer us now. i'm goin' to kill lee jorth! him first, an' mebbe his brothers. i had to think of a good many ways before i hit on one i reckon will be shore. it's got to be shore. jorth has got to die! wal, heah's my plan.... thet jorth outfit is drinkin' some, we can gamble on it. they're not goin' to leave thet store. an' of course they'll be expectin' us to start a fight. i reckon they'll look fer some such siege as they held round isbel's ranch. but we shore ain't goin' to do thet. i'm goin' to surprise thet outfit. there's only one man among them who is dangerous, an' thet's queen. i know queen. but he doesn't know me. an' i'm goin' to finish my job before he gets acquainted with me. after thet, all right!" blue paused a moment, his eyes narrowing down, his whole face setting in hard cast of intense preoccupation, as if he visualized a scene of extraordinary nature. "wal, what's your trick?" demanded blaisdell. "y'u all know greaves's store," continued blue. "how them winders have wooden shutters thet keep a light from showin' outside? wal, i'm gamblin' thet as soon as it's dark jorth's gang will be celebratin'. they'll be drinkin' an' they'll have a light, an' the winders will be shut. they're not goin' to worry none aboot us. thet store is like a fort. it won't burn. an' shore they'd never think of us chargin' them in there. wal, as soon as it's dark, we'll go round behind the lots an' come up jest acrost the road from greaves's. i reckon we'd better leave isbel where he lays till this fight's over. mebbe y'u 'll have more 'n him to bury. we'll crawl behind them bushes in front of coleman's yard. an' heah's where jean comes in. he'll take an ax, an' his guns, of course, an' do some of his injun sneakin' round to the back of greaves's store.... an', jean, y'u must do a slick job of this. but i reckon it 'll be easy fer you. back there it 'll be dark as pitch, fer anyone lookin' out of the store. an' i'm figgerin' y'u can take your time an' crawl right up. now if y'u don't remember how greaves's back yard looks i'll tell y'u." here blue dropped on one knee to the floor and with a finger he traced a map of greaves's barn and fence, the back door and window, and especially a break in the stone foundation which led into a kind of cellar where greaves stored wood and other things that could be left outdoors. "jean, i take particular pains to show y'u where this hole is," said blue, "because if the gang runs out y'u could duck in there an' hide. an' if they run out into the yard--wal, y'u'd make it a sorry run fer them.... wal, when y'u've crawled up close to greaves's back door, an' waited long enough to see an' listen--then you're to run fast an' swing your ax smash ag'in' the winder. take a quick peep in if y'u want to. it might help. then jump quick an' take a swing at the door. y'u 'll be standin' to one side, so if the gang shoots through the door they won't hit y'u. bang thet door good an' hard.... wal, now's where i come in. when y'u swing thet ax i'll shore run fer the front of the store. jorth an' his outfit will be some attentive to thet poundin' of yours on the back door. so i reckon. an' they'll be lookin' thet way. i'll run in--yell--an' throw my guns on jorth." "humph! is that all?" ejaculated blaisdell. "i reckon thet's all an' i'm figgerin' it's a hell of a lot," responded blue, dryly. "thet's what jorth will think." "where do we come in?" "wal, y'u all can back me up," replied blue, dubiously. "y'u see, my plan goes as far as killin' jorth--an' mebbe his brothers. mebbe i'll get a crack at queen. but i'll be shore of jorth. after thet all depends. mebbe it 'll be easy fer me to get out. an' if i do y'u fellars will know it an' can fill thet storeroom full of bullets." "wal, blue, with all due respect to y'u, i shore don't like your plan," declared blaisdell. "success depends upon too many little things any one of which might go wrong." "blaisdell, i reckon i know this heah game better than y'u," replied blue. "a gun fighter goes by instinct. this trick will work." "but suppose that front door of greaves's store is barred," protested blaisdell. "it hasn't got any bar," said blue. "y'u're shore?" "yes, i reckon," replied blue. "hell, man! aren't y'u takin' a terrible chance?" queried blaisdell. blue's answer to that was a look that brought the blood to blaisdell's face. only then did the rancher really comprehend how the little gunman had taken such desperate chances before, and meant to take them now, not with any hope or assurance of escaping with his life, but to live up to his peculiar code of honor. "blaisdell, did y'u ever heah of me in texas?" he queried, dryly. "wal, no, blue, i cain't swear i did," replied the rancher, apologetically. "an' isbel was always sort of' mysterious aboot his acquaintance with you." "my name's not blue." "ahuh! wal, what is it, then--if i'm safe to ask?" returned blaisdell, gruffly. "it's king fisher," replied blue. the shock that stiffened blaisdell must have been communicated to the others. jean certainly felt amaze, and some other emotion not fully realized, when he found himself face to face with one of the most notorious characters ever known in texas--an outlaw long supposed to be dead. "men, i reckon i'd kept my secret if i'd any idee of comin' out of this isbel-jorth war alive," said blue. "but i'm goin' to cash. i feel it heah.... isbel was my friend. he saved me from bein' lynched in texas. an' so i'm goin' to kill jorth. now i'll take it kind of y'u--if any of y'u come out of this alive--to tell who i was an' why i was on the isbel side. because this sheep an' cattle war--this talk of jorth an' the hash knife gang--it makes me, sick. i know there's been crooked work on isbel's side, too. an' i never want it on record thet i killed jorth because he was a rustler." "by god, blue! it's late in the day for such talk," burst out blaisdell, in rage and amaze. "but i reckon y'u know what y'u're talkin' aboot.... wal, i shore don't want to heah it." at this juncture bill isbel quietly entered the cabin, too late to hear any of blue's statement. jean was positive of that, for as blue was speaking those last revealing words bill's heavy boots had resounded on the gravel path outside. yet something in bill's look or in the way blue averted his lean face or in the entrance of bill at that particular moment, or all these together, seemed to jean to add further mystery to the long secret causes leading up to the jorth-isbel war. did bill know what blue knew? jean had an inkling that he did. and on the moment, so perplexing and bitter, jean gazed out the door, down the deserted road to where his dead father lay, white-haired and ghastly in the sunlight. "blue, you could have kept that to yourself, as well as your real name," interposed jean, with bitterness. "it's too late now for either to do any good.... but i appreciate your friendship for dad, an' i'm ready to help carry out your plan." that decision of jean's appeared to put an end to protest or argument from blaisdell or any of the others. blue's fleeting dark smile was one of satisfaction. then upon most of this group of men seemed to settle a grim restraint. they went out and walked and watched; they came in again, restless and somber. jean thought that he must have bent his gaze a thousand times down the road to the tragic figure of his father. that sight roused all emotions in his breast, and the one that stirred there most was pity. the pity of it! gaston isbel lying face down in the dust of the village street! patches of blood showed on the back of his vest and one white-sleeved shoulder. he had been shot through. every time jean saw this blood he had to stifle a gathering of wild, savage impulses. meanwhile the afternoon hours dragged by and the village remained as if its inhabitants had abandoned it. not even a dog showed on the side road. jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store and sat on the steps, in close convening groups. every move they, made seemed significant of their confidence and importance. about sunset they went back into the store, closing door and window shutters. then blaisdell called the isbel faction to have food and drink. jean felt no hunger. and blue, who had kept apart from the others, showed no desire to eat. neither did he smoke, though early in the day he had never been without a cigarette between his lips. twilight fell and darkness came. not a light showed anywhere in the blackness. "wal, i reckon it's aboot time," said blue, and he led the way out of the cabin to the back of the lot. jean strode behind him, carrying his rifle and an ax. silently the other men followed. blue turned to the left and led through the field until he came within sight of a dark line of trees. "thet's where the road turns off," he said to jean. "an' heah's the back of coleman's place.... wal, jean, good luck!" jean felt the grip of a steel-like hand, and in the darkness he caught the gleam of blue's eyes. jean had no response in words for the laconic blue, but he wrung the hard, thin hand and hurried away in the darkness. once alone, his part of the business at hand rushed him into eager thrilling action. this was the sort of work he was fitted to do. in this instance it was important, but it seemed to him that blue had coolly taken the perilous part. and this cowboy with gray in his thin hair was in reality the great king fisher! jean marveled at the fact. and he shivered all over for jorth. in ten minutes--fifteen, more or less, jorth would lie gasping bloody froth and sinking down. something in the dark, lonely, silent, oppressive summer night told jean this. he strode on swiftly. crossing the road at a run, he kept on over the ground he had traversed during the afternoon, and in a few moments he stood breathing hard at the edge of the common behind greaves's store. a pin point of light penetrated the blackness. it made jean's heart leap. the jorth contingent were burning the big lamp that hung in the center of greaves's store. jean listened. loud voices and coarse laughter sounded discord on the melancholy silence of the night. what blue had called his instinct had surely guided him aright. death of gaston isbel was being celebrated by revel. in a few moments jean had regained his breath. then all his faculties set intensely to the action at hand. he seemed to magnify his hearing and his sight. his movements made no sound. he gained the wagon, where he crouched a moment. the ground seemed a pale, obscure medium, hardly more real than the gloom above it. through this gloom of night, which looked thick like a cloud, but was really clear, shone the thin, bright point of light, accentuating the black square that was greaves's store. above this stood a gray line of tree foliage, and then the intensely dark-blue sky studded with white, cold stars. a hound bayed lonesomely somewhere in the distance. voices of men sounded more distinctly, some deep and low, others loud, unguarded, with the vacant note of thoughtlessness. jean gathered all his forces, until sense of sight and hearing were in exquisite accord with the suppleness and lightness of his movements. he glided on about ten short, swift steps before he halted. that was as far as his piercing eyes could penetrate. if there had been a guard stationed outside the store jean would have seen him before being seen. he saw the fence, reached it, entered the yard, glided in the dense shadow of the barn until the black square began to loom gray--the color of stone at night. jean peered through the obscurity. no dark figure of a man showed against that gray wall--only a black patch, which must be the hole in the foundation mentioned. a ray of light now streaked out from the little black window. to the right showed the wide, black door. farther on jean glided silently. then he halted. there was no guard outside. jean heard the clink of a cap, the lazy drawl of a texan, and then a strong, harsh voice--jorth's. it strung jean's whole being tight and vibrating. inside he was on fire while cold thrills rippled over his skin. it took tremendous effort of will to hold himself back another instant to listen, to look, to feel, to make sure. and that instant charged him with a mighty current of hot blood, straining, throbbing, damming. when jean leaped this current burst. in a few swift bounds he gained his point halfway between door and window. he leaned his rifle against the stone wall. then he swung the ax. crash! the window shutter split and rattled to the floor inside. the silence then broke with a hoarse, "what's thet?" with all his might jean swung the heavy ax on the door. smash! the lower half caved in and banged to the floor. bright light flared out the hole. "look out!" yelled a man, in loud alarm. "they're batterin' the back door!" jean swung again, high on the splintered door. crash! pieces flew inside. "they've got axes," hoarsely shouted another voice. "shove the counter ag'in' the door." "no!" thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well. "let them come in. pull your guns an' take to cover!" "they ain't comin' in," was the hoarse reply. "they'll shoot in on us from the dark." "put out the lamp!" yelled another. jean's third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door. shouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the floor and the hard shuffle of boots. this confusion seemed to be split and silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible meaning. it stayed jean's swing--caused him to drop the ax and snatch up his rifle. "don't anybody move!" like a steel whip this voice cut the silence. it belonged to blue. jean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. most of those visible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. jorth stood rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm outstretched, and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside the door. this man was blue. jean needed only one flashing look at blue's face, at his leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had chosen this trick. "who're---you?" demanded jorth, in husky pants. "reckon i'm isbel's right-hand man," came the biting reply. "once tolerable well known in texas.... king fisher!" the name must have been a guarantee of death. jorth recognized this outlaw and realized his own fate. in the lamplight his face turned a pale greenish white. his outstretched hand began to quiver down. blue's left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. several heavy reports merged almost as one. jorth's arm jerked limply, flinging his gun. and his body sagged in the middle. his hands fluttered like crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. his death-pale face never changed its set look nor position toward blue. but his gasping utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror. then he began to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face toward his slayer, until he fell. his fall broke the spell. even blue, like the gunman he was, had paused to watch jorth in his last mortal action. jorth's followers began to draw and shoot. jean saw blue's return fire bring down a huge man, who fell across jorth's body. then jean, quick as the thought that actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. it burst in a flare. it crashed to the floor. darkness followed--a blank, thick, enveloping mantle. then red flashes of guns emphasized the blackness. inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots, yells, curses, and thudding boots. jean shoved his rifle barrel inside the door and, holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he worked lever and trigger until the magazine was empty. then, drawing his six-shooter, he emptied that. a roar of rifles from the front of the store told jean that his comrades had entered the fray. bullets zipped through the door he had broken. jean ran swiftly round the corner, taking care to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got clear of the building he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the road. blaisdell and the others were firing into the door of the store. with nimble fingers jean reloaded his rifle. then swiftly he ran across the road and down to get behind his comrades. their shooting had slackened. jean saw dark forms coming his way. "hello, blaisdell!" he called, warningly. "that y'u, jean?" returned the rancher, looming up. "wal, we wasn't worried aboot y'u." "blue?" queried jean, sharply. a little, dark figure shuffled past jean. "howdy, jean!" said blue, dryly. "y'u shore did your part. reckon i'll need to be tied up, but i ain't hurt much." "colmor's hit," called the voice of gordon, a few yards distant. "help me, somebody!" jean ran to help gordon uphold the swaying colmor. "are you hurt--bad?" asked jean, anxiously. the young man's head rolled and hung. he was breathing hard and did not reply. they had almost to carry him. "come on, men!" called blaisdell, turning back toward the others who were still firing. "we'll let well enough alone.... fredericks, y'u an' bill help me find the body of the old man. it's heah somewhere." farther on down the road the searchers stumbled over gaston isbel. they picked him up and followed jean and gordon, who were supporting the wounded colmor. jean looked back to see blue dragging himself along in the rear. it was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless, jean got the impression that blue was more severely wounded than he had claimed to be. the distance to meeker's cabin was not far, but it took what jean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there. colmor apparently rallied somewhat. when this procession entered meeker's yard, blue was lagging behind. "blue, how air y'u?" called blaisdell, with concern. "wal, i got--my boots--on--anyhow," replied blue, huskily. he lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out. "man! y'u're hurt bad!" exclaimed blaisdell. the others halted in their slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body of isbel to the ground. then blaisdell knelt beside blue. jean left colmor to gordon and hurried to peer down into blue's dim face. "no, i ain't--hurt," said blue, in a much weaker voice. "i'm--jest killed! ... it was queen! ... y'u all heerd me--queen was--only bad man in that lot. i knowed it.... i could--hev killed him.... but i was--after lee jorth an' his brothers...." blue's voice failed there. "wal!" ejaculated blaisdell. "shore was funny--jorth's face--when i said--king fisher," whispered blue. "funnier--when i bored--him through.... but it--was--queen--" his whisper died away. "blue!" called blaisdell, sharply. receiving no answer, he bent lower in the starlight and placed a hand upon the man's breast. "wal, he's gone.... i wonder if he really was the old texas king fisher. no one would ever believe it.... but if he killed the jorths, i'll shore believe him." chapter x two weeks of lonely solitude in the forest had worked incalculable change in ellen jorth. late in june her father and her two uncles had packed and ridden off with daggs, colter, and six other men, all heavily armed, some somber with drink, others hard and grim with a foretaste of fight. ellen had not been given any orders. her father had forgotten to bid her good-by or had avoided it. their dark mission was stamped on their faces. they had gone and, keen as had been ellen's pang, nevertheless, their departure was a relief. she had heard them bluster and brag so often that she had her doubts of any great jorth-isbel war. barking dogs did not bite. somebody, perhaps on each side, would be badly wounded, possibly killed, and then the feud would go on as before, mostly talk. many of her former impressions had faded. development had been so rapid and continuous in her that she could look back to a day-by-day transformation. at night she had hated the sight of herself and when the dawn came she would rise, singing. jorth had left ellen at home with the mexican woman and antonio. ellen saw them only at meal times, and often not then, for she frequently visited old john sprague or came home late to do her own cooking. it was but a short distance up to sprague's cabin, and since she had stopped riding the black horse, spades, she walked. spades was accustomed to having grain, and in the mornings he would come down to the ranch and whistle. ellen had vowed she would never feed the horse and bade antonio do it. but one morning antonio was absent. she fed spades herself. when she laid a hand on him and when he rubbed his nose against her shoulder she was not quite so sure she hated him. "why should i?" she queried. "a horse cain't help it if he belongs to--to--" ellen was not sure of anything except that more and more it grew good to be alone. a whole day in the lonely forest passed swiftly, yet it left a feeling of long time. she lived by her thoughts. always the morning was bright, sunny, sweet and fragrant and colorful, and her mood was pensive, wistful, dreamy. and always, just as surely as the hours passed, thought intruded upon her happiness, and thought brought memory, and memory brought shame, and shame brought fight. sunset after sunset she had dragged herself back to the ranch, sullen and sick and beaten. yet she never ceased to struggle. the july storms came, and the forest floor that had been so sear and brown and dry and dusty changed as if by magic. the green grass shot up, the flowers bloomed, and along the canyon beds of lacy ferns swayed in the wind and bent their graceful tips over the amber-colored water. ellen haunted these cool dells, these pine-shaded, mossy-rocked ravines where the brooks tinkled and the deer came down to drink. she wandered alone. but there grew to be company in the aspens and the music of the little waterfalls. if she could have lived in that solitude always, never returning to the ranch home that reminded her of her name, she could have forgotten and have been happy. she loved the storms. it was a dry country and she had learned through years to welcome the creamy clouds that rolled from the southwest. they came sailing and clustering and darkening at last to form a great, purple, angry mass that appeared to lodge against the mountain rim and burst into dazzling streaks of lightning and gray palls of rain. lightning seldom struck near the ranch, but up on the rim there was never a storm that did not splinter and crash some of the noble pines. during the storm season sheep herders and woodsmen generally did not camp under the pines. fear of lightning was inborn in the natives, but for ellen the dazzling white streaks or the tremendous splitting, crackling shock, or the thunderous boom and rumble along the battlements of the rim had no terrors. a storm eased her breast. deep in her heart was a hidden gathering storm. and somehow, to be out when the elements were warring, when the earth trembled and the heavens seemed to burst asunder, afforded her strange relief. the summer days became weeks, and farther and farther they carried ellen on the wings of solitude and loneliness until she seemed to look back years at the self she had hated. and always, when the dark memory impinged upon peace, she fought and fought until she seemed to be fighting hatred itself. scorn of scorn and hate of hate! yet even her battles grew to be dreams. for when the inevitable retrospect brought back jean isbel and his love and her cowardly falsehood she would shudder a little and put an unconscious hand to her breast and utterly fail in her fight and drift off down to vague and wistful dreams. the clean and healing forest, with its whispering wind and imperious solitude, had come between ellen and the meaning of the squalid sheep ranch, with its travesty of home, its tragic owner. and it was coming between her two selves, the one that she had been forced to be and the other that she did not know--the thinker, the dreamer, the romancer, the one who lived in fancy the life she loved. the summer morning dawned that brought ellen strange tidings. they must have been created in her sleep, and now were realized in the glorious burst of golden sun, in the sweep of creamy clouds across the blue, in the solemn music of the wind in the pines, in the wild screech of the blue jays and the noble bugle of a stag. these heralded the day as no ordinary day. something was going to happen to her. she divined it. she felt it. and she trembled. nothing beautiful, hopeful, wonderful could ever happen to ellen jorth. she had been born to disaster, to suffer, to be forgotten, and die alone. yet all nature about her seemed a magnificent rebuke to her morbidness. the same spirit that came out there with the thick, amber light was in her. she lived, and something in her was stronger than mind. ellen went to the door of her cabin, where she flung out her arms, driven to embrace this nameless purport of the morning. and a well-known voice broke in upon her rapture. "wal, lass, i like to see you happy an' i hate myself fer comin'. because i've been to grass valley fer two days an' i've got news." old john sprague stood there, with a smile that did not hide a troubled look. "oh! uncle john! you startled me," exclaimed ellen, shocked back to reality. and slowly she added: "grass valley! news?" she put out an appealing hand, which sprague quickly took in his own, as if to reassure her. "yes, an' not bad so far as you jorths are concerned," he replied. "the first jorth-isbel fight has come off.... reckon you remember makin' me promise to tell you if i heerd anythin'. wal, i didn't wait fer you to come up." "so ellen heard her voice calmly saying. what was this lying calm when there seemed to be a stone hammer at her heart? the first fight--not so bad for the jorths! then it had been bad for the isbels. a sudden, cold stillness fell upon her senses. "let's sit down--outdoors," sprague was saying. "nice an' sunny this--mornin'. i declare--i'm out of breath. not used to walkin'. an' besides, i left grass valley, in the night--an' i'm tired. but excoose me from hangin' round thet village last night! there was shore--" "who--who was killed?" interrupted ellen, her voice breaking low and deep. "guy isbel an' bill jacobs on the isbel side, an' daggs, craig, an' greaves on your father's side," stated sprague, with something of awed haste. "ah!" breathed ellen, and she relaxed to sink back against the cabin wall. sprague seated himself on the log beside her, turning to face her, and he seemed burdened with grave and important matters. "i heerd a good many conflictin' stories," he said, earnestly. "the village folks is all skeered an' there's no believin' their gossip. but i got what happened straight from jake evarts. the fight come off day before yestiddy. your father's gang rode down to isbel's ranch. daggs was seen to be wantin' some of the isbel hosses, so evarts says. an' guy isbel an' jacobs ran out in the pasture. daggs an' some others shot them down." "killed them--that way?" put in ellen, sharply. "so evarts says. he was on the ridge an' swears he seen it all. they killed guy an' jacobs in cold blood. no chance fer their lives--not even to fight! ... wall, hen they surrounded the isbel cabin. the fight last all thet day an' all night an' the next day. evarts says guy an' jacobs laid out thar all this time. an' a herd of hogs broke in the pasture an' was eatin' the dead bodies ..." "my god!" burst out ellen. "uncle john, y'u shore cain't mean my father wouldn't stop fightin' long enough to drive the hogs off an' bury those daid men?" "evarts says they stopped fightin', all right, but it was to watch the hogs," declared sprague. "an' then, what d' ye think? the wimminfolks come out--the red-headed one, guy's wife, an' jacobs's wife--they drove the hogs away an' buried their husbands right there in the pasture. evarts says he seen the graves." "it is the women who can teach these bloody texans a lesson," declared ellen, forcibly. "wal, daggs was drunk, an' he got up from behind where the gang was hidin', an' dared the isbels to come out. they shot him to pieces. an' thet night some one of the isbels shot craig, who was alone on guard.... an' last--this here's what i come to tell you--jean isbel slipped up in the dark on greaves an' knifed him." "why did y'u want to tell me that particularly?" asked ellen, slowly. "because i reckon the facts in the case are queer--an' because, ellen, your name was mentioned," announced sprague, positively. "my name--mentioned?" echoed ellen. her horror and disgust gave way to a quickening process of thought, a mounting astonishment. "by whom?" "jean isbel," replied sprague, as if the name and the fact were momentous. ellen sat still as a stone, her hands between her knees. slowly she felt the blood recede from her face, prickling her kin down below her neck. that name locked her thought. "ellen, it's a mighty queer story--too queer to be a lie," went on sprague. "now you listen! evarts got this from ted meeker. an' ted meeker heerd it from greaves, who didn't die till the next day after jean isbel knifed him. an' your dad shot ted fer tellin' what he heerd.... no, greaves wasn't killed outright. he was cut somethin' turrible--in two places. they wrapped him all up an' next day packed him in a wagon back to grass valley. evarts says ted meeker was friendly with greaves an' went to see him as he was layin' in his room next to the store. wal, accordin' to meeker's story, greaves came to an' talked. he said he was sittin' there in the dark, shootin' occasionally at isbel's cabin, when he heerd a rustle behind him in the grass. he knowed some one was crawlin' on him. but before he could get his gun around he was jumped by what he thought was a grizzly bear. but it was a man. he shut off greaves's wind an' dragged him back in the ditch. an' he said: 'greaves, it's the half-breed. an' he's goin' to cut you--first for ellen jorth! an' then for gaston isbel!' ... greaves said jean ripped him with a bowie knife.... an' thet was all greaves remembered. he died soon after tellin' this story. he must hev fought awful hard. thet second cut isbel gave him went clear through him.... some of the gang was thar when greaves talked, an' naturally they wondered why jean isbel had said 'first for ellen jorth.' ... somebody remembered thet greaves had cast a slur on your good name, ellen. an' then they had jean isbel's reason fer sayin' thet to greaves. it caused a lot of talk. an' when simm bruce busted in some of the gang haw-hawed him an' said as how he'd get the third cut from jean isbel's bowie. bruce was half drunk an' he began to cuss an' rave about jean isbel bein' in love with his girl.... as bad luck would have it, a couple of more fellars come in an' asked meeker questions. he jest got to thet part, 'greaves, it's the half-breed, an' he's goin' to cut you--first for ellen jorth,' when in walked your father! ... then it all had to come out--what jean isbel had said an' done--an' why. how greaves had backed simm bruce in slurrin' you!" sprague paused to look hard at ellen. "oh! then--what did dad do?" whispered ellen. "he said, 'by god! half-breed or not, there's one isbel who's a man!' an' he killed bruce on the spot an' gave meeker a nasty wound. somebody grabbed him before he could shoot meeker again. they threw meeker out an' he crawled to a neighbor's house, where he was when evarts seen him." ellen felt sprague's rough but kindly hand shaking her. "an' now what do you think of jean isbel?" he queried. a great, unsurmountable wall seemed to obstruct ellen's thought. it seemed gray in color. it moved toward her. it was inside her brain. "i tell you, ellen jorth," declared the old man, "thet jean isbel loves you--loves you turribly--an' he believes you're good." "oh no--he doesn't!" faltered ellen. "wal, he jest does." "oh, uncle john, he cain't believe that!" she cried. "of course he can. he does. you are good--good as gold, ellen, an' he knows it.... what a queer deal it all is! poor devil! to love you thet turribly an' hev to fight your people! ellen, your dad had it correct. isbel or not, he's a man.... an' i say what a shame you two are divided by hate. hate thet you hed nothin' to do with." sprague patted her head and rose to go. "mebbe thet fight will end the trouble. i reckon it will. don't cross bridges till you come to them, ellen.... i must hurry back now. i didn't take time to unpack my burros. come up soon.... an', say, ellen, don't think hard any more of thet jean isbel." sprague strode away, and ellen neither heard nor saw him go. she sat perfectly motionless, yet had a strange sensation of being lifted by invisible and mighty power. it was like movement felt in a dream. she was being impelled upward when her body seemed immovable as stone. when her blood beat down this deadlock of an her physical being and rushed on and on through her veins it gave her an irresistible impulse to fly, to sail through space, to ran and run and ran. and on the moment the black horse, spades, coming from the meadow, whinnied at sight of her. ellen leaped up and ran swiftly, but her feet seemed to be stumbling. she hugged the horse and buried her hot face in his mane and clung to him. then just as violently she rushed for her saddle and bridle and carried the heavy weight as easily as if it had been an empty sack. throwing them upon him, she buckled and strapped with strong, eager hands. it never occurred to her that she was not dressed to ride. up she flung herself. and the horse, sensing her spirit, plunged into strong, free gait down the canyon trail. the ride, the action, the thrill, the sensations of violence were not all she needed. solitude, the empty aisles of the forest, the far miles of lonely wilderness--were these the added all? spades took a swinging, rhythmic lope up the winding trail. the wind fanned her hot face. the sting of whipping aspen branches was pleasant. a deep rumble of thunder shook the sultry air. up beyond the green slope of the canyon massed the creamy clouds, shading darker and darker. spades loped on the levels, leaped the washes, trotted over the rocky ground, and took to a walk up the long slope. ellen dropped the reins over the pommel. her hands could not stay set on anything. they pressed her breast and flew out to caress the white aspens and to tear at the maple leaves, and gather the lavender juniper berries, and came back again to her heart. her heart that was going to burst or break! as it had swelled, so now it labored. it could not keep pace with her needs. all that was physical, all that was living in her had to be unleashed. spades gained the level forest. how the great, brown-green pines seemed to bend their lofty branches over her, protectively, understandingly. patches of azure-blue sky flashed between the trees. the great white clouds sailed along with her, and shafts of golden sunlight, flecked with gleams of falling pine needles, shone down through the canopy overhead. away in front of her, up the slow heave of forest land, boomed the heavy thunderbolts along the battlements of the rim. was she riding to escape from herself? for no gait suited her until spades was running hard and fast through the glades. then the pressure of dry wind, the thick odor of pine, the flashes of brown and green and gold and blue, the soft, rhythmic thuds of hoofs, the feel of the powerful horse under her, the whip of spruce branches on her muscles contracting and expanding in hard action--all these sensations seemed to quell for the time the mounting cataclysm in her heart. the oak swales, the maple thickets, the aspen groves, the pine-shaded aisles, and the miles of silver spruce all sped by her, as if she had ridden the wind; and through the forest ahead shone the vast open of the basin, gloomed by purple and silver cloud, shadowed by gray storm, and in the west brightened by golden sky. straight to the rim she had ridden, and to the point where she had watched jean isbel that unforgetable day. she rode to the promontory behind the pine thicket and beheld a scene which stayed her restless hands upon her heaving breast. the world of sky and cloud and earthly abyss seemed one of storm-sundered grandeur. the air was sultry and still, and smelled of the peculiar burnt-wood odor caused by lightning striking trees. a few heavy drops of rain were pattering down from the thin, gray edge of clouds overhead. to the east hung the storm--a black cloud lodged against the rim, from which long, misty veils of rain streamed down into the gulf. the roar of rain sounded like the steady roar of the rapids of a river. then a blue-white, piercingly bright, ragged streak of lightning shot down out of the black cloud. it struck with a splitting report that shocked the very wall of rock under ellen. then the heavens seemed to burst open with thundering crash and close with mighty thundering boom. long roar and longer rumble rolled away to the eastward. the rain poured down in roaring cataracts. the south held a panorama of purple-shrouded range and canyon, canyon and range, on across the rolling leagues to the dim, lofty peaks, all canopied over with angry, dusky, low-drifting clouds, horizon-wide, smoky, and sulphurous. and as ellen watched, hands pressed to her breast, feeling incalculable relief in sight of this tempest and gulf that resembled her soul, the sun burst out from behind the long bank of purple cloud in the west and flooded the world there with golden lightning. "it is for me!" cried ellen. "my mind--my heart--my very soul.... oh, i know! i know now! ... i love him--love him--love him!" she cried it out to the elements. "oh, i love jean isbel--an' my heart will burst or break!" the might of her passion was like the blaze of the sun. before it all else retreated, diminished. the suddenness of the truth dimmed her sight. but she saw clearly enough to crawl into the pine thicket, through the clutching, dry twigs, over the mats of fragrant needles to the covert where she had once spied upon jean isbel. and here she lay face down for a while, hands clutching the needles, breast pressed hard upon the ground, stricken and spent. but vitality was exceeding strong in her. it passed, that weakness of realization, and she awakened to the consciousness of love. but in the beginning it was not consciousness of the man. it was new, sensorial life, elemental, primitive, a liberation of a million inherited instincts, quivering and physical, over which ellen had no more control than she had over the glory of the sun. if she thought at all it was of her need to be hidden, like an animal, low down near the earth, covered by green thicket, lost in the wildness of nature. she went to nature, unconsciously seeking a mother. and love was a birth from the depths of her, like a rushing spring of pure water, long underground, and at last propelled to the surface by a convulsion. ellen gradually lost her tense rigidity and relaxed. her body softened. she rolled over until her face caught the lacy, golden shadows cast by sun and bough. scattered drops of rain pattered around her. the air was hot, and its odor was that of dry pine and spruce fragrance penetrated by brimstone from the lightning. the nest where she lay was warm and sweet. no eye save that of nature saw her in her abandonment. an ineffable and exquisite smile wreathed her lips, dreamy, sad, sensuous, the supremity of unconscious happiness. over her dark and eloquent eyes, as ellen gazed upward, spread a luminous film, a veil. she was looking intensely, yet she did not see. the wilderness enveloped her with its secretive, elemental sheaths of rock, of tree, of cloud, of sunlight. through her thrilling skin poured the multiple and nameless sensations of the living organism stirred to supreme sensitiveness. she could not lie still, but all her movements were gentle, involuntary. the slow reaching out of her hand, to grasp at nothing visible, was similar to the lazy stretching of her limbs, to the heave of her breast, to the ripple of muscle. ellen knew not what she felt. to live that sublime hour was beyond thought. such happiness was like the first dawn of the world to the sight of man. it had to do with bygone ages. her heart, her blood, her flesh, her very bones were filled with instincts and emotions common to the race before intellect developed, when the savage lived only with his sensorial perceptions. of all happiness, joy, bliss, rapture to which man was heir, that of intense and exquisite preoccupation of the senses, unhindered and unburdened by thought, was the greatest. ellen felt that which life meant with its inscrutable design. love was only the realization of her mission on the earth. the dark storm cloud with its white, ragged ropes of lightning and down-streaming gray veils of rain, the purple gulf rolling like a colored sea to the dim mountains, the glorious golden light of the sun--these had enchanted her eyes with her beauty of the universe. they had burst the windows of her blindness. when she crawled into the green-brown covert it was to escape too great perception. she needed to be encompassed by close, tangible things. and there her body paid the tribute to the realization of life. shock, convulsion, pain, relaxation, and then unutterable and insupportable sensing of her environment and the heart! in one way she was a wild animal alone in the woods, forced into the mating that meant reproduction of its kind. in another she was an infinitely higher being shot through and through with the most resistless and mysterious transport that life could give to flesh. and when that spell slackened its hold there wedged into her mind a consciousness of the man she loved--jean isbel. then emotion and thought strove for mastery over her. it was not herself or love that she loved, but a living man. suddenly he existed so clearly for her that she could see him, hear him, almost feel him. her whole soul, her very life cried out to him for protection, for salvation, for love, for fulfillment. no denial, no doubt marred the white blaze of her realization. from the instant that she had looked up into jean isbel's dark face she had loved him. only she had not known. she bowed now, and bent, and humbly quivered under the mastery of something beyond her ken. thought clung to the beginnings of her romance--to the three times she had seen him. every look, every word, every act of his returned to her now in the light of the truth. love at first sight! he had sworn it, bitterly, eloquently, scornful of her doubts. and now a blind, sweet, shuddering ecstasy swayed her. how weak and frail seemed her body--too small, too slight for this monstrous and terrible engine of fire and lightning and fury and glory--her heart! it must burst or break. relentlessly memory pursued ellen, and her thoughts whirled and emotion conquered her. at last she quivered up to her knees as if lashed to action. it seemed that first kiss of isbel's, cool and gentle and timid, was on her lips. and her eyes closed and hot tears welled from under her lids. her groping hands found only the dead twigs and the pine boughs of the trees. had she reached out to clasp him? then hard and violent on her mouth and cheek and neck burned those other kisses of isbel's, and with the flashing, stinging memory came the truth that now she would have bartered her soul for them. utterly she surrendered to the resistlessness of this love. her loss of mother and friends, her wandering from one wild place to another, her lonely life among bold and rough men, had developed her for violent love. it overthrew all pride, it engendered humility, it killed hate. ellen wiped the tears from her eyes, and as she knelt there she swept to her breast a fragrant spreading bough of pine needles. "i'll go to him," she whispered. "i'll tell him of--of my--my love. i'll tell him to take me away--away to the end of the world--away from heah--before it's too late!" it was a solemn, beautiful moment. but the last spoken words lingered hauntingly. "too late?" she whispered. and suddenly it seemed that death itself shuddered in her soul. too late! it was too late. she had killed his love. that jorth blood in her--that poisonous hate--had chosen the only way to strike this noble isbel to the heart. basely, with an abandonment of womanhood, she had mockingly perjured her soul with a vile lie. she writhed, she shook under the whip of this inconceivable fact. lost! lost! she wailed her misery. she might as well be what she had made jean isbel think she was. if she had been shamed before, she was now abased, degraded, lost in her own sight. and if she would have given her soul for his kisses, she now would have killed herself to earn back his respect. jean isbel had given her at sight the deference that she had unconsciously craved, and the love that would have been her salvation. what a horrible mistake she had made of her life! not her mother's blood, but her father's--the jorth blood--had been her ruin. again ellen fell upon the soft pine-needle mat, face down, and she groveled and burrowed there, in an agony that could not bear the sense of light. all she had suffered was as nothing to this. to have awakened to a splendid and uplifting love for a man whom she had imagined she hated, who had fought for her name and had killed in revenge for the dishonor she had avowed--to have lost his love and what was infinitely more precious to her now in her ignominy--his faith in her purity--this broke her heart. chapter xi when ellen, utterly spent in body and mind, reached home that day a melancholy, sultry twilight was falling. fitful flares of sheet lightning swept across the dark horizon to the east. the cabins were deserted. antonio and the mexican woman were gone. the circumstances made ellen wonder, but she was too tired and too sunken in spirit to think long about it or to care. she fed and watered her horse and left him in the corral. then, supperless and without removing her clothes, she threw herself upon the bed, and at once sank into heavy slumber. sometime during the night she awoke. coyotes were yelping, and from that sound she concluded it was near dawn. her body ached; her mind seemed dull. drowsily she was sinking into slumber again when she heard the rapid clip-clop of trotting horses. startled, she raised her head to listen. the men were coming back. relief and dread seemed to clear her stupor. the trotting horses stopped across the lane from her cabin, evidently at the corral where she had left spades. she heard him whistle. from the sound of hoofs she judged the number of horses to be six or eight. low voices of men mingled with thuds and cracking of straps and flopping of saddles on the ground. after that the heavy tread of boots sounded on the porch of the cabin opposite. a door creaked on its hinges. next a slow footstep, accompanied by clinking of spurs, approached ellen's door, and a heavy hand banged upon it. she knew this person could not be her father. "hullo, ellen!" she recognized the voice as belonging to colter. somehow its tone, or something about it, sent a little shiver clown her spine. it acted like a revivifying current. ellen lost her dragging lethargy. "hey, ellen, are y'u there?" added colter, louder voice. "yes. of course i'm heah," she replied. "what do y'u want?" "wal--i'm shore glad y'u're home," he replied. "antonio's gone with his squaw. an' i was some worried aboot y'u." "who's with y'u, colter?" queried ellen, sitting up. "rock wells an' springer. tad jorth was with us, but we had to leave him over heah in a cabin." "what's the matter with him?" "wal, he's hurt tolerable bad," was the slow reply. ellen heard colter's spurs jangle, as if he had uneasily shifted his feet. "where's dad an' uncle jackson?" asked ellen. a silence pregnant enough to augment ellen's dread finally broke to colter's voice, somehow different. "shore they're back on the trail. an' we're to meet them where we left tad." "are yu goin' away again?" "i reckon.... an', ellen, y'u're goin' with us." "i am not," she retorted. "wal, y'u are, if i have to pack y'u," he replied, forcibly. "it's not safe heah any more. that damned half-breed isbel with his gang are on our trail." that name seemed like a red-hot blade at ellen's leaden heart. she wanted to fling a hundred queries on colter, but she could not utter one. "ellen, we've got to hit the trail an' hide," continued colter, anxiously. "y'u mustn't stay heah alone. suppose them isbels would trap y'u! ... they'd tear your clothes off an' rope y'u to a tree. ellen, shore y'u're goin'.... y'u heah me!" "yes--i'll go," she replied, as if forced. "wal--that's good," he said, quickly. "an' rustle tolerable lively. we've got to pack." the slow jangle of colter's spurs and his slow steps moved away out of ellen's hearing. throwing off the blankets, she put her feet to the floor and sat there a moment staring at the blank nothingness of the cabin interior in the obscure gray of dawn. cold, gray, dreary, obscure--like her life, her future! and she was compelled to do what was hateful to her. as a jorth she must take to the unfrequented trails and hide like a rabbit in the thickets. but the interest of the moment, a premonition of events to be, quickened her into action. ellen unbarred the door to let in the light. day was breaking with an intense, clear, steely light in the east through which the morning star still shone white. a ruddy flare betokened the advent of the sun. ellen unbraided her tangled hair and brushed and combed it. a queer, still pang came to her at sight of pine needles tangled in her brown locks. then she washed her hands and face. breakfast was a matter of considerable work and she was hungry. the sun rose and changed the gray world of forest. for the first time in her life ellen hated the golden brightness, the wonderful blue of sky, the scream of the eagle and the screech of the jay; and the squirrels she had always loved to feed were neglected that morning. colter came in. either ellen had never before looked attentively at him or else he had changed. her scrutiny of his lean, hard features accorded him more texan attributes than formerly. his gray eyes were as light, as clear, as fierce as those of an eagle. and the sand gray of his face, the long, drooping, fair mustache hid the secrets of his mind, but not its strength. the instant ellen met his gaze she sensed a power in him that she instinctively opposed. colter had not been so bold nor so rude as daggs, but he was the same kind of man, perhaps the more dangerous for his secretiveness, his cool, waiting inscrutableness. "'mawnin', ellen!" he drawled. "y'u shore look good for sore eyes." "don't pay me compliments, colter," replied ellen. "an' your eyes are not sore." "wal, i'm shore sore from fightin' an' ridin' an' layin' out," he said, bluntly. "tell me--what's happened," returned ellen. "girl, it's a tolerable long story," replied colter. "an' we've no time now. wait till we get to camp." "am i to pack my belongin's or leave them heah?" asked ellen. "reckon y'u'd better leave--them heah." "but if we did not come back--" "wal, i reckon it's not likely we'll come--soon," he said, rather evasively. "colter, i'll not go off into the woods with just the clothes i have on my back." "ellen, we shore got to pack all the grab we can. this shore ain't goin' to be a visit to neighbors. we're shy pack hosses. but y'u make up a bundle of belongin's y'u care for, an' the things y'u'll need bad. we'll throw it on somewhere." colter stalked away across the lane, and ellen found herself dubiously staring at his tall figure. was it the situation that struck her with a foreboding perplexity or was her intuition steeling her against this man? ellen could not decide. but she had to go with him. her prejudice was unreasonable at this portentous moment. and she could not yet feel that she was solely responsible to herself. when it came to making a small bundle of her belongings she was in a quandary. she discarded this and put in that, and then reversed the order. next in preciousness to her mother's things were the long-hidden gifts of jean isbel. she could part with neither. while she was selecting and packing this bundle colter again entered and, without speaking, began to rummage in the corner where her father kept his possessions. this irritated ellen. "what do y'u want there?" she demanded. "wal, i reckon your dad wants his papers--an' the gold he left heah--an' a change of clothes. now doesn't he?" returned colter, coolly. "of course. but i supposed y'u would have me pack them." colter vouchsafed no reply to this, but deliberately went on rummaging, with little regard for how he scattered things. ellen turned her back on him. at length, when he left, she went to her father's corner and found that, as far as she was able to see, colter had taken neither papers nor clothes, but only the gold. perhaps, however, she had been mistaken, for she had not observed colter's departure closely enough to know whether or not he carried a package. she missed only the gold. her father's papers, old and musty, were scattered about, and these she gathered up to slip in her own bundle. colter, or one of the men, had saddled spades, and he was now tied to the corral fence, champing his bit and pounding the sand. ellen wrapped bread and meat inside her coat, and after tying this behind her saddle she was ready to go. but evidently she would have to wait, and, preferring to remain outdoors, she stayed by her horse. presently, while watching the men pack, she noticed that springer wore a bandage round his head under the brim of his sombrero. his motions were slow and lacked energy. shuddering at the sight, ellen refused to conjecture. all too soon she would learn what had happened, and all too soon, perhaps, she herself would be in the midst of another fight. she watched the men. they were making a hurried slipshod job of packing food supplies from both cabins. more than once she caught colter's gray gleam of gaze on her, and she did not like it. "i'll ride up an' say good-by to sprague," she called to colter. "shore y'u won't do nothin' of the kind," he called back. there was authority in his tone that angered ellen, and something else which inhibited her anger. what was there about colter with which she must reckon? the other two texans laughed aloud, to be suddenly silenced by colter's harsh and lowered curses. ellen walked out of hearing and sat upon a log, where she remained until colter hailed her. "get up an' ride," he called. ellen complied with this order and, riding up behind the three mounted men, she soon found herself leaving what for years had been her home. not once did she look back. she hoped she would never see the squalid, bare pretension of a ranch again. colter and the other riders drove the pack horses across the meadow, off of the trails, and up the slope into the forest. not very long did it take ellen to see that colter's object was to hide their tracks. he zigzagged through the forest, avoiding the bare spots of dust, the dry, sun-baked flats of clay where water lay in spring, and he chose the grassy, open glades, the long, pine-needle matted aisles. ellen rode at their heels and it pleased her to watch for their tracks. colter manifestly had been long practiced in this game of hiding his trail, and he showed the skill of a rustler. but ellen was not convinced that he could ever elude a real woodsman. not improbably, however, colter was only aiming to leave a trail difficult to follow and which would allow him and his confederates ample time to forge ahead of pursuers. ellen could not accept a certainty of pursuit. yet colter must have expected it, and springer and wells also, for they had a dark, sinister, furtive demeanor that strangely contrasted with the cool, easy manner habitual to them. they were not seeking the level routes of the forest land, that was sure. they rode straight across the thick-timbered ridge down into another canyon, up out of that, and across rough, rocky bluffs, and down again. these riders headed a little to the northwest and every mile brought them into wilder, more rugged country, until ellen, losing count of canyons and ridges, had no idea where she was. no stop was made at noon to rest the laboring, sweating pack animals. under circumstances where pleasure might have been possible ellen would have reveled in this hard ride into a wonderful forest ever thickening and darkening. but the wild beauty of glade and the spruce slopes and the deep, bronze-walled canyons left her cold. she saw and felt, but had no thrill, except now and then a thrill of alarm when spades slid to his haunches down some steep, damp, piny declivity. all the woodland, up and down, appeared to be richer greener as they traveled farther west. grass grew thick and heavy. water ran in all ravines. the rocks were bronze and copper and russet, and some had green patches of lichen. ellen felt the sun now on her left cheek and knew that the day was waning and that colter was swinging farther to the northwest. she had never before ridden through such heavy forest and down and up such wild canyons. toward sunset the deepest and ruggedest canyon halted their advance. colter rode to the right, searching for a place to get down through a spruce thicket that stood on end. presently he dismounted and the others followed suit. ellen found she could not lead spades because he slid down upon her heels, so she looped the end of her reins over the pommel and left him free. she herself managed to descend by holding to branches and sliding all the way down that slope. she heard the horses cracking the brush, snorting and heaving. one pack slipped and had to be removed from the horse, and rolled down. at the bottom of this deep, green-walled notch roared a stream of water. shadowed, cool, mossy, damp, this narrow gulch seemed the wildest place ellen had ever seen. she could just see the sunset-flushed, gold-tipped spruces far above her. the men repacked the horse that had slipped his burden, and once more resumed their progress ahead, now turning up this canyon. there was no horse trail, but deer and bear trails were numerous. the sun sank and the sky darkened, but still the men rode on; and the farther they traveled the wilder grew the aspect of the canyon. at length colter broke a way through a heavy thicket of willows and entered a side canyon, the mouth of which ellen had not even descried. it turned and widened, and at length opened out into a round pocket, apparently inclosed, and as lonely and isolated a place as even pursued rustlers could desire. hidden by jutting wall and thicket of spruce were two old log cabins joined together by roof and attic floor, the same as the double cabin at the jorth ranch. ellen smelled wood smoke, and presently, on going round the cabins, saw a bright fire. one man stood beside it gazing at colter's party, which evidently he had heard approaching. "hullo, queen!" said colter. "how's tad?" "he's holdin' on fine," replied queen, bending over the fire, where he turned pieces of meat. "where's father?" suddenly asked ellen, addressing colter. as if he had not heard her, he went on wearily loosening a pack. queen looked at her. the light of the fire only partially shone on his face. ellen could not see its expression. but from the fact that queen did not answer her question she got further intimation of an impending catastrophe. the long, wild ride had helped prepare her for the secrecy and taciturnity of men who had resorted to flight. perhaps her father had been delayed or was still off on the deadly mission that had obsessed him; or there might, and probably was, darker reason for his absence. ellen shut her teeth and turned to the needs of her horse. and presently, returning to the fire, she thought of her uncle. "queen, is my uncle tad heah?" she asked. "shore. he's in there," replied queen, pointing at the nearer cabin. ellen hurried toward the dark doorway. she could see how the logs of the cabin had moved awry and what a big, dilapidated hovel it was. as she looked in, colter loomed over her--placed a familiar and somehow masterful hand upon her. ellen let it rest on her shoulder a moment. must she forever be repulsing these rude men among whom her lot was cast? did colter mean what daggs had always meant? ellen felt herself weary, weak in body, and her spent spirit had not rallied. yet, whatever colter meant by his familiarity, she could not bear it. so she slipped out from under his hand. "uncle tad, are y'u heah?" she called into the blackness. she heard the mice scamper and rustle and she smelled the musty, old, woody odor of a long-unused cabin. "hello, ellen!" came a voice she recognized as her uncle's, yet it was strange. "yes. i'm heah--bad luck to me! ... how 're y'u buckin' up, girl?" "i'm all right, uncle tad--only tired an' worried. i--" "tad, how's your hurt?" interrupted colter. "reckon i'm easier," replied jorth, wearily, "but shore i'm in bad shape. i'm still spittin' blood. i keep tellin' queen that bullet lodged in my lungs&mdash;but he says it went through." "wal, hang on, tad!" replied colter, with a cheerfulness ellen sensed was really indifferent. "oh, what the hell's the use!" exclaimed jorth. "it's all--up with us--colter!" "wal, shut up, then," tersely returned colter. "it ain't doin' y'u or us any good to holler." tad jorth did not reply to this. ellen heard his breathing and it did not seem natural. it rasped a little--came hurriedly--then caught in his throat. then he spat. ellen shrunk back against the door. he was breathing through blood. "uncle, are y'u in pain?" she asked. "yes, ellen--it burns like hell," he said. "oh! i'm sorry.... isn't there something i can do?" "i reckon not. queen did all anybody could do for me--now--unless it's pray." colter laughed at this--the slow, easy, drawling laugh of a texan. but ellen felt pity for this wounded uncle. she had always hated him. he had been a drunkard, a gambler, a waster of her father's property; and now he was a rustler and a fugitive, lying in pain, perhaps mortally hurt. "yes, uncle--i will pray for y'u," she said, softly. the change in his voice held a note of sadness that she had been quick to catch. "ellen, y'u're the only good jorth--in the whole damned lot," he said. "god! i see it all now.... we've dragged y'u to hell!" "yes, uncle tad, i've shore been dragged some--but not yet--to hell," she responded, with a break in her voice. "y'u will be--ellen--unless--" "aw, shut up that kind of gab, will y'u?" broke in colter, harshly. it amazed ellen that colter should dominate her uncle, even though he was wounded. tad jorth had been the last man to take orders from anyone, much less a rustler of the hash knife gang. this colter began to loom up in ellen's estimate as he loomed physically over her, a lofty figure, dark motionless, somehow menacing. "ellen, has colter told y'u yet--aboot--aboot lee an' jackson?" inquired the wounded man. the pitch-black darkness of the cabin seemed to help fortify ellen to bear further trouble. "colter told me dad an' uncle jackson would meet us heah," she rejoined, hurriedly. jorth could be heard breathing in difficulty, and he coughed and spat again, and seemed to hiss. "ellen, he lied to y'u. they'll never meet us--heah!" "why not?" whispered ellen. "because--ellen--" he replied, in husky pants, "your dad an'--uncle jackson--are daid--an' buried!" if ellen suffered a terrible shock it was a blankness, a deadness, and a slow, creeping failure of sense in her knees. they gave way under her and she sank on the grass against the cabin wall. she did not faint nor grow dizzy nor lose her sight, but for a while there was no process of thought in her mind. suddenly then it was there--the quick, spiritual rending of her heart--followed by a profound emotion of intimate and irretrievable loss--and after that grief and bitter realization. an hour later ellen found strength to go to the fire and partake of the food and drink her body sorely needed. colter and the men waited on her solicitously, and in silence, now and then stealing furtive glances at her from under the shadow of their black sombreros. the dark night settled down like a blanket. there were no stars. the wind moaned fitfully among the pines, and all about that lonely, hidden recess was in harmony with ellen's thoughts. "girl, y'u're shore game," said colter, admiringly. "an' i reckon y'u never got it from the jorths." "tad in there--he's game," said queen, in mild protest. "not to my notion," replied colter. "any man can be game when he's croakin', with somebody around.... but lee jorth an' jackson--they always was yellow clear to their gizzards. they was born in louisiana--not texas.... shore they're no more texans than i am. ellen heah, she must have got another strain in her blood." to ellen their words had no meaning. she rose and asked, "where can i sleep?" "i'll fetch a light presently an' y'u can make your bed in there by tad," replied colter. "yes, i'd like that." "wal, if y'u reckon y'u can coax him to talk you're shore wrong," declared colter, with that cold timbre of voice that struck like steel on ellen's nerves. "i cussed him good an' told him he'd keep his mouth shut. talkin' makes him cough an' that fetches up the blood.... besides, i reckon i'm the one to tell y'u how your dad an' uncle got killed. tad didn't see it done, an' he was bad hurt when it happened. shore all the fellars left have their idee aboot it. but i've got it straight." "colter--tell me now," cried ellen. "wal, all right. come over heah," he replied, and drew her away from the camp fire, out in the shadow of gloom. "poor kid! i shore feel bad aboot it." he put a long arm around her waist and drew her against him. ellen felt it, yet did not offer any resistance. all her faculties seemed absorbed in a morbid and sad anticipation. "ellen, y'u shore know i always loved y'u--now don't y 'u?" he asked, with suppressed breath. "no, colter. it's news to me--an' not what i want to heah." "wal, y'u may as well heah it right now," he said. "it's true. an' what's more--your dad gave y'u to me before he died." "what! colter, y'u must be a liar." "ellen, i swear i'm not lyin'," he returned, in eager passion. "i was with your dad last an' heard him last. he shore knew i'd loved y'u for years. an' he said he'd rather y'u be left in my care than anybody's." "my father gave me to y'u in marriage!" ejaculated ellen, in bewilderment. colter's ready assurance did not carry him over this point. it was evident that her words somewhat surprised and disconcerted him for the moment. "to let me marry a rustler--one of the hash knife gang!" exclaimed ellen, with weary incredulity. "wal, your dad belonged to daggs's gang, same as i do," replied colter, recovering his cool ardor. "no!" cried ellen. "yes, he shore did, for years," declared colter, positively. "back in texas. an' it was your dad that got daggs to come to arizona." ellen tried to fling herself away. but her strength and her spirit were ebbing, and colter increased the pressure of his arm. all at once she sank limp. could she escape her fate? nothing seemed left to fight with or for. "all right--don't hold me--so tight," she panted. "now tell me how dad was killed ... an' who--who--" colter bent over so he could peer into her face. in the darkness ellen just caught the gleam of his eyes. she felt the virile force of the man in the strain of his body as he pressed her close. it all seemed unreal--a hideous dream--the gloom, the moan of the wind, the weird solitude, and this rustler with hand and will like cold steel. "we'd come back to greaves's store," colter began. "an' as greaves was daid we all got free with his liquor. shore some of us got drunk. bruce was drunk, an' tad in there--he was drunk. your dad put away more 'n i ever seen him. but shore he wasn't exactly drunk. he got one of them weak an' shaky spells. he cried an' he wanted some of us to get the isbels to call off the fightin'.... he shore was ready to call it quits. i reckon the killin' of daggs--an' then the awful way greaves was cut up by jean isbel--took all the fight out of your dad. he said to me, 'colter, we'll take ellen an' leave this heah country--an' begin life all over again--where no one knows us.'" "oh, did he really say that? ... did he--really mean it?" murmured ellen, with a sob. "i'll swear it by the memory of my daid mother," protested colter. "wal, when night come the isbels rode down on us in the dark an' began to shoot. they smashed in the door--tried to burn us out--an' hollered around for a while. then they left an' we reckoned there'd be no more trouble that night. all the same we kept watch. i was the soberest one an' i bossed the gang. we had some quarrels aboot the drinkin'. your dad said if we kept it up it 'd be the end of the jorths. an' he planned to send word to the isbels next mawnin' that he was ready for a truce. an' i was to go fix it up with gaston isbel. wal, your dad went to bed in greaves's room, an' a little while later your uncle jackson went in there, too. some of the men laid down in the store an' went to sleep. i kept guard till aboot three in the mawnin'. an' i got so sleepy i couldn't hold my eyes open. so i waked up wells an' slater an' set them on guard, one at each end of the store. then i laid down on the counter to take a nap." colter's low voice, the strain and breathlessness of him, the agitation with which he appeared to be laboring, and especially the simple, matter-of-fact detail of his story, carried absolute conviction to ellen jorth. her vague doubt of him had been created by his attitude toward her. emotion dominated her intelligence. the images, the scenes called up by colter's words, were as true as the gloom of the wild gulch and the loneliness of the night solitude--as true as the strange fact that she lay passive in the arm of a rustler. "wall, after a while i woke up," went on colter, clearing his throat. "it was gray dawn. all was as still as death.... an' somethin' shore was wrong. wells an' slater had got to drinkin' again an' now laid daid drunk or asleep. anyways, when i kicked them they never moved. then i heard a moan. it came from the room where your dad an' uncle was. i went in. it was just light enough to see. your uncle jackson was layin' on the floor--cut half in two--daid as a door nail.... your dad lay on the bed. he was alive, breathin' his last.... he says, 'that half-breed isbel--knifed us--while we slept!' ... the winder shutter was open. i seen where jean isbel had come in an' gone out. i seen his moccasin tracks in the dirt outside an' i seen where he'd stepped in jackson's blood an' tracked it to the winder. y'u shore can see them bloody tracks yourself, if y'u go back to greaves's store.... your dad was goin' fast.... he said, 'colter--take care of ellen,' an' i reckon he meant a lot by that. he kept sayin', 'my god! if i'd only seen gaston isbel before it was too late!' an' then he raved a little, whisperin' out of his haid.... an' after that he died.... i woke up the men, an' aboot sunup we carried your dad an' uncle out of town an' buried them.... an' them isbels shot at us while we were buryin' our daid! that's where tad got his hurt.... then we hit the trail for jorth's ranch.... an now, ellen, that's all my story. your dad was ready to bury the hatchet with his old enemy. an' that nez perce jean isbel, like the sneakin' savage he is, murdered your uncle an' your dad.... cut him horrible--made him suffer tortures of hell--all for isbel revenge!" when colter's husky voice ceased ellen whispered through lips as cold and still as ice, "let me go ... leave me--heah--alone!" "why, shore! i reckon i understand," replied colter. "i hated to tell y'u. but y'u had to heah the truth aboot that half-breed.... i'll carry your pack in the cabin an' unroll your blankets." releasing her, colter strode off in the gloom. like a dead weight, ellen began to slide until she slipped down full length beside the log. and then she lay in the cool, damp shadow, inert and lifeless so far as outward physical movement was concerned. she saw nothing and felt nothing of the night, the wind, the cold, the falling dew. for the moment or hour she was crushed by despair, and seemed to see herself sinking down and down into a black, bottomless pit, into an abyss where murky tides of blood and furious gusts of passion contended between her body and her soul. into the stormy blast of hell! in her despair she longed, she ached for death. born of infidelity, cursed by a taint of evil blood, further cursed by higher instinct for good and happy life, dragged from one lonely and wild and sordid spot to another, never knowing love or peace or joy or home, left to the companionship of violent and vile men, driven by a strange fate to love with unquenchable and insupportable love a' half-breed, a savage, an isbel, the hereditary enemy of her people, and at last the ruthless murderer of her father--what in the name of god had she left to live for? revenge! an eye for an eye! a life for a life! but she could not kill jean isbel. woman's love could turn to hate, but not the love of ellen jorth. he could drag her by the hair in the dust, beat her, and make her a thing to loathe, and cut her mortally in his savage and implacable thirst for revenge--but with her last gasp she would whisper she loved him and that she had lied to him to kill his faith. it was that--his strange faith in her purity--which had won her love. of all men, that he should be the one to recognize the truth of her, the womanhood yet unsullied--how strange, how terrible, how overpowering! false, indeed, was she to the jorths! false as her mother had been to an isbel! this agony and destruction of her soul was the bitter dead sea fruit--the sins of her parents visited upon her. "i'll end it all," she whispered to the night shadows that hovered over her. no coward was she--no fear of pain or mangled flesh or death or the mysterious hereafter could ever stay her. it would be easy, it would be a last thrill, a transport of self-abasement and supreme self-proof of her love for jean isbel to kiss the rim rock where his feet had trod and then fling herself down into the depths. she was the last jorth. so the wronged isbels would be avenged. "but he would never know--never know--i lied to him!" she wailed to the night wind. she was lost--lost on earth and to hope of heaven. she had right neither to live nor to die. she was nothing but a little weed along the trail of life, trampled upon, buried in the mud. she was nothing but a single rotten thread in a tangled web of love and hate and revenge. and she had broken. lower and lower she seemed to sink. was there no end to this gulf of despair? if colter had returned he would have found her a rag and a toy--a creature degraded, fit for his vile embrace. to be thrust deeper into the mire--to be punished fittingly for her betrayal of a man's noble love and her own womanhood--to be made an end of, body, mind, and soul. but colter did not return. the wind mourned, the owls hooted, the leaves rustled, the insects whispered their melancholy night song, the camp-fire flickered and faded. then the wild forestland seemed to close imponderably over ellen. all that she wailed in her despair, all that she confessed in her abasement, was true, and hard as life could be--but she belonged to nature. if nature had not failed her, had god failed her? it was there--the lonely land of tree and fern and flower and brook, full of wild birds and beasts, where the mossy rocks could speak and the solitude had ears, where she had always felt herself unutterably a part of creation. thus a wavering spark of hope quivered through the blackness of her soul and gathered light. the gloom of the sky, the shifting clouds of dull shade, split asunder to show a glimpse of a radiant star, piercingly white, cold, pure, a steadfast eye of the universe, beyond all understanding and illimitable with its meaning of the past and the present and the future. ellen watched it until the drifting clouds once more hid it from her strained sight. what had that star to do with hell? she might be crushed and destroyed by life, but was there not something beyond? just to be born, just to suffer, just to die--could that be all? despair did not loose its hold on ellen, the strife and pang of her breast did not subside. but with the long hours and the strange closing in of the forest around her and the fleeting glimpse of that wonderful star, with a subtle divination of the meaning of her beating heart and throbbing mind, and, lastly, with a voice thundering at her conscience that a man's faith in a woman must not be greater, nobler, than her faith in god and eternity--with these she checked the dark flight of her soul toward destruction. chapter xii a chill, gray, somber dawn was breaking when ellen dragged herself into the cabin and crept under her blankets, there to sleep the sleep of exhaustion. when she awoke the hour appeared to be late afternoon. sun and sky shone through the sunken and decayed roof of the old cabin. her uncle, tad jorth, lay upon a blanket bed upheld by a crude couch of boughs. the light fell upon his face, pale, lined, cast in a still mold of suffering. he was not dead, for she heard his respiration. the floor underneath ellen's blankets was bare clay. she and jorth were alone in this cabin. it contained nothing besides their beds and a rank growth of weeds along the decayed lower logs. half of the cabin had a rude ceiling of rough-hewn boards which formed a kind of loft. this attic extended through to the adjoining cabin, forming the ceiling of the porch-like space between the two structures. there was no partition. a ladder of two aspen saplings, pegged to the logs, and with braces between for steps, led up to the attic. ellen smelled wood smoke and the odor of frying meat, and she heard the voices of men. she looked out to see that slater and somers had joined their party--an addition that might have strengthened it for defense, but did not lend her own situation anything favorable. somers had always appeared the one best to avoid. colter espied her and called her to "come an' feed your pale face." his comrades laughed, not loudly, but guardedly, as if noise was something to avoid. nevertheless, they awoke tad jorth, who began to toss and moan on the bed. ellen hurried to his side and at once ascertained that he had a high fever and was in a critical condition. every time he tossed he opened a wound in his right breast, rather high up. for all she could see, nothing had been done for him except the binding of a scarf round his neck and under his arm. this scant bandage had worked loose. going to the door, she called out: "fetch me some water." when colter brought it, ellen was rummaging in her pack for some clothing or towel that she could use for bandages. "weren't any of y'u decent enough to look after my uncle?" she queried. "huh! wal, what the hell!" rejoined colter. "we shore did all we could. i reckon y'u think it wasn't a tough job to pack him up the rim. he was done for then an' i said so." "i'll do all i can for him," said ellen. "shore. go ahaid. when i get plugged or knifed by that half-breed i shore hope y'u'll be round to nurse me." "y'u seem to be pretty shore of your fate, colter." "shore as hell!" he bit out, darkly. "somers saw isbel an' his gang trailin' us to the jorth ranch." "are y'u goin' to stay heah--an' wait for them?" "shore i've been quarrelin' with the fellars out there over that very question. i'm for leavin' the country. but queen, the damn gun fighter, is daid set to kill that cowman, blue, who swore he was king fisher, the old texas outlaw. none but queen are spoilin' for another fight. all the same they won't leave tad jorth heah alone." then colter leaned in at the door and whispered: "ellen, i cain't boss this outfit. so let's y'u an' me shake 'em. i've got your dad's gold. let's ride off to-night an' shake this country." colter, muttering under his breath, left the door and returned to his comrades. ellen had received her first intimation of his cowardice; and his mention of her father's gold started a train of thought that persisted in spite of her efforts to put all her mind to attending her uncle. he grew conscious enough to recognize her working over him, and thanked her with a look that touched ellen deeply. it changed the direction of her mind. his suffering and imminent death, which she was able to alleviate and retard somewhat, worked upon her pity and compassion so that she forgot her own plight. half the night she was tending him, cooling his fever, holding him quiet. well she realized that but for her ministrations he would have died. at length he went to sleep. and ellen, sitting beside him in the lonely, silent darkness of that late hour, received again the intimation of nature, those vague and nameless stirrings of her innermost being, those whisperings out of the night and the forest and the sky. something great would not let go of her soul. she pondered. attention to the wounded man occupied ellen; and soon she redoubled her activities in this regard, finding in them something of protection against colter. he had waylaid her as she went to a spring for water, and with a lunge like that of a bear he had tried to embrace her. but ellen had been too quick. "wal, are y'u goin' away with me?" he demanded. "no. i'll stick by my uncle," she replied. that motive of hers seemed to obstruct his will. ellen was keen to see that colter and his comrades were at a last stand and disintegrating under a severe strain. nerve and courage of the open and the wild they possessed, but only in a limited degree. colter seemed obsessed by his passion for her, and though ellen in her stubborn pride did not yet fear him, she realized she ought to. after that incident she watched closely, never leaving her uncle's bedside except when colter was absent. one or more of the men kept constant lookout somewhere down the canyon. day after day passed on the wings of suspense, of watching, of ministering to her uncle, of waiting for some hour that seemed fixed. colter was like a hound upon her trail. at every turn he was there to importune her to run off with him, to frighten her with the menace of the isbels, to beg her to give herself to him. it came to pass that the only relief she had was when she ate with the men or barred the cabin door at night. not much relief, however, was there in the shut and barred door. with one thrust of his powerful arm colter could have caved it in. he knew this as well as ellen. still she did not have the fear she should have had. there was her rifle beside her, and though she did not allow her mind to run darkly on its possible use, still the fact of its being there at hand somehow strengthened her. colter was a cat playing with a mouse, but not yet sure of his quarry. ellen came to know hours when she was weak--weak physically, mentally, spiritually, morally--when under the sheer weight of this frightful and growing burden of suspense she was not capable of fighting her misery, her abasement, her low ebb of vitality, and at the same time wholly withstanding colter's advances. he would come into the cabin and, utterly indifferent to tad jorth, he would try to make bold and unrestrained love to ellen. when he caught her in one of her unresisting moments and was able to hold her in his arms and kiss her he seemed to be beside himself with the wonder of her. at such moments, if he had any softness or gentleness in him, they expressed themselves in his sooner or later letting her go, when apparently she was about to faint. so it must have become fascinatingly fixed in colter's mind that at times ellen repulsed him with scorn and at others could not resist him. ellen had escaped two crises in her relation with this man, and as a morbid doubt, like a poisonous fungus, began to strangle her mind, she instinctively divined that there was an approaching and final crisis. no uplift of her spirit came this time--no intimations--no whisperings. how horrible it all was! to long to be good and noble--to realize that she was neither--to sink lower day by day! must she decay there like one of these rotting logs? worst of all, then, was the insinuating and ever-growing hopelessness. what was the use? what did it matter? who would ever think of ellen jorth? "o god!" she whispered in her distraction, "is there nothing left--nothing at all?" a period of several days of less torment to ellen followed. her uncle apparently took a turn for the better and colter let her alone. this last circumstance nonplused ellen. she was at a loss to understand it unless the isbel menace now encroached upon colter so formidably that he had forgotten her for the present. then one bright august morning, when she had just begun to relax her eternal vigilance and breathe without oppression, colter encountered her and, darkly silent and fierce, he grasped her and drew her off her feet. ellen struggled violently, but the total surprise had deprived her of strength. and that paralyzing weakness assailed her as never before. without apparent effort colter carried her, striding rapidly away from the cabins into the border of spruce trees at the foot of the canyon wall. "colter--where--oh, where are y'u takin' me?" she found voice to cry out. "by god! i don't know," he replied, with strong, vibrant passion. "i was a fool not to carry y'u off long ago. but i waited. i was hopin' y'u'd love me! ... an' now that isbel gang has corralled us. somers seen the half-breed up on the rocks. an' springer seen the rest of them sneakin' around. i run back after my horse an' y'u." "but uncle tad! ... we mustn't leave him alone," cried ellen. "we've got to," replied colter, grimly. "tad shore won't worry y'u no more--soon as jean isbel gets to him." "oh, let me stay," implored ellen. "i will save him." colter laughed at the utter absurdity of her appeal and claim. suddenly he set her down upon her feet. "stand still," he ordered. ellen saw his big bay horse, saddled, with pack and blanket, tied there in the shade of a spruce. with swift hands colter untied him and mounted him, scarcely moving his piercing gaze from ellen. he reached to grasp her. "up with y'u! ... put your foot in the stirrup!" his will, like his powerful arm, was irresistible for ellen at that moment. she found herself swung up behind him. then the horse plunged away. what with the hard motion and colter's iron grasp on her ellen was in a painful position. her knees and feet came into violent contact with branches and snags. he galloped the horse, tearing through the dense thicket of willows that served to hide the entrance to the side canyon, and when out in the larger and more open canyon he urged him to a run. presently when colter put the horse to a slow rise of ground, thereby bringing him to a walk, it was just in time to save ellen a serious bruising. again the sunlight appeared to shade over. they were in the pines. suddenly with backward lunge colter halted the horse. ellen heard a yell. she recognized queen's voice. "turn back, colter! turn back!" with an oath colter wheeled his mount. "if i didn't run plump into them," he ejaculated, harshly. and scarcely had the goaded horse gotten a start when a shot rang out. ellen felt a violent shock, as if her momentum had suddenly met with a check, and then she felt herself wrenched from colter, from the saddle, and propelled into the air. she alighted on soft ground and thick grass, and was unhurt save for the violent wrench and shaking that had rendered her breathless. before she could rise colter was pulling at her, lifting her to her feet. she saw the horse lying with bloody head. tall pines loomed all around. another rifle cracked. "run!" hissed colter, and he bounded off, dragging her by the hand. another yell pealed out. "here we are, colter!". again it was queen's shrill voice. ellen ran with all her might, her heart in her throat, her sight failing to record more than a blur of passing pines and a blank green wall of spruce. then she lost her balance, was falling, yet could not fall because of that steel grip on her hand, and was dragged, and finally carried, into a dense shade. she was blinded. the trees whirled and faded. voices and shots sounded far away. then something black seemed to be wiped across her feeling. it turned to gray, to moving blankness, to dim, hazy objects, spectral and tall, like blanketed trees, and when ellen fully recovered consciousness she was being carried through the forest. "wal, little one, that was a close shave for y'u," said colter's hard voice, growing clearer. "reckon your keelin' over was natural enough." he held her lightly in both arms, her head resting above his left elbow. ellen saw his face as a gray blur, then taking sharper outline, until it stood out distinctly, pale and clammy, with eyes cold and wonderful in their intense flare. as she gazed upward colter turned his head to look back through the woods, and his motion betrayed a keen, wild vigilance. the veins of his lean, brown neck stood out like whipcords. two comrades were stalking beside him. ellen heard their stealthy steps, and she felt colter sheer from one side or the other. they were proceeding cautiously, fearful of the rear, but not wholly trusting to the fore. "reckon we'd better go slow an' look before we leap," said one whose voice ellen recognized as springer's. "shore. that open slope ain't to my likin', with our nez perce friend prowlin' round," drawled colter, as he set ellen down on her feet. another of the rustlers laughed. "say, can't he twinkle through the forest? i had four shots at him. harder to hit than a turkey runnin' crossways." this facetious speaker was the evil-visaged, sardonic somers. he carried two rifles and wore two belts of cartridges. "ellen, shore y'u ain't so daid white as y'u was," observed colter, and he chucked her under the chin with familiar hand. "set down heah. i don't want y'u stoppin' any bullets. an' there's no tellin'." ellen was glad to comply with his wish. she had begun to recover wits and strength, yet she still felt shaky. she observed that their position then was on the edge of a well-wooded slope from which she could see the grassy canyon floor below. they were on a level bench, projecting out from the main canyon wall that loomed gray and rugged and pine fringed. somers and cotter and springer gave careful attention to all points of the compass, especially in the direction from which they had come. they evidently anticipated being trailed or circled or headed off, but did not manifest much concern. somers lit a cigarette; springer wiped his face with a grimy hand and counted the shells in his belt, which appeared to be half empty. colter stretched his long neck like a vulture and peered down the slope and through the aisles of the forest up toward the canyon rim. "listen!" he said, tersely, and bent his head a little to one side, ear to the slight breeze. they all listened. ellen heard the beating of her heart, the rustle of leaves, the tapping of a woodpecker, and faint, remote sounds that she could not name. "deer, i reckon," spoke up somers. "ahuh! wal, i reckon they ain't trailin' us yet," replied colter. "we gave them a shade better 'n they sent us." "short an' sweet!" ejaculated springer, and he removed his black sombrero to poke a dirty forefinger through a buffet hole in the crown. "thet's how close i come to cashin'. i was lyin' behind a log, listenin' an' watchin', an' when i stuck my head up a little--zam! somebody made my bonnet leak." "where's queen?" asked colter. "he was with me fust off," replied somers. "an' then when the shootin' slacked--after i'd plugged thet big, red-faced, white-haired pal of isbel's--" "reckon thet was blaisdell," interrupted springer. "queen--he got tired layin' low," went on somers. "he wanted action. i heerd him chewin' to himself, an' when i asked him what was eatin' him he up an' growled he was goin' to quit this injun fightin'. an' he slipped off in the woods." "wal, that's the gun fighter of it," declared colter, wagging his head, "ever since that cowman, blue, braced us an' said he was king fisher, why queen has been sulkier an' sulkier. he cain't help it. he'll do the same trick as blue tried. an' shore he'll get his everlastin'. but he's the texas breed all right." "say, do you reckon blue really is king fisher?" queried somers. "naw!" ejaculated colter, with downward sweep of his hand. "many a would-be gun slinger has borrowed fisher's name. but fisher is daid these many years." "ahuh! wal, mebbe, but don't you fergit it--thet blue was no would-be," declared somers. "he was the genuine article." "i should smile!" affirmed springer. the subject irritated colter, and he dismissed it with another forcible gesture and a counter question. "how many left in that isbel outfit?" "no tellin'. there shore was enough of them," replied somers. "anyhow, the woods was full of flyin' bullets.... springer, did you account for any of them?" "nope--not thet i noticed," responded springer, dryly. "i had my chance at the half-breed.... reckon i was nervous." "was slater near you when he yelled out?" "no. he was lyin' beside somers." "wasn't thet a queer way fer a man to act?" broke in somers. "a bullet hit slater, cut him down the back as he was lyin' flat. reckon it wasn't bad. but it hurt him so thet he jumped right up an' staggered around. he made a target big as a tree. an' mebbe them isbels didn't riddle him!" "that was when i got my crack at bill isbel," declared colter, with grim satisfaction. "when they shot my horse out from under me i had ellen to think of an' couldn't get my rifle. shore had to run, as yu seen. wal, as i only had my six-shooter, there was nothin' for me to do but lay low an' listen to the sping of lead. wells was standin' up behind a tree about thirty yards off. he got plugged, an' fallin' over he began to crawl my way, still holdin' to his rifle. i crawled along the log to meet him. but he dropped aboot half-way. i went on an' took his rifle an' belt. when i peeped out from behind a spruce bush then i seen bill isbel. he was shootin' fast, an' all of them was shootin' fast. that war, when they had the open shot at slater.... wal, i bored bill isbel right through his middle. he dropped his rifle an', all bent double, he fooled around in a circle till he flopped over the rim. i reckon he's layin' right up there somewhere below that daid spruce. i'd shore like to see him." "i wal, you'd be as crazy as queen if you tried thet," declared somers. "we're not out of the woods yet." "i reckon not," replied colter. "an' i've lost my horse. where'd y'u leave yours?" "they're down the canyon, below thet willow brake. an' saddled an' none of them tied. reckon we'll have to look them up before dark." "colter, what 're we goin' to do?" demanded springer. "wait heah a while--then cross the canyon an' work round up under the bluff, back to the cabin." "an' then what?" queried somers, doubtfully eying colter. "we've got to eat--we've got to have blankets," rejoined colter, testily. "an' i reckon we can hide there an' stand a better show in a fight than runnin' for it in the woods." "wal, i'm givin' you a hunch thet it looked like you was runnin' fer it," retorted somers. "yes, an' packin' the girl," added springer. "looks funny to me." both rustlers eyed colter with dark and distrustful glances. what he might have replied never transpired, for the reason that his gaze, always shifting around, had suddenly fixed on something. "is that a wolf?" he asked, pointing to the rim. both his comrades moved to get in line with his finger. ellen could not see from her position. "shore thet's a big lofer," declared somers. "reckon he scented us." "there he goes along the rim," observed colter. "he doesn't act leary. looks like a good sign to me. mebbe the isbels have gone the other way." "looks bad to me," rejoined springer, gloomily. "an' why?" demanded colter. "i seen thet animal. fust time i reckoned it was a lofer. second time it was right near them isbels. an' i'm damned now if i don't believe it's thet half-lofer sheep dog of gass isbel's." "wal, what if it is?" "ha! ... shore we needn't worry about hidin' out," replied springer, sententiously. "with thet dog jean isbel could trail a grasshopper." "the hell y'u say!" muttered colter. manifestly such a possibility put a different light upon the present situation. the men grew silent and watchful, occupied by brooding thoughts and vigilant surveillance of all points. somers slipped off into the brush, soon to return, with intent look of importance. "i heerd somethin'," he whispered, jerking his thumb backward. "rollin' gravel--crackin' of twigs. no deer! ... reckon it'd be a good idee for us to slip round acrost this bench." "wal, y'u fellars go, an' i'll watch heah," returned colter. "not much," said somers, while springer leered knowingly. colter became incensed, but he did not give way to it. pondering a moment, he finally turned to ellen. "y'u wait heah till i come back. an' if i don't come in reasonable time y'u slip across the canyon an' through the willows to the cabins. wait till aboot dark." with that he possessed himself of one of the extra rifles and belts and silently joined his comrades. together they noiselessly stole into the brush. ellen had no other thought than to comply with colter's wishes. there was her wounded uncle who had been left unattended, and she was anxious to get back to him. besides, if she had wanted to run off from colter, where could she go? alone in the woods, she would get lost and die of starvation. her lot must be cast with the jorth faction until the end. that did not seem far away. her strained attention and suspense made the moments fly. by and by several shots pealed out far across the side canyon on her right, and they were answered by reports sounding closer to her. the fight was on again. but these shots were not repeated. the flies buzzed, the hot sun beat down and sloped to the west, the soft, warm breeze stirred the aspens, the ravens croaked, the red squirrels and blue jays chattered. suddenly a quick, short, yelp electrified ellen, brought her upright with sharp, listening rigidity. surely it was not a wolf and hardly could it be a coyote. again she heard it. the yelp of a sheep dog! she had heard that' often enough to know. and she rose to change her position so she could command a view of the rocky bluff above. presently she espied what really appeared to be a big timber wolf. but another yelp satisfied her that it really was a dog. she watched him. soon it became evident that he wanted to get down over the bluff. he ran to and fro, and then out of sight. in a few moments his yelp sounded from lower down, at the base of the bluff, and it was now the cry of an intelligent dog that was trying to call some one to his aid. ellen grew convinced that the dog was near where colter had said bill isbel had plunged over the declivity. would the dog yelp that way if the man was dead? ellen thought not. no one came, and the continuous yelping of the dog got on ellen's nerves. it was a call for help. and finally she surrendered to it. since her natural terror when colter's horse was shot from under her and she had been dragged away, she had not recovered from fear of the isbels. but calm consideration now convinced her that she could hardly be in a worse plight in their hands than if she remained in colter's. so she started out to find the dog. the wooded bench was level for a few hundred yards, and then it began to heave in rugged, rocky bulges up toward the rim. it did not appear far to where the dog was barking, but the latter part of the distance proved to be a hard climb over jumbled rocks and through thick brush. panting and hot, she at length reached the base of the bluff, to find that it was not very high. the dog espied her before she saw him, for he was coming toward her when she discovered him. big, shaggy, grayish white and black, with wild, keen face and eyes he assuredly looked the reputation springer had accorded him. but sagacious, guarded as was his approach, he appeared friendly. "hello--doggie!" panted ellen. "what's--wrong--up heah?" he yelped, his ears lost their stiffness, his body sank a little, and his bushy tail wagged to and fro. what a gray, clear, intelligent look he gave her! then he trotted back. ellen followed him around a corner of bluff to see the body of a man lying on his back. fresh earth and gravel lay about him, attesting to his fall from above. he had on neither coat nor hat, and the position of his body and limbs suggested broken bones. as ellen hurried to his side she saw that the front of his shirt, low down, was a bloody blotch. but he could lift his head; his eyes were open; he was perfectly conscious. ellen did not recognize the dusty, skinned face, yet the mold of features, the look of the eyes, seemed strangely familiar. "you're--jorth's--girl," he said, in faint voice of surprise. "yes, i'm ellen jorth," she replied. "an' are y'u bill isbel?" "all thet's left of me. but i'm thankin' god somebody come--even a jorth." ellen knelt beside him and examined the wound in his abdomen. a heavy bullet had indeed, as colter had avowed, torn clear through his middle. even if he had not sustained other serious injury from the fall over the cliff, that terrible bullet wound meant death very shortly. ellen shuddered. how inexplicable were men! how cruel, bloody, mindless! "isbel, i'm sorry--there's no hope," she said, low voiced. "y'u've not long to live. i cain't help y'u. god knows i'd do so if i could." "all over!" he sighed, with his eyes looking beyond her. "i reckon--i'm glad.... but y'u can--do somethin' for or me. will y'u?" "indeed, yes. tell me," she replied, lifting his dusty head on her knee. her hands trembled as she brushed his wet hair back from his clammy brow. "i've somethin'--on my conscience," he whispered. the woman, the sensitive in ellen, understood and pitied him then. "yes," she encouraged him. "i stole cattle--my dad's an' blaisdell's--an' made deals--with daggs.... all the crookedness--wasn't on--jorth's side.... i want--my brother jean--to know." "i'll try--to tell him," whispered ellen, out of her great amaze. "we were all--a bad lot--except jean," went on isbel. "dad wasn't fair.... god! how he hated jorth! jorth, yes, who was--your father.... wal, they're even now." "how--so?" faltered ellen. "your father killed dad.... at the last--dad wanted to--save us. he sent word--he'd meet him--face to face--an' let thet end the feud. they met out in the road.... but some one shot dad down--with a rifle--an' then your father finished him." "an' then, isbel," added ellen, with unconscious mocking bitterness, "your brother murdered my dad!" "what!" whispered bill isbel. "shore y'u've got--it wrong. i reckon jean--could have killed--your father.... but he didn't. queer, we all thought." "ah! ... who did kill my father?" burst out ellen, and her voice rang like great hammers at her ears. "it was blue. he went in the store--alone--faced the whole gang alone. bluffed them--taunted them--told them he was king fisher.... then he killed--your dad--an' jackson jorth.... jean was out--back of the store. we were out--front. there was shootin'. colmor was hit. then blue ran out--bad hurt.... both of them--died in meeker's yard." "an' so jean isbel has not killed a jorth!" said ellen, in strange, deep voice. "no," replied isbel, earnestly. "i reckon this feud--was hardest on jean. he never lived heah.... an' my sister ann said--he got sweet on y'u.... now did he?" slow, stinging tears filled ellen's eyes, and her head sank low and lower. "yes--he did," she murmured, tremulously. "ahuh! wal, thet accounts," replied isbel, wonderingly. "too bad! ... it might have been.... a man always sees--different when--he's dyin'.... if i had--my life--to live over again! ... my poor kids--deserted in their babyhood--ruined for life! all for nothin'.... may god forgive--" then he choked and whispered for water. ellen laid his head back and, rising, she took his sombrero and started hurriedly down the slope, making dust fly and rocks roll. her mind was a seething ferment. leaping, bounding, sliding down the weathered slope, she gained the bench, to run across that, and so on down into the open canyon to the willow-bordered brook. here she filled the sombrero with water and started back, forced now to walk slowly and carefully. it was then, with the violence and fury of intense muscular activity denied her, that the tremendous import of bill isbel's revelation burst upon her very flesh and blood and transfiguring the very world of golden light and azure sky and speaking forestland that encompassed her. not a drop of the precious water did she spill. not a misstep did she make. yet so great was the spell upon her that she was not aware she had climbed the steep slope until the dog yelped his welcome. then with all the flood of her emotion surging and resurging she knelt to allay the parching thirst of this dying enemy whose words had changed frailty to strength, hate to love, and, the gloomy hell of despair to something unutterable. but she had returned too late. bill isbel was dead. chapter xiii jean isbel, holding the wolf-dog shepp in leash, was on the trail of the most dangerous of jorth's gang, the gunman queen. dark drops of blood on the stones and plain tracks of a rider's sharp-heeled boots behind coverts indicated the trail of a wounded, slow-traveling fugitive. therefore, jean isbel held in the dog and proceeded with the wary eye and watchful caution of an indian. queen, true to his class, and emulating blue with the same magnificent effrontery and with the same paralyzing suddenness of surprise, had appeared as if by magic at the last night camp of the isbel faction. jean had seen him first, in time to leap like a panther into the shadow. but he carried in his shoulder queen's first bullet of that terrible encounter. upon gordon and fredericks fell the brunt of queen's fusillade. and they, shot to pieces, staggering and falling, held passionate grip on life long enough to draw and still queen's guns and send him reeling off into the darkness of the forest. unarmed, and hindered by a painful wound, jean had kept a vigil near camp all that silent and menacing night. morning disclosed gordon and fredericks stark and ghastly beside the burned-out camp-fire, their guns clutched immovably in stiffened hands. jean buried them as best he could, and when they were under ground with flat stones on their graves he knew himself to be indeed the last of the isbel clan. and all that was wild and savage in his blood and desperate in his spirit rose to make him more than man and less than human. then for the third time during these tragic last days the wolf-dog shepp came to him. jean washed the wound queen had given him and bound it tightly. the keen pang and burn of the lead was a constant and all-powerful reminder of the grim work left for him to do. the whole world was no longer large enough for him and whoever was left of the jorths. the heritage of blood his father had bequeathed him, the unshakable love for a worthless girl who had so dwarfed and obstructed his will and so bitterly defeated and reviled his poor, romantic, boyish faith, the killing of hostile men, so strange in its after effects, the pursuits and fights, and loss of one by one of his confederates--these had finally engendered in jean isbel a wild, unslakable thirst, these had been the cause of his retrogression, these had unalterably and ruthlessly fixed in his darkened mind one fierce passion--to live and die the last man of that jorth-isbel feud. at sunrise jean left this camp, taking with him only a small knapsack of meat and bread, and with the eager, wild shepp in leash he set out on queen's bloody trail. black drops of blood on the stones and an irregular trail of footprints proved to jean that the gunman was hard hit. here he had fallen, or knelt, or sat down, evidently to bind his wounds. jean found strips of scarf, red and discarded. and the blood drops failed to show on more rocks. in a deep forest of spruce, under silver-tipped spreading branches, queen had rested, perhaps slept. then laboring with dragging steps, not improbably with a lame leg, he had gone on, up out of the dark-green ravine to the open, dry, pine-tipped ridge. here he had rested, perhaps waited to see if he were pursued. from that point his trail spoke an easy language for jean's keen eye. the gunman knew he was pursued. he had seen his enemy. therefore jean proceeded with a slow caution, never getting within revolver range of ambush, using all his woodcraft to trail this man and yet save himself. queen traveled slowly, either because he was wounded or else because he tried to ambush his pursuer, and jean accommodated his pace to that of queen. from noon of that day they were never far apart, never out of hearing of a rifle shot. the contrast of the beauty and peace and loneliness of the surroundings to the nature of queen's flight often obtruded its strange truth into the somber turbulence of jean's mind, into that fixed columnar idea around which fleeting thoughts hovered and gathered like shadows. early frost had touched the heights with its magic wand. and the forest seemed a temple in which man might worship nature and life rather than steal through the dells and under the arched aisles like a beast of prey. the green-and-gold leaves of aspens quivered in the glades; maples in the ravines fluttered their red-and-purple leaves. the needle-matted carpet under the pines vied with the long lanes of silvery grass, alike enticing to the eye of man and beast. sunny rays of light, flecked with dust and flying insects, slanted down from the overhanging brown-limbed, green-massed foliage. roar of wind in the distant forest alternated with soft breeze close at hand. small dove-gray squirrels ran all over the woodland, very curious about jean and his dog, rustling the twigs, scratching the bark of trees, chattering and barking, frisky, saucy, and bright-eyed. a plaintive twitter of wild canaries came from the region above the treetops--first voices of birds in their pilgrimage toward the south. pine cones dropped with soft thuds. the blue jays followed these intruders in the forest, screeching their displeasure. like rain pattered the dropping seeds from the spruces. a woody, earthy, leafy fragrance, damp with the current of life, mingled with a cool, dry, sweet smell of withered grass and rotting pines. solitude and lonesomeness, peace and rest, wild life and nature, reigned there. it was a golden-green region, enchanting to the gaze of man. an indian would have walked there with his spirits. and even as jean felt all this elevating beauty and inscrutable spirit his keen eye once more fastened upon the blood-red drops queen had again left on the gray moss and rock. his wound had reopened. jean felt the thrill of the scenting panther. the sun set, twilight gathered, night fell. jean crawled under a dense, low-spreading spruce, ate some bread and meat, fed the dog, and lay down to rest and sleep. his thoughts burdened him, heavy and black as the mantle of night. a wolf mourned a hungry cry for a mate. shepp quivered under jean's hand. that was the call which had lured him from the ranch. the wolf blood in him yearned for the wild. jean tied the cowhide leash to his wrist. when this dark business was at an end shepp could be free to join the lonely mate mourning out there in the forest. then jean slept. dawn broke cold, clear, frosty, with silvered grass sparkling, with a soft, faint rustling of falling aspen leaves. when the sun rose red jean was again on the trail of queen. by a frosty-ferned brook, where water tinkled and ran clear as air and cold as ice, jean quenched his thirst, leaning on a stone that showed drops of blood. queen, too, had to quench his thirst. what good, what help, jean wondered, could the cold, sweet, granite water, so dear to woodsmen and wild creatures, do this wounded, hunted rustler? why did he not wait in the open to fight and face the death he had meted? where was that splendid and terrible daring of the gunman? queen's love of life dragged him on and on, hour by hour, through the pine groves and spruce woods, through the oak swales and aspen glades, up and down the rocky gorges, around the windfalls and over the rotting logs. the time came when queen tried no more ambush. he gave up trying to trap his pursuer by lying in wait. he gave up trying to conceal his tracks. he grew stronger or, in desperation, increased his energy, so that he redoubled his progress through the wilderness. that, at best, would count only a few miles a day. and he began to circle to the northwest, back toward the deep canyon where blaisdell and bill isbel had reached the end of their trails. queen had evidently left his comrades, had lone-handed it in his last fight, but was now trying to get back to them. somewhere in these wild, deep forest brakes the rest of the jorth faction had found a hiding place. jean let queen lead him there. ellen jorth would be with them. jean had seen her. it had been his shot that killed colter's horse. and he had withheld further fire because colter had dragged the girl behind him, protecting his body with hers. sooner or later jean would come upon their camp. she would be there. the thought of her dark beauty, wasted in wantonness upon these rustlers, added a deadly rage to the blood lust and righteous wrath of his vengeance. let her again flaunt her degradation in his face and, by the god she had forsaken, he would kill her, and so end the race of jorths! another night fell, dark and cold, without starlight. the wind moaned in the forest. shepp was restless. he sniffed the air. there was a step on his trail. again a mournful, eager, wild, and hungry wolf cry broke the silence. it was deep and low, like that of a baying hound, but infinitely wilder. shepp strained to get away. during the night, while jean slept, he managed to chew the cowhide leash apart and run off. next day no dog was needed to trail queen. fog and low-drifting clouds in the forest and a misty rain had put the rustler off his bearings. he was lost, and showed that he realized it. strange how a matured man, fighter of a hundred battles, steeped in bloodshed, and on his last stand, should grow panic-stricken upon being lost! so jean isbel read the signs of the trail. queen circled and wandered through the foggy, dripping forest until he headed down into a canyon. it was one that notched the rim and led down and down, mile after mile into the basin. not soon had queen discovered his mistake. when he did do so, night overtook him. the weather cleared before morning. red and bright the sun burst out of the east to flood that low basin land with light. jean found that queen had traveled on and on, hoping, no doubt, to regain what he had lost. but in the darkness he had climbed to the manzanita slopes instead of back up the canyon. and here he had fought the hold of that strange brush of spanish name until he fell exhausted. surely queen would make his stand and wait somewhere in this devilish thicket for jean to catch up with him. many and many a place jean would have chosen had he been in queen's place. many a rock and dense thicket jean circled or approached with extreme care. manzanita grew in patches that were impenetrable except for a small animal. the brush was a few feet high, seldom so high that jean could not look over it, and of a beautiful appearance, having glossy, small leaves, a golden berry, and branches of dark-red color. these branches were tough and unbendable. every bush, almost, had low branches that were dead, hard as steel, sharp as thorns, as clutching as cactus. progress was possible only by endless detours to find the half-closed aisles between patches, or else by crashing through with main strength or walking right over the tops. jean preferred this last method, not because it was the easiest, but for the reason that he could see ahead so much farther. so he literally walked across the tips of the manzanita brush. often he fell through and had to step up again; many a branch broke with him, letting him down; but for the most part he stepped from fork to fork, on branch after branch, with balance of an indian and the patience of a man whose purpose was sustaining and immutable. on that south slope under the rim the sun beat down hot. there was no breeze to temper the dry air. and before midday jean was laboring, wet with sweat, parching with thirst, dusty and hot and tiring. it amazed him, the doggedness and tenacity of life shown by this wounded rustler. the time came when under the burning rays of the sun he was compelled to abandon the walk across the tips of the manzanita bushes and take to the winding, open threads that ran between. it would have been poor sight indeed that could not have followed queen's labyrinthine and broken passage through the brush. then the time came when jean espied queen, far ahead and above, crawling like a black bug along the bright-green slope. sight then acted upon jean as upon a hound in the chase. but he governed his actions if he could not govern his instincts. slowly but surely he followed the dusty, hot trail, and never a patch of blood failed to send a thrill along his veins. queen, headed up toward the rim, finally vanished from sight. had he fallen? was he hiding? but the hour disclosed that he was crawling. jean's keen eye caught the slow moving of the brush and enabled him to keep just so close to the rustler, out of range of the six-shooters he carried. and so all the interminable hours of the hot afternoon that snail-pace flight and pursuit kept on. halfway up the rim the growth of manzanita gave place to open, yellow, rocky slope dotted with cedars. queen took to a slow-ascending ridge and left his bloody tracks all the way to the top, where in the gathering darkness the weary pursuer lost them. another night passed. daylight was relentless to the rustler. he could not hide his trail. but somehow in a desperate last rally of strength he reached a point on the heavily timbered ridge that jean recognized as being near the scene of the fight in the canyon. queen was nearing the rendezvous of the rustlers. jean crossed tracks of horses, and then more tracks that he was certain had been made days past by his own party. to the left of this ridge must be the deep canyon that had frustrated his efforts to catch up with the rustlers on the day blaisdell lost his life, and probably bill isbel, too. something warned jean that he was nearing the end of the trail, and an unaccountable sense of imminent catastrophe seemed foreshadowed by vague dreads and doubts in his gloomy mind. jean felt the need of rest, of food, of ease from the strain of the last weeks. but his spirit drove him implacably. queen's rally of strength ended at the edge of an open, bald ridge that was bare of brush or grass and was surrounded by a line of forest on three sides, and on the fourth by a low bluff which raised its gray head above the pines. across this dusty open queen had crawled, leaving unmistakable signs of his condition. jean took long survey of the circle of trees and of the low, rocky eminence, neither of which he liked. it might be wiser to keep to cover, jean thought, and work around to where queen's trail entered the forest again. but he was tired, gloomy, and his eternal vigilance was failing. nevertheless, he stilled for the thousandth time that bold prompting of his vengeance and, taking to the edge of the forest, he went to considerable pains to circle the open ground. and suddenly sight of a man sitting back against a tree halted jean. he stared to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. many times stumps and snags and rocks had taken on strange resemblance to a standing or crouching man. this was only another suggestive blunder of the mind behind his eyes--what he wanted to see he imagined he saw. jean glided on from tree to tree until he made sure that this sitting image indeed was that of a man. he sat bolt upright, facing back across the open, hands resting on his knees--and closer scrutiny showed jean that he held a gun in each hand. queen! at the last his nerve had revived. he could not crawl any farther, he could never escape, so with the courage of fatality he chose the open, to face his foe and die. jean had a thrill of admiration for the rustler. then he stalked out from under the pines and strode forward with his rifle ready. a watching man could not have failed to espy jean. but queen never made the slightest move. moreover, his stiff, unnatural position struck jean so singularly that he halted with a muttered exclamation. he was now about fifty paces from queen, within range of those small guns. jean called, sharply, "queen!" still the figure never relaxed in the slightest. jean advanced a few more paces, rifle up, ready to fire the instant queen lifted a gun. the man's immobility brought the cold sweat to jean's brow. he stopped to bend the full intense power of his gaze upon this inert figure. suddenly over jean flashed its meaning. queen was dead. he had backed up against the pine, ready to face his foe, and he had died there. not a shadow of a doubt entered jean's mind as he started forward again. he knew. after all, queen's blood would not be on his hands. gordon and fredericks in their death throes had given the rustler mortal wounds. jean kept on, marveling the while. how ghastly thin and hard! those four days of flight had been hell for queen. jean reached him--looked down with staring eyes. the guns were tied to his hands. jean started violently as the whole direction of his mind shifted. a lightning glance showed that queen had been propped against the tree--another showed boot tracks in the dust. "by heaven, they've fooled me!" hissed jean, and quickly as he leaped behind the pine he was not quick enough to escape the cunning rustlers who had waylaid him thus. he felt the shock, the bite and burn of lead before he heard a rifle crack. a bullet had ripped through his left forearm. from behind the tree he saw a puff of white smoke along the face of the bluff--the very spot his keen and gloomy vigilance had descried as one of menace. then several puffs of white smoke and ringing reports betrayed the ambush of the tricksters. bullets barked the pine and whistled by. jean saw a man dart from behind a rock and, leaning over, run for another. jean's swift shot stopped him midway. he fell, got up, and floundered behind a bush scarcely large enough to conceal him. into that bush jean shot again and again. he had no pain in his wounded arm, but the sense of the shock clung in his consciousness, and this, with the tremendous surprise of the deceit, and sudden release of long-dammed overmastering passion, caused him to empty the magazine of his winchester in a terrible haste to kill the man he had hit. these were all the loads he had for his rifle. blood passion had made him blunder. jean cursed himself, and his hand moved to his belt. his six-shooter was gone. the sheath had been loose. he had tied the gun fast. but the strings had been torn apart. the rustlers were shooting again. bullets thudded into the pine and whistled by. bending carefully, jean reached one of queen's guns and jerked it from his hand. the weapon was empty. both of his guns were empty. jean peeped out again to get the line in which the bullets were coming and, marking a course from his position to the cover of the forest, he ran with all his might. he gained the shelter. shrill yells behind warned him that he had been seen, that his reason for flight had been guessed. looking back, he saw two or three men scrambling down the bluff. then the loud neigh of a frightened horse pealed out. jean discarded his useless rifle, and headed down the ridge slope, keeping to the thickest line of pines and sheering around the clumps of spruce. as he ran, his mind whirled with grim thoughts of escape, of his necessity to find the camp where gordon and fredericks were buried, there to procure another rifle and ammunition. he felt the wet blood dripping down his arm, yet no pain. the forest was too open for good cover. he dared not run uphill. his only course was ahead, and that soon ended in an abrupt declivity too precipitous to descend. as he halted, panting for breath, he heard the ring of hoofs on stone, then the thudding beat of running horses on soft ground. the rustlers had sighted the direction he had taken. jean did not waste time to look. indeed, there was no need, for as he bounded along the cliff to the right a rifle cracked and a bullet whizzed over his head. it lent wings to his feet. like a deer he sped along, leaping cracks and logs and rocks, his ears filled by the rush of wind, until his quick eye caught sight of thick-growing spruce foliage close to the precipice. he sprang down into the green mass. his weight precipitated him through the upper branches. but lower down his spread arms broke his fall, then retarded it until he caught. a long, swaying limb let him down and down, where he grasped another and a stiffer one that held his weight. hand over hand he worked toward the trunk of this spruce and, gaining it, he found other branches close together down which he hastened, hold by hold and step by step, until all above him was black, dense foliage, and beneath him the brown, shady slope. sure of being unseen from above, he glided noiselessly down under the trees, slowly regaining freedom from that constriction of his breast. passing on to a gray-lichened cliff, overhanging and gloomy, he paused there to rest and to listen. a faint crack of hoof on stone came to him from above, apparently farther on to the right. eventually his pursuers would discover that he had taken to the canyon. but for the moment he felt safe. the wound in his forearm drew his attention. the bullet had gone clear through without breaking either bone. his shirt sleeve was soaked with blood. jean rolled it back and tightly wrapped his scarf around the wound, yet still the dark-red blood oozed out and dripped down into his hand. he became aware of a dull, throbbing pain. not much time did jean waste in arriving at what was best to do. for the time being he had escaped, and whatever had been his peril, it was past. in dense, rugged country like this he could not be caught by rustlers. but he had only a knife left for a weapon, and there was very little meat in the pocket of his coat. salt and matches he possessed. therefore the imperative need was for him to find the last camp, where he could get rifle and ammunition, bake bread, and rest up before taking again the trail of the rustlers. he had reason to believe that this canyon was the one where the fight on the rim, and later, on a bench of woodland below, had taken place. thereupon he arose and glided down under the spruces toward the level, grassy open he could see between the trees. and as he proceeded, with the slow step and wary eye of an indian, his mind was busy. queen had in his flight unerringly worked in the direction of this canyon until he became lost in the fog; and upon regaining his bearings he had made a wonderful and heroic effort to surmount the manzanita slope and the rim and find the rendezvous of his comrades. but he had failed up there on the ridge. in thinking it over jean arrived at a conclusion that queen, finding he could go no farther, had waited, guns in hands, for his pursuer. and he had died in this position. then by strange coincidence his comrades had happened to come across him and, recognizing the situation, they had taken the shells from his guns and propped him up with the idea of luring jean on. they had arranged a cunning trick and ambush, which had all but snuffed out the last of the isbels. colter probably had been at the bottom of this crafty plan. since the fight at the isbel ranch, now seemingly far back in the past, this man colter had loomed up more and more as a stronger and more dangerous antagonist then either jorth or daggs. before that he had been little known to any of the isbel faction. and it was colter now who controlled the remnant of the gang and who had ellen jorth in his possession. the canyon wall above jean, on the right, grew more rugged and loftier, and the one on the left began to show wooded slopes and brakes, and at last a wide expanse with a winding, willow border on the west and a long, low, pine-dotted bench on the east. it took several moments of study for jean to recognize the rugged bluff above this bench. on up that canyon several miles was the site where queen had surprised jean and his comrades at their campfire. somewhere in this vicinity was the hiding place of the rustlers. thereupon jean proceeded with the utmost stealth, absolutely certain that he would miss no sound, movement, sign, or anything unnatural to the wild peace of the canyon. and his first sense to register something was his keen smell. sheep! he was amazed to smell sheep. there must be a flock not far away. then from where he glided along under the trees he saw down to open places in the willow brake and noticed sheep tracks in the dark, muddy bank of the brook. next he heard faint tinkle of bells, and at length, when he could see farther into the open enlargement of the canyon, his surprised gaze fell upon an immense gray, woolly patch that blotted out acres and acres of grass. thousands of sheep were grazing there. jean knew there were several flocks of jorth's sheep on the mountain in the care of herders, but he had never thought of them being so far west, more than twenty miles from chevelon canyon. his roving eyes could not descry any herders or dogs. but he knew there must be dogs close to that immense flock. and, whatever his cunning, he could not hope to elude the scent and sight of shepherd dogs. it would be best to go back the way he had come, wait for darkness, then cross the canyon and climb out, and work around to his objective point. turning at once, he started to glide back. but almost immediately he was brought stock-still and thrilling by the sound of hoofs. horses were coming in the direction he wished to take. they were close. his swift conclusion was that the men who had pursued him up on the rim had worked down into the canyon. one circling glance showed him that he had no sure covert near at hand. it would not do to risk their passing him there. the border of woodland was narrow and not dense enough for close inspection. he was forced to turn back up the canyon, in the hope of soon finding a hiding place or a break in the wall where he could climb up. hugging the base of the wall, he slipped on, passing the point where he had espied the sheep, and gliding on until he was stopped by a bend in the dense line of willows. it sheered to the west there and ran close to the high wall. jean kept on until he was stooping under a curling border of willow thicket, with branches slim and yellow and masses of green foliage that brushed against the wall. suddenly he encountered an abrupt corner of rock. he rounded it, to discover that it ran at right angles with the one he had just passed. peering up through the willows, he ascertained that there was a narrow crack in the main wall of the canyon. it had been concealed by willows low down and leaning spruces above. a wild, hidden retreat! along the base of the wall there were tracks of small animals. the place was odorous, like all dense thickets, but it was not dry. water ran through there somewhere. jean drew easier breath. all sounds except the rustling of birds or mice in the willows had ceased. the brake was pervaded by a dreamy emptiness. jean decided to steal on a little farther, then wait till he felt he might safely dare go back. the golden-green gloom suddenly brightened. light showed ahead, and parting the willows, he looked out into a narrow, winding canyon, with an open, grassy, willow-streaked lane in the center and on each side a thin strip of woodland. his surprise was short lived. a crashing of horses back of him in the willows gave him a shock. he ran out along the base of the wall, back of the trees. like the strip of woodland in the main canyon, this one was scant and had but little underbrush. there were young spruces growing with thick branches clear to the grass, and under these he could have concealed himself. but, with a certainty of sheep dogs in the vicinity, he would not think of hiding except as a last resource. these horsemen, whoever they were, were as likely to be sheep herders as not. jean slackened his pace to look back. he could not see any moving objects, but he still heard horses, though not so close now. ahead of him this narrow gorge opened out like the neck of a bottle. he would run on to the head of it and find a place to climb to the top. hurried and anxious as jean was, he yet received an impression of singular, wild nature of this side gorge. it was a hidden, pine-fringed crack in the rock-ribbed and canyon-cut tableland. above him the sky seemed a winding stream of blue. the walls were red and bulged out in spruce-greened shelves. from wall to wall was scarcely a distance of a hundred feet. jumbles of rock obstructed his close holding to the wall. he had to walk at the edge of the timber. as he progressed, the gorge widened into wilder, ruggeder aspect. through the trees ahead he saw where the wall circled to meet the cliff on the left, forming an oval depression, the nature of which he could not ascertain. but it appeared to be a small opening surrounded by dense thickets and the overhanging walls. anxiety augmented to alarm. he might not be able to find a place to scale those rough cliffs. breathing hard, jean halted again. the situation was growing critical again. his physical condition was worse. loss of sleep and rest, lack of food, the long pursuit of queen, the wound in his arm, and the desperate run for his life--these had weakened him to the extent that if he undertook any strenuous effort he would fail. his cunning weighed all chances. the shade of wall and foliage above, and another jumble of ruined cliff, hindered his survey of the ground ahead, and he almost stumbled upon a cabin, hidden on three sides, with a small, bare clearing in front. it was an old, ramshackle structure like others he had run across in the canons. cautiously he approached and peeped around the corner. at first swift glance it had all the appearance of long disuse. but jean had no time for another look. a clip-clop of trotting horses on hard ground brought the same pell-mell rush of sensations that had driven him to wild flight scarcely an hour past. his body jerked with its instinctive impulse, then quivered with his restraint. to turn back would be risky, to run ahead would be fatal, to hide was his one hope. no covert behind! and the clip-clop of hoofs sounded closer. one moment longer jean held mastery over his instincts of self-preservation. to keep from running was almost impossible. it was the sheer primitive animal sense to escape. he drove it back and glided along the front of the cabin. here he saw that the cabin adjoined another. reaching the door, he was about to peep in when the thud of hoofs and voices close at hand transfixed him with a grim certainty that he had not an instant to lose. through the thin, black-streaked line of trees he saw moving red objects. horses! he must run. passing the door, his keen nose caught a musty, woody odor and the tail of his eye saw bare dirt floor. this cabin was unused. he halted--gave a quick look back. and the first thing his eye fell upon was a ladder, right inside the door, against the wall. he looked up. it led to a loft that, dark and gloomy, stretched halfway across the cabin. an irresistible impulse drove jean. slipping inside, he climbed up the ladder to the loft. it was like night up there. but he crawled on the rough-hewn rafters and, turning with his head toward the opening, he stretched out and lay still. what seemed an interminable moment ended with a trample of hoofs outside the cabin. it ceased. jean's vibrating ears caught the jingle of spurs and a thud of boots striking the ground. "wal, sweetheart, heah we are home again," drawled a slow, cool, mocking texas voice. "home! i wonder, colter--did y'u ever have a home--a mother--a sister--much less a sweetheart?" was the reply, bitter and caustic. jean's palpitating, hot body suddenly stretched still and cold with intensity of shock. his very bones seemed to quiver and stiffen into ice. during the instant of realization his heart stopped. and a slow, contracting pressure enveloped his breast and moved up to constrict his throat. that woman's voice belonged to ellen jorth. the sound of it had lingered in his dreams. he had stumbled upon the rendezvous of the jorth faction. hard indeed had been the fates meted out to those of the isbels and jorths who had passed to their deaths. but, no ordeal, not even queen's, could compare with this desperate one jean must endure. he had loved ellen jorth, strangely, wonderfully, and he had scorned repute to believe her good. he had spared her father and her uncle. he had weakened or lost the cause of the isbels. he loved her now, desperately, deathlessly, knowing from her own lips that she was worthless--loved her the more because he had felt her terrible shame. and to him--the last of the isbels--had come the cruelest of dooms--to be caught like a crippled rat in a trap; to be compelled to lie helpless, wounded, without a gun; to listen, and perhaps to see ellen jorth enact the very truth of her mocking insinuation. his will, his promise, his creed, his blood must hold him to the stem decree that he should be the last man of the jorth-isbel war. but could he lie there to hear--to see--when he had a knife and an arm? chapter xiv then followed the leathery flop of saddles to the soft turf and the stamp, of loosened horses. jean heard a noise at the cabin door, a rustle, and then a knock of something hard against wood. silently he moved his head to look down through a crack between the rafters. he saw the glint of a rifle leaning against the sill. then the doorstep was darkened. ellen jorth sat down with a long, tired sigh. she took off her sombrero and the light shone on the rippling, dark-brown hair, hanging in a tangled braid. the curved nape of her neck showed a warm tint of golden tan. she wore a gray blouse, soiled and torn, that clung to her lissome shoulders. "colter, what are y'u goin' to do?" she asked, suddenly. her voice carried something jean did not remember. it thrilled into the icy fixity of his senses. "we'll stay heah," was the response, and it was followed by a clinking step of spurred boot. "shore i won't stay heah," declared ellen. "it makes me sick when i think of how uncle tad died in there alone--helpless--sufferin'. the place seems haunted." "wal, i'll agree that it's tough on y'u. but what the hell can we do?" a long silence ensued which ellen did not break. "somethin' has come off round heah since early mawnin'," declared colter. "somers an' springer haven't got back. an' antonio's gone.... now, honest, ellen, didn't y'u heah rifle shots off somewhere?" "i reckon i did," she responded, gloomily. "an' which way?" "sounded to me up on the bluff, back pretty far." "wal, shore that's my idee. an' it makes me think hard. y'u know somers come across the last camp of the isbels. an' he dug into a grave to find the bodies of jim gordon an' another man he didn't know. queen kept good his brag. he braced that isbel gang an' killed those fellars. but either him or jean isbel went off leavin' bloody tracks. if it was queen's y'u can bet isbel was after him. an' if it was isbel's tracks, why shore queen would stick to them. somers an' springer couldn't follow the trail. they're shore not much good at trackin'. but for days they've been ridin' the woods, hopin' to run across queen.... wal now, mebbe they run across isbel instead. an' if they did an' got away from him they'll be heah sooner or later. if isbel was too many for them he'd hunt for my trail. i'm gamblin' that either queen or jean isbel is daid. i'm hopin' it's isbel. because if he ain't daid he's the last of the isbels, an' mebbe i'm the last of jorth's gang.... shore i'm not hankerin' to meet the half-breed. that's why i say we'll stay heah. this is as good a hidin' place as there is in the country. we've grub. there's water an' grass." "me--stay heah with y'u--alone!" the tone seemed a contradiction to the apparently accepted sense of her words. jean held his breath. but he could not still the slowly mounting and accelerating faculties within that were involuntarily rising to meet some strange, nameless import. he felt it. he imagined it would be the catastrophe of ellen jorth's calm acceptance of colter's proposition. but down in jean's miserable heart lived something that would not die. no mere words could kill it. how poignant that moment of her silence! how terribly he realized that if his intelligence and his emotion had believed her betraying words, his soul had not! but ellen jorth did not speak. her brown head hung thoughtfully. her supple shoulders sagged a little. "ellen, what's happened to y'u?" went on colter. "all the misery possible to a woman," she replied, dejectedly. "shore i don't mean that way," he continued, persuasively. "i ain't gainsayin' the hard facts of your life. it's been bad. your dad was no good.... but i mean i can't figger the change in y'u." "no, i reckon y'u cain't," she said. "whoever was responsible for your make-up left out a mind--not to say feeling." colter drawled a low laugh. "wal, have that your own way. but how much longer are yu goin' to be like this heah?" "like what?" she rejoined, sharply. "wal, this stand-offishness of yours?" "colter, i told y'u to let me alone," she said, sullenly. "shore. an' y'u did that before. but this time y'u're different.... an' wal, i'm gettin' tired of it." here the cool, slow voice of the texan sounded an inflexibility before absent, a timber that hinted of illimitable power. ellen jorth shrugged her lithe shoulders and, slowly rising, she picked up the little rifle and turned to step into the cabin. "colter," she said, "fetch my pack an' my blankets in heah." "shore," he returned, with good nature. jean saw ellen jorth lay the rifle lengthwise in a chink between two logs and then slowly turn, back to the wall. jean knew her then, yet did not know her. the brown flash of her face seemed that of an older, graver woman. his strained gaze, like his waiting mind, had expected something, he knew not what--a hardened face, a ghost of beauty, a recklessness, a distorted, bitter, lost expression in keeping with her fortunes. but he had reckoned falsely. she did not look like that. there was incalculable change, but the beauty remained, somehow different. her red lips were parted. her brooding eyes, looking out straight from under the level, dark brows, seemed sloe black and wonderful with their steady, passionate light. jean, in his eager, hungry devouring of the beloved face, did not on the first instant grasp the significance of its expression. he was seeing the features that had haunted him. but quickly he interpreted her expression as the somber, hunted look of a woman who would bear no more. under the torn blouse her full breast heaved. she held her hands clenched at her sides. she was' listening, waiting for that jangling, slow step. it came, and with the sound she subtly changed. she was a woman hiding her true feelings. she relaxed, and that strong, dark look of fury seemed to fade back into her eyes. colter appeared at the door, carrying a roll of blankets and a pack. "throw them heah," she said. "i reckon y'u needn't bother coming in." that angered the man. with one long stride he stepped over the doorsill, down into the cabin, and flung the blankets at her feet and then the pack after it. whereupon he deliberately sat down in the door, facing her. with one hand he slid off his sombrero, which fell outside, and with the other he reached in his upper vest pocket for the little bag of tobacco that showed there. all the time he looked at her. by the light now unobstructed jean descried colter's face; and sight of it then sounded the roll and drum of his passions. "wal, ellen, i reckon we'll have it out right now an' heah," he said, and with tobacco in one hand, paper in the other he began the operations of making a cigarette. however, he scarcely removed his glance from her. "yes?" queried ellen jorth. "i'm goin' to have things the way they were before--an' more," he declared. the cigarette paper shook in his fingers. "what do y'u mean?" she demanded. "y'u know what i mean," he retorted. voice and action were subtly unhinging this man's control over himself. "maybe i don't. i reckon y'u'd better talk plain." the rustler had clear gray-yellow eyes, flawless, like, crystal, and suddenly they danced with little fiery flecks. "the last time i laid my hand on y'u i got hit for my pains. an' shore that's been ranklin'." "colter, y'u'll get hit again if y'u put your hands on me," she said, dark, straight glance on him. a frown wrinkled the level brows. "y'u mean that?" he asked, thickly. "i shore, do." manifestly he accepted her assertion. something of incredulity and bewilderment, that had vied with his resentment, utterly disappeared from his face. "heah i've been waitin' for y'u to love me," he declared, with a gesture not without dignified emotion. "your givin' in without that wasn't so much to me." and at these words of the rustler's jean isbel felt an icy, sickening shudder creep into his soul. he shut his eyes. the end of his dream had been long in coming, but at last it had arrived. a mocking voice, like a hollow wind, echoed through that region--that lonely and ghost-like hall of his heart which had harbored faith. she burst into speech, louder and sharper, the first words of which jean's strangely throbbing ears did not distinguish. "-- -- you! ... i never gave in to y'u an' i never will." "but, girl--i kissed y'u--hugged y'u--handled y'u--" he expostulated, and the making of the cigarette ceased. "yes, y'u did--y'u brute--when i was so downhearted and weak i couldn't lift my hand," she flashed. "ahuh! y'u mean i couldn't do that now?" "i should smile i do, jim colter!" she replied. "wal, mebbe--i'll see--presently," he went on, straining with words. "but i'm shore curious.... daggs, then--he was nothin' to y'u?" "no more than y'u," she said, morbidly. "he used to run after me--long ago, it seems..... i was only a girl then--innocent--an' i'd not known any but rough men. i couldn't all the time--every day, every hour--keep him at arm's length. sometimes before i knew--i didn't care. i was a child. a kiss meant nothing to me. but after i knew--" ellen dropped her head in brooding silence. "say, do y'u expect me to believe that?" he queried, with a derisive leer. "bah! what do i care what y'u believe?" she cried, with lifting head. "how aboot simm brace?" "that coyote! ... he lied aboot me, jim colter. and any man half a man would have known he lied." "wal, simm always bragged aboot y'u bein' his girl," asserted colter. "an' he wasn't over--particular aboot details of your love-makin'." ellen gazed out of the door, over colter's head, as if the forest out there was a refuge. she evidently sensed more about the man than appeared in his slow talk, in his slouching position. her lips shut in a firm line, as if to hide their trembling and to still her passionate tongue. jean, in his absorption, magnified his perceptions. not yet was ellen jorth afraid of this man, but she feared the situation. jean's heart was at bursting pitch. all within him seemed chaos--a wreck of beliefs and convictions. nothing was true. he would wake presently out of a nightmare. yet, as surely as he quivered there, he felt the imminence of a great moment--a lightning flash--a thunderbolt--a balance struck. colter attended to the forgotten cigarette. he rolled it, lighted it, all the time with lowered, pondering head, and when he had puffed a cloud of smoke he suddenly looked up with face as hard as flint, eyes as fiery as molten steel. "wal, ellen--how aboot jean isbel--our half-breed nez perce friend--who was shore seen handlin' y'u familiar?" he drawled. ellen jorth quivered as under a lash, and her brown face turned a dusty scarlet, that slowly receding left her pale. "damn y'u, jim colter!" she burst out, furiously. "i wish jean isbel would jump in that door--or down out of that loft! ... he killed greaves for defiling my name! ... he'd kill y'u for your dirty insult.... and i'd like to watch him do it.... y'u cold-blooded texan! y'u thieving rustler! y'u liar! ... y'u lied aboot my father's death. and i know why. y'u stole my father's gold.... an' now y'u want me--y'u expect me to fall into your arms.... my heaven! cain't y'u tell a decent woman? was your mother decent? was your sister decent? ... bah! i'm appealing to deafness. but y'u'll heah this, jim colter! ... i'm not what yu think i am! i'm not the--the damned hussy y'u liars have made me out.... i'm a jorth, alas! i've no home, no relatives, no friends! i've been forced to live my life with rustlers--vile men like y'u an' daggs an' the rest of your like.... but i've been good! do y'u heah that? ... i am good--so help me god, y'u an' all your rottenness cain't make me bad!" colter lounged to his tall height and the laxity of the man vanished. vanished also was jean isbel's suspended icy dread, the cold clogging of his fevered mind--vanished in a white, living, leaping flame. silently he drew his knife and lay there watching with the eyes of a wildcat. the instant colter stepped far enough over toward the edge of the loft jean meant to bound erect and plunge down upon him. but jean could wait now. colter had a gun at his hip. he must never have a chance to draw it. "ahuh! so y'u wish jean isbel would hop in heah, do y'u?" queried colter. "wal, if i had any pity on y'u, that's done for it." a sweep of his long arm, so swift ellen had no time to move, brought his hand in clutching contact with her. and the force of it flung her half across the cabin room, leaving the sleeve of her blouse in his grasp. pantingly she put out that bared arm and her other to ward him off as he took long, slow strides toward her. jean rose half to his feet, dragged by almost ungovernable passion to risk all on one leap. but the distance was too great. colter, blind as he was to all outward things, would hear, would see in time to make jean's effort futile. shaking like a leaf, jean sank back, eye again to the crack between the rafters. ellen did not retreat, nor scream, nor move. every line of her body was instinct with fight, and the magnificent blaze of her eyes would have checked a less callous brute. colter's big hand darted between ellen's arms and fastened in the front of her blouse. he did not try to hold her or draw her close. the unleashed passion of the man required violence. in one savage pull he tore off her blouse, exposing her white, rounded shoulders and heaving bosom, where instantly a wave of red burned upward. overcome by the tremendous violence and spirit of the rustler, ellen sank to her knees, with blanched face and dilating eyes, trying with folded arms and trembling hand to hide her nudity. at that moment the rapid beat of hoofs on the hard trail outside halted colter in his tracks. "hell!" he exclaimed. "an' who's that?" with a fierce action he flung the remnants of ellen's blouse in her face and turned to leap out the door. jean saw ellen catch the blouse and try to wrap it around her, while she sagged against the wall and stared at the door. the hoof beats pounded to a solid thumping halt just outside. "jim--thar's hell to pay!" rasped out a panting voice. "wal, springer, i reckon i wished y'u'd paid it without spoilin' my deals," retorted colter, cool and sharp. "deals? ha! y'u'll be forgettin'--your lady love in a minnit," replied springer. "when i catch--my breath." "where's somers?" demanded colter. "i reckon he's all shot up--if my eyes didn't fool me." "where is he?" yelled colter. "jim--he's layin' up in the bushes round thet bluff. i didn't wait to see how he was hurt. but he shore stopped some lead. an' he flopped like a chicken with its--haid cut off." "where's antonio?" "he run like the greaser he is," declared springer, disgustedly. "ahuh! an' where's queen?" queried colter, after a significant pause. "dead!" the silence ensuing was fraught with a suspense that held jean in cold bonds. he saw the girl below rise from her knees, one hand holding the blouse to her breast, the other extended, and with strange, repressed, almost frantic look she swayed toward the door. "wal, talk," ordered colter, harshly. "jim, there ain't a hell of a lot," replied springer; drawing a deep breath, "but what there is is shore interestin'.... me an' somers took antonio with us. he left his woman with the sheep. an' we rode up the canyon, clumb out on top, an' made a circle back on the ridge. that's the way we've been huntin' fer tracks. up thar in a bare spot we run plump into queen sittin' against a tree, right out in the open. queerest sight y'u ever seen! the damn gunfighter had set down to wait for isbel, who was trailin' him, as we suspected---an' he died thar. he wasn't cold when we found him.... somers was quick to see a trick. so he propped queen up an' tied the guns to his hands--an', jim, the queerest thing aboot that deal was this--queen's guns was empty! not a shell left! it beat us holler.... we left him thar, an' hid up high on the bluff, mebbe a hundred yards off. the hosses we left back of a thicket. an' we waited thar a long time. but, sure enough, the half-breed come. he was too smart. too much injun! he would not cross the open, but went around. an' then he seen queen. it was great to watch him. after a little he shoved his rifle out an' went right fer queen. this is when i wanted to shoot. i could have plugged him. but somers says wait an' make it sure. when isbel got up to queen he was sort of half hid by the tree. an' i couldn't wait no longer, so i shot. i hit him, too. we all begun to shoot. somers showed himself, an' that's when isbel opened up. he used up a whole magazine on somers an' then, suddenlike, he quit. it didn't take me long to figger mebbe he was out of shells. when i seen him run i was certain of it. then we made for the hosses an' rode after isbel. pretty soon i seen him runnin' like a deer down the ridge. i yelled an' spurred after him. there is where antonio quit me. but i kept on. an' i got a shot at isbel. he ran out of sight. i follered him by spots of blood on the stones an' grass until i couldn't trail him no more. he must have gone down over the cliffs. he couldn't have done nothin' else without me seein' him. i found his rifle, an' here it is to prove what i say. i had to go back to climb down off the rim, an' i rode fast down the canyon. he's somewhere along that west wall, hidin' in the brush, hard hit if i know anythin' aboot the color of blood." "wal! ... that beats me holler, too," ejaculated colter. "jim, what's to be done?" inquired springer, eagerly. "if we're sharp we can corral that half-breed. he's the last of the isbels." "more, pard. he's the last of the isbel outfit," declared colter. "if y'u can show me blood in his tracks i'll trail him." "y'u can bet i'll show y'u," rejoined the other rustler. "but listen! wouldn't it be better for us first to see if he crossed the canyon? i reckon he didn't. but let's make sure. an' if he didn't we'll have him somewhar along that west canyon wall. he's not got no gun. he'd never run thet way if he had.... jim, he's our meat!" "shore, he'll have that knife," pondered colter. "we needn't worry about thet," said the other, positively. "he's hard hit, i tell y'u. all we got to do is find thet bloody trail again an' stick to it--goin' careful. he's layin' low like a crippled wolf." "springer, i want the job of finishin' that half-breed," hissed colter. "i'd give ten years of my life to stick a gun down his throat an' shoot it off." "all right. let's rustle. mebbe y'u'll not have to give much more 'n ten minnits. because i tell y'u i can find him. it'd been easy--but, jim, i reckon i was afraid." "leave your hoss for me an' go ahaid," the rustler then said, brusquely. "i've a job in the cabin heah." "haw-haw! ... wal, jim, i'll rustle a bit down the trail an' wait. no huntin' jean isbel alone--not fer me. i've had a queer feelin' about thet knife he used on greaves. an' i reckon y'u'd oughter let thet jorth hussy alone long enough to--" "springer, i reckon i've got to hawg-tie her--" his voice became indistinguishable, and footfalls attested to a slow moving away of the men. jean had listened with ears acutely strung to catch every syllable while his gaze rested upon ellen who stood beside the door. every line of her body denoted a listening intensity. her back was toward jean, so that he could not see her face. and he did not want to see, but could not help seeing her naked shoulders. she put her head out of the door. suddenly she drew it in quickly and half turned her face, slowly raising her white arm. this was the left one and bore the marks of colter's hard fingers. she gave a little gasp. her eyes became large and staring. they were bent on the hand that she had removed from a step on the ladder. on hand and wrist showed a bright-red smear of blood. jean, with a convulsive leap of his heart, realized that he had left his bloody tracks on the ladder as he had climbed. that moment seemed the supremely terrible one of his life. ellen jorth's face blanched and her eyes darkened and dilated with exceeding amaze and flashing thought to become fixed with horror. that instant was the one in which her reason connected the blood on the ladder with the escape of jean isbel. one moment she leaned there, still as a stone except for her heaving breast, and then her fixed gaze changed to a swift, dark blaze, comprehending, yet inscrutable, as she flashed it up the ladder to the loft. she could see nothing, yet she knew and jean knew that she knew he was there. a marvelous transformation passed over her features and even over her form. jean choked with the ache in his throat. slowly she put the bloody hand behind her while with the other she still held the torn blouse to her breast. colter's slouching, musical step sounded outside. and it might have been a strange breath of infinitely vitalizing and passionate life blown into the well-springs of ellen jorth's being. isbel had no name for her then. the spirit of a woman had been to him a thing unknown. she swayed back from the door against the wall in singular, softened poise, as if all the steel had melted out of her body. and as colter's tall shadow fell across the threshold jean isbel felt himself staring with eyeballs that ached--straining incredulous sight at this woman who in a few seconds had bewildered his senses with her transfiguration. he saw but could not comprehend. "jim--i heard--all springer told y'u," she said. the look of her dumfounded colter and her voice seemed to shake him visibly. "suppose y'u did. what then?" he demanded, harshly, as he halted with one booted foot over the threshold. malignant and forceful, he eyed her darkly, doubtfully. "i'm afraid," she whispered. "what of? me?" "no. of--of jean isbel. he might kill y'u and--then where would i be?" "wal, i'm damned!" ejaculated the rustler. "what's got into y'u?" he moved to enter, but a sort of fascination bound him. "jim, i hated y'u a moment ago," she burst out. "but now--with that jean isbel somewhere near--hidin'--watchin' to kill y'u--an' maybe me, too--i--i don't hate y'u any more.... take me away." "girl, have y'u lost your nerve?" he demanded. "my god! colter--cain't y'u see?" she implored. "won't y'u take me away?" "i shore will--presently," he replied, grimly. "but y'u'll wait till i've shot the lights out of this isbel." "no!" she cried. "take me away now.... an' i'll give in--i'll be what y'u--want.... y'u can do with me--as y'u like." colter's lofty frame leaped as if at the release of bursting blood. with a lunge he cleared the threshold to loom over her. "am i out of my haid, or are y'u?" he asked, in low, hoarse voice. his darkly corded face expressed extremest amaze. "jim, i mean it," she whispered, edging an inch nearer him, her white face uplifted, her dark eyes unreadable in their eloquence and mystery. "i've no friend but y'u. i'll be--yours.... i'm lost.... what does it matter? if y'u want me--take me now--before i kill myself." "ellen jorth, there's somethin' wrong aboot y'u," he responded. "did y'u tell the truth--when y'u denied ever bein' a sweetheart of simm bruce?" "yes, i told y'u the truth." "ahuh! an' how do y'u account for layin' me out with every dirty name y'u could give tongue to?" "oh, it was temper. i wanted to be let alone." "temper! wal, i reckon y'u've got one," he retorted, grimly. "an' i'm not shore y'u're not crazy or lyin'. an hour ago i couldn't touch y'u." "y'u may now--if y'u promise to take me away--at once. this place has got on my nerves. i couldn't sleep heah with that isbel hidin' around. could y'u?" "wal, i reckon i'd not sleep very deep." "then let us go." he shook his lean, eagle-like head in slow, doubtful vehemence, and his piercing gaze studied her distrustfully. yet all the while there was manifest in his strung frame an almost irrepressible violence, held in abeyance to his will. "that aboot your bein' so good?" he inquired, with a return of the mocking drawl. "never mind what's past," she flashed, with passion dark as his. "i've made my offer." "shore there's a lie aboot y'u somewhere," he muttered, thickly. "man, could i do more?" she demanded, in scorn. "no. but it's a lie," he returned. "y'u'll get me to take y'u away an' then fool me--run off--god knows what. women are all liars." manifestly he could not believe in her strange transformation. memory of her wild and passionate denunciation of him and his kind must have seared even his calloused soul. but the ruthless nature of him had not weakened nor softened in the least as to his intentions. this weather-vane veering of hers bewildered him, obsessed him with its possibilities. he had the look of a man who was divided between love of her and hate, whose love demanded a return, but whose hate required a proof of her abasement. not proof of surrender, but proof of her shame! the ignominy of him thirsted for its like. he could grind her beauty under his heel, but he could not soften to this feminine inscrutableness. and whatever was the truth of ellen jorth in this moment, beyond colter's gloomy and stunted intelligence, beyond even the love of jean isbel, it was something that held the balance of mastery. she read colter's mind. she dropped the torn blouse from her hand and stood there, unashamed, with the wave of her white breast pulsing, eyes black as night and full of hell, her face white, tragic, terrible, yet strangely lovely. "take me away," she whispered, stretching one white arm toward him, then the other. colter, even as she moved, had leaped with inarticulate cry and radiant face to meet her embrace. but it seemed, just as her left arm flashed up toward his neck, that he saw her bloody hand and wrist. strange how that checked his ardor--threw up his lean head like that striking bird of prey. "blood! what the hell!" he ejaculated, and in one sweep he grasped her. "how'd yu do that? are y'u cut? ... hold still." ellen could not release her hand. "i scratched myself," she said. "where?... all that blood!" and suddenly he flung her hand back with fierce gesture, and the gleams of his yellow eyes were like the points of leaping flames. they pierced her--read the secret falsity of her. slowly he stepped backward, guardedly his hand moved to his gun, and his glance circled and swept the interior of the cabin. as if he had the nose of a hound and sight to follow scent, his eyes bent to the dust of the ground before the door. he quivered, grew rigid as stone, and then moved his head with exceeding slowness as if searching through a microscope in the dust--farther to the left--to the foot of the ladder--and up one step--another--a third--all the way up to the loft. then he whipped out his gun and wheeled to face the girl. "ellen, y'u've got your half-breed heah!" he said, with a terrible smile. she neither moved nor spoke. there was a suggestion of collapse, but it was only a change where the alluring softness of her hardened into a strange, rapt glow. and in it seemed the same mastery that had characterized her former aspect. herein the treachery of her was revealed. she had known what she meant to do in any case. colter, standing at the door, reached a long arm toward the ladder, where he laid his hand on a rung. taking it away he held it palm outward for her to see the dark splotch of blood. "see?" "yes, i see," she said, ringingly. passion wrenched him, transformed him. "all that--aboot leavin' heah--with me--aboot givin' in--was a lie!" "no, colter. it was the truth. i'll go--yet--now--if y'u'll spare--him!" she whispered the last word and made a slight movement of her hand toward the loft. "girl!" he exploded, incredulously. "y'u love this half-breed--this isbel! ... y'u love him!" "with all my heart! ... thank god! it has been my glory.... it might have been my salvation.... but now i'll go to hell with y'u--if y'u'll spare him." "damn my soul!" rasped out the rustler, as if something of respect was wrung from that sordid deep of him. "y'u--y'u woman! ... jorth will turn over in his grave. he'd rise out of his grave if this isbel got y'u." "hurry! hurry!" implored ellen. "springer may come back. i think i heard a call." "wal, ellen jorth, i'll not spare isbel--nor y'u," he returned, with dark and meaning leer, as he turned to ascend the ladder. jean isbel, too, had reached the climax of his suspense. gathering all his muscles in a knot he prepared to leap upon colter as he mounted the ladder. but, ellen jorth screamed piercingly and snatched her rifle from its resting place and, cocking it, she held it forward and low. "colter!" her scream and his uttered name stiffened him. "y'u will spare jean isbel!" she rang out. "drop that gun-drop it!" "shore, ellen.... easy now. remember your temper.... i'll let isbel off," he panted, huskily, and all his body sank quiveringly to a crouch. "drop your gun! don't turn round.... colter!--i'll kill y'u!" but even then he failed to divine the meaning and the spirit of her. "aw, now, ellen," he entreated, in louder, huskier tones, and as if dragged by fatal doubt of her still, he began to turn. crash! the rifle emptied its contents in colter's breast. all his body sprang up. he dropped the gun. both hands fluttered toward her. and an awful surprise flashed over his face. "so--help--me--god!" he whispered, with blood thick in his voice. then darkly, as one groping, he reached for her with shaking hands. "y'u--y'u white-throated hussy!... i'll ..." he grasped the quivering rifle barrel. crash! she shot him again. as he swayed over her and fell she had to leap aside, and his clutching hand tore the rifle from her grasp. then in convulsion he writhed, to heave on his back, and stretch out--a ghastly spectacle. ellen backed away from it, her white arms wide, a slow horror blotting out the passion of her face. then from without came a shrill call and the sound of rapid footsteps. ellen leaned against the wall, staring still at colter. "hey, jim--what's the shootin'?" called springer, breathlessly. as his form darkened the doorway jean once again gathered all his muscular force for a tremendous spring. springer saw the girl first and he appeared thunderstruck. his jaw dropped. he needed not the white gleam of her person to transfix him. her eyes did that and they were riveted in unutterable horror upon something on the ground. thus instinctively directed, springer espied colter. "y'u--y'u shot him!" he shrieked. "what for--y'u hussy? ... ellen jorth, if y'u've killed him, i'll..." he strode toward where colter lay. then jean, rising silently, took a step and like a tiger he launched himself into the air, down upon the rustler. even as he leaped springer gave a quick, upward look. and he cried out. jean's moccasined feet struck him squarely and sent him staggering into the wall, where his head hit hard. jean fell, but bounded up as the half-stunned springer drew his gun. then jean lunged forward with a single sweep of his arm--and looked no more. ellen ran swaying out of the door, and, once clear of the threshold, she tottered out on the grass, to sink to her knees. the bright, golden sunlight gleamed upon her white shoulders and arms. jean had one foot out of the door when he saw her and he whirled back to get her blouse. but springer had fallen upon it. snatching up a blanket, jean ran out. "ellen! ellen! ellen!" he cried. "it's over!" and reaching her, he tried to wrap her in the blanket. she wildly clutched his knees. jean was conscious only of her white, agonized face and the dark eyes with their look of terrible strain. "did y'u--did y'u..." she whispered. "yes--it's over," he said, gravely. "ellen, the isbel-jorth feud is ended." "oh, thank--god!" she cried, in breaking voice. "jean--y'u are wounded... the blood on the step!" "my arm. see. it's not bad.... ellen, let me wrap this round you." folding the blanket around her shoulders, he held it there and entreated her to get up. but she only clung the closer. she hid her face on his knees. long shudders rippled over her, shaking the blanket, shaking jean's hands. distraught, he did not know what to do. and his own heart was bursting. "ellen, you must not kneel--there--that way," he implored. "jean! jean!" she moaned, and clung the tighter. he tried to lift her up, but she was a dead weight, and with that hold on him seemed anchored at his feet. "i killed colter," she gasped. "i had to--kill him! ... i offered--to fling myself away...." "for me!" he cried, poignantly. "oh, ellen! ellen! the world has come to an end! ... hush! don't keep sayin' that. of course you killed him. you saved my life. for i'd never have let you go off with him .... yes, you killed him.... you're a jorth an' i'm an isbel ... we've blood on our hands--both of us--i for you an' you for me!" his voice of entreaty and sadness strengthened her and she raised her white face, loosening her clasp to lean back and look up. tragic, sweet, despairing, the loveliness of her--the significance of her there on her knees--thrilled him to his soul. "blood on my hands!" she whispered. "yes. it was awful--killing him.... but--all i care for in this world is for your forgiveness--and your faith that saved my soul!" "child, there's nothin' to forgive," he responded. "nothin'... please, ellen..." "i lied to y'u!" she cried. "i lied to y'u!" "ellen, listen--darlin'." and the tender epithet brought her head and arms back close-pressed to him. "i know--now," he faltered on. "i found out to-day what i believed. an' i swear to god--by the memory of my dead mother--down in my heart i never, never, never believed what they--what y'u tried to make me believe. never!" "jean--i love y'u--love y'u--love y'u!" she breathed with exquisite, passionate sweetness. her dark eyes burned up into his. "ellen, i can't lift you up," he said, in trembling eagerness, signifying his crippled arm. "but i can kneel with you! ..." note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) the strength of the pines by edison marshall with frontispiece by w. herbert dunton boston little, brown, and company copyright, , by little, brown, and company. all rights reserved published february, the colonial press c. h. simonds co., boston, u. s. a. to lille bartoo marshall dear comrade and guide who gave me life [illustration: he marked the little space of gray squarely between the two reddening eyes.] contents book one the call of the blood book two the blood atonement book three the coming of the strength the strength of the pines book one the call of the blood i bruce was wakened by the sharp ring of his telephone bell. he heard its first note; and its jingle seemed to continue endlessly. there was no period of drowsiness between sleep and wakefulness; instantly he was fully aroused, in complete control of all his faculties. and this is not especially common to men bred in the security of civilization. rather it is a trait of the wild creatures; a little matter that is quite necessary if they care at all about living. a deer, for instance, that cannot leap out of a mid-afternoon nap, soar a fair ten feet in the air, and come down with legs in the right position for running comes to a sad end, rather soon, in a puma's claws. frontiersmen learn the trait too; but as bruce was a dweller of cities it seemed somewhat strange in him. the trim, hard muscles were all cocked and primed for anything they should be told to do. then he grunted rebelliously and glanced at his watch beneath the pillow. he had gone to bed early; it was just before midnight now. "i wish they'd leave me alone at night, anyway," he muttered, as he slipped on his dressing gown. he had no doubts whatever concerning the nature of this call. there had been one hundred like it during the previous month. his foster father had recently died, his estate was being settled up, and bruce had been having a somewhat strenuous time with his creditors. he understood the man's real financial situation at last; at his death the whole business structure collapsed like the eggshell it was. bruce had supposed that most of the debts had been paid by now; he wondered, as he fumbled into his bedroom slippers, whether the thousand or so dollars that were left would cover the claim of the man who was now calling him to the telephone. the fact that he was, at last, the penniless "beggar" that duncan had called him at their first meeting didn't matter one way or another. for some years he had not hoped for help from his foster parent. the collapse of the latter's business had put bruce out of work, but that was just a detail too. all he wanted now was to get things straightened up and go away--where, he did not know or care. "this is mr. duncan," he said coldly into the transmitter. when he heard a voice come scratching over the wires, he felt sure that he had guessed right. quite often his foster father's creditors talked in that same excited, hurried way. it was rather necessary to be hurried and excited if a claim were to be met before the dwindling financial resources were exhausted. but the words themselves, however--as soon as they gave their interpretation in his brain--threw a different light on the matter. "how do you do, mr. duncan," the voice answered. "pardon me if i got you up. i want to talk to your son, bruce." bruce emitted a little gasp of amazement. whoever talked at the end of the line obviously didn't know that the elder duncan was dead. bruce had a moment of grim humor in which he mused that this voice would have done rather well if it could arouse his foster father to answer it. "the elder mr. duncan died last month," he answered simply. there was not the slightest trace of emotion in his tone. no wayfarer on the street could have been, as far as facts went, more of a stranger to him; there was no sense of loss at his death and no cause for pretense now. "this is bruce speaking." he heard the other gasp. "old man, i'm sorry," his contrite voice came. "i didn't know of your loss. this is barney--barney wegan--and i just got in from the west. haven't had a bit of news for months. accept my earnest sympathies--" "barney! of course." the delight grew on bruce's face; for barney wegan, a man whom he had met and learned to know on the gym floor of his club, was quite near to being a real friend. "and what's up, barney?" the man's voice changed at once--went back to its same urgent, but rather embarrassed tone. "you won't believe me if i tell you, so i won't try to tell you over the 'phone. but i must come up--right away. may i?" "of course--" "i'll jump in my car and be there in a minute." bruce hung up, slowly descended to his library, and flashed on the lights. for the first time he was revealed plainly. his was a familiar type; but at the same time the best type too. he had the face and the body of an athlete, a man who keeps himself fit; and there was nothing mawkish or effeminate about him. his dark hair was clipped close about his temples, and even two hours in bed had not disarranged its careful part. it is true that men did look twice at bruce's eyes, set in a brown, clean-cut face, never knowing exactly why they did so. they had startling potentialities. they were quite clear now, wide-awake and cool, yet they had a strange depth of expression and shadow that might mean, somewhere beneath the bland and cool exterior, a capacity for great emotions and passions. he had only a few minutes to wait; then barney wegan tapped at his door. this man was bronzed by the sun, never more fit, never straighter and taller and more lithe. he had just come from the far places. the embarrassment that bruce had detected in his voice was in his face and manner too. "you'll think i'm crazy, for routing you out at this time of night, bruce," he began. "and i'm going to get this matter off my chest as soon as possible and let you go to bed. it's all batty, anyway. but i was cautioned by all the devils of the deep to see you--the moment i came here." "cigarettes on the smoking-stand," bruce said steadily. "and tell away." "but tell me something first. was duncan your real father? if he was, i'll know i'm up a wrong tree. i don't mean to be personal--" "he wasn't. i thought you knew it. my real father is something like you--something of a mystery." "i won't be a mystery long. he's not, eh--that's what the old hag said. excuse me, old man, for saying 'hag.' but she was one, if there is any such. lord knows who she is, or whether or not she's a relation of yours. but i'll begin at the beginning. you know i was way back on the oregon frontier--back in the cascades?" "i didn't know," bruce replied. "i knew you were somewhere in the wilds. you always are. go on." "i was back there fishing for steelhead in a river they call the rogue. my boy, a steelhead is--but you don't want to hear that. you want to get the story. but a steelhead, you ought to know, is a trout--a fish--and the noblest fish that ever was! oh, heavens above! how they can strike! but while way up on the upper waters i heard of a place called trail's end--a place where wise men do not go." "and of course you went." "of course. the name sounds silly now, but it won't if you ever go there. there are only a few families, bruce, miles and miles apart, in the whole region. and it's enormous--no one knows how big. just ridge on ridge. and i went back to kill a bear." "but stop!" bruce commanded. he lighted a cigarette. "i thought you were against killing bears--any except the big boys up north." "that's just it. i am against killing the little black fellows--they are the only folk with any brains in the woods. but this, bruce, was a real bear,--a left-over from fifty years ago. there used to be grizzlies through that country, you see, but everybody supposed that the last of them had been shot. but evidently there was one family that still remained--in the farthest recesses of trail's end--and all at once the biggest, meanest grizzly ever remembered showed up on the cattle ranges of the plateau. with some others, i went to get him. 'the killer', they call him--and he certainly is death on live stock. i didn't get the bear, but one day my guide stopped at a broken-down old cabin on the hillside for a drink of water. i was four miles away in camp. the guide came back and asked me if i was from this very city. "i told him yes, and asked him why he wanted to know. he said that this old woman sent word, secretly, to every stranger that ever came to fish or hunt in the region of trail's end, wanting to know if they came from here. i was the first one that answered 'yes.' and the guide said that she wanted me to come to her cabin and see her. "i went--and i won't describe to you how she looked. i'll let you see for yourself, if you care to follow out her instructions. and now the strange part comes in. the old witch raised her arm, pointed her cane at me, and asked me if i knew newton duncan. "i told her there might be several newton duncans in a city this size. you should have seen the pain grow on her face. 'after so long, after so long!' she cried, in the queerest, sobbing way. she seemed to have waited years to find some one from here, and when i came i didn't know what she wanted. then she took heart and began again. "'this newton duncan had a son--a foster-son--named bruce,' she told me. and then i said i knew you. "you can't imagine the change that came over her. i thought she'd die of heart failure. the whole thing, bruce--if you must know--gave me the creeps. 'tell him to come here,' she begged me. 'don't lose a moment. as soon as you get home, tell him to come here.' "of course i asked other questions, but i couldn't get much out of her. one of 'em was why she hadn't written to duncan. the answer was simple enough--that she didn't know how to write. those in the mountains that could write wouldn't, or couldn't--she was a trifle vague on that point--dispatch a letter. something is up." ii before the gray of dawn came over the land bruce duncan had started westward. he had no self-amazement at the lightning decision. he was only strangely and deeply exultant. the reasons why went too deep within him to be easily seen. in the first place, it was adventure--and bruce's life had not been very adventurous heretofore. it was true that he had known triumphs on the athletic fields, and his first days at a great university had been novel and entertaining. but now he was going to the west, to a land he had dreamed about, the land of wide spaces and great opportunities. it was not his first western journey. often he had gone there as a child--had engaged in furious battles with outlaws and indians; but those had been adventures of imagination only. this was reality at last. the clicking rails beneath the speeding train left no chance for doubt. then there was a sense of immeasurable relief at his sudden and unexpected freedom from the financial problems his father had left. he would have no more consultations with impatient creditors, no more would he strive to gather together the ruins of the business, and attempt to salvage the small remaining fragments of his father's fortune. he was free of it all, at last. he had never known a darker hour--and none of them that this quiet, lonely-spirited man had known had been very bright--than the one he had spent just before going to bed earlier that evening. he had no plans, he didn't know which way to turn. all at once, through the message that barney had brought him, he had seen a clear trail ahead. it was something to do, something at last that mattered. finally there remained the eminent fact that this was an answer to his dream. he was going toward linda, at last. the girl had been the one living creature in his memory that he had cared for and who cared for him--the one person whose interest in him was real. men are a gregarious species. the trails are bewildering and steep to one who travels them alone. linda, the little "spitfire" of his boyhood, had suddenly become the one reality in his world, and as he thought of her, his memory reviewed the few impressions he had retained of his childhood. first was the square house--the orphanage--where the woman had turned him over to the nurse in charge. sometimes, when tobacco smoke was heavy upon him, bruce could catch very dim and fleeting glimpses of the woman's face. he would bend his mind to it, he would probe and probe, with little, reaching filaments of thought, into the dead years--and then, all at once, the filaments would rush together, catch hold of a fragment of her picture, and like a chain-gang of ants carrying a straw, come lugging it up for him to see. it was only a fleeting glimpse, only the faintest blur in half-tone, and then quite gone. yet he never gave up trying. he never quit longing for just one second of vivid remembrance. it was one of the few and really great desires that bruce had in life. the few times that her memory-picture did come to him, it brought a number of things with it. one of them was a great and overwhelming realization of some terrible tragedy and terror the nature of which he could not even guess. there had been terrible and tragic events--where and how he could not guess--lost in those forgotten days of his babyhood. "she's been through fire," the nurse told the doctor when he came in and the door had closed behind the woman. bruce _did_ remember these words, because many years elapsed before he completely puzzled them out. the nurse hadn't meant such fires as swept through the far-spread evergreen forests of the northwest. it was some other, dread fire that seared the spirit and burned the bloom out of the face and all the gentle lights out of the eyes. it did, however, leave certain lights, but they were such that their remembrance brought no pleasure to bruce. they were just a wild glare, a fixed, strange brightness as of great fear or insanity. the woman had kissed him and gone quickly; and he had been too young to remember if she had carried any sort of bundle close to her breast. yet, the man considered, there must have been such a bundle--otherwise he couldn't possibly account for linda. and there were no doubts about her, at all. her picture was always on the first page of the photograph album of his memory; he had only to turn over one little sheet of years to find her. of course he had no memories of her that first day, nor for the first years. but all later memories of the square house always included her. she must have been nearly four years younger than himself; thus when he was taken to the house she was only an infant. but thereafter, the nurses put them together often; and when linda was able to talk, she called him something that sounded like bwovaboo. she called him that so often that for a long time he couldn't be sure that wasn't his real name. now, in manhood, he interpreted. "brother bruce, of course. linda was of course a sister." linda had been homely; even a small boy could notice that. besides, linda was nearly six when bruce had left for good; and he was then at an age in which impressions begin to be lasting. her hair was quite blond then, and her features rather irregular. but there had been a light in her eyes! by his word, there had been! she had been angry at him times in plenty--over some childish game--and he remembered how that light had grown and brightened. she had flung at him too, like a lynx springing from a tree. bruce paused in his reflections to wonder at himself over the simile--for lynx were no especial acquaintances of his. he knew them only through books, as he knew many other things that stirred his imagination. but he laughed at the memory of her sudden, explosive ferocity,--the way her hands had smacked against his cheeks, and her sharp little nails had scratched him. curiously, he had never fought back as is the usual thing between small boys and small girls. and it wasn't exactly chivalry either, rather just an inability to feel resentment. besides, there were always tears and repentance afterward, and certain pettings that he openly scorned and secretly loved. "i must have been a strange kid!" bruce thought. it was true he had; and nothing was stranger than this attitude toward baby sister. he was always so gentle with her, but at the same time he contemplated her with a sort of amused tolerance that is to be expected in strong men rather than solemn little boys. "little spitfire" he sometimes called her; but no one else could call her anything but linda. for bruce had been an able little fighter, even in those days. there was other evidence of strangeness. he was fond of drawing pictures. this was nothing in itself; many little boys are fond of drawing pictures. nor were his unusually good. their strangeness lay in his subjects. he liked to draw animals in particular,--the animals he read about in school and in such books as were brought to him. and sometimes he drew indians and cowboys. and one day--when he wasn't half watching what he was doing--he drew something quite different. perhaps he wouldn't have looked at it twice, if the teacher hadn't stepped up behind him and taken it out of his hands. it was "geography" then, not "drawing", and he should have been "paying attention." and he had every reason to think that the teacher would crumple up his picture and send him to the cloak-room for punishment. but she did no such thing. it was true that she seized the paper, and her fingers were all set to crumple it. but when her eyes glanced down, her fingers slowly straightened. then she looked again--carefully. "what is this, bruce?" she asked. "what have you been drawing?" curiously, she had quite forgotten to scold him for not paying attention. and bruce, who had drawn the picture with his thoughts far away from his pencil, had to look and see himself. then he couldn't be sure. "i--i don't know," the child answered. but the picture was even better than his more conscious drawings, and it did look like something. he looked again, and for an instant let his thoughts go wandering here and there. "those are trees," he said. a word caught at his throat and he blurted it out. "pines! pine trees, growing on a mountain." once translated, the picture could hardly be mistaken. there was a range of mountains in the background, and a distinct sky line plumed with pines,--those tall, dark trees that symbolize, above all other trees, the wilderness. "not bad for a six-year-old boy," the teacher commented. "but where, bruce, have you ever seen or heard of such pines?" but bruce did not know. another puzzling adventure that stuck in bruce's memory had happened only a few months after his arrival at the square house when a man had taken him home on trial with the idea of adoption. adoption, little bruce had gathered, was something like heaven,--a glorious and happy end of all trouble and unpleasantness. such was the idea he got from the talk of the other orphans, and even from the grown-ups who conducted the establishment. all the incidents and details of the excursion with this prospective parent were extremely dim and vague. he did not know to what city he went, nor had he any recollection whatever of the people he met there. but he did remember, with remarkable clearness, the perplexing talk that the man and the superintendent of the square house had together on his return. "he won't do," the stranger had said. "i tried him out and he won't fill in in my family. and i've fetched him back." the superintendent must have looked at the little curly-haired boy with considerable wonder; but he didn't ask questions. there was no particular need of them. the man was quite ready to talk, and the fact that a round-eyed child was listening to him with both ears open, did not deter him a particle. "i believe in being frank," the man said, "and i tell you there's something vicious in that boy's nature. it came out the very first moment he was in the house, when the missus was introducing him to my eight-year-old son. 'this is little turner,' she said--and this boy sprang right at him. i'd never let little turner learn to fight, and this boy was on top of him and was pounding him with his fists before we could pull him off. just like a wildcat--screaming and sobbing and trying to get at him again. i didn't understand it at all." nor did the superintendent understand; nor--in these later years--bruce either. he was quite a big boy, nearly ten, when he finally left the square house. and there was nothing flickering or dim about the memory of this occasion. a tall, exceedingly slender man sat beside the window,--a man well dressed but with hard lines about his mouth and hard eyes. yet the superintendent seemed particularly anxious to please him. "you will like this sturdy fellow," he said, as bruce was ushered in. the man's eyes traveled slowly from the child's curly head to his rapidly growing feet; but no gleam of interest came into the thin face. "i suppose he'll do--as good as any. it was the wife's idea, anyway, you know. what about parentage? anything decent at all?" the superintendent seemed to wait a long time before answering. little bruce, already full of secret conjectures as to his own parentage, thought that some key might be given him at last. "there is nothing that we can tell you, mr. duncan," he said at last. "a woman brought him here--with an infant girl--when he was about four. i suppose she was his mother--and she didn't wait to talk to me. the nurse said that she wore outlandish clothes and had plainly had a hard time." "but she didn't wait--?" "she dropped her children and fled." a cold little smile flickered at the man's lips. "it looks rather damnable," he said significantly. "but i'll take the little beggar--anyway." and thus bruce went to the cold fireside of the duncans--a house in a great and distant city where, in the years that had passed, many things scarcely worth remembering had transpired. it was a gentleman's house--as far as the meaning of the word usually goes--and bruce had been afforded a gentleman's education. there was also, for a while, a certain amount of rather doubtful prosperity, a woman who died after a few months of casual interest in him, and many, many hours of almost overwhelming loneliness. also there were many thoughts such as are not especially good for the spirits of growing boys. there is a certain code in all worlds that most men, sooner or later, find it wisest to adopt. it is simply the code of forgetfulness. the square house from whence bruce had come had been a good place to learn this code; and bruce--child though he was--had carried it with him to the duncans'. but there were two things he had been unable to forget. one was the words his foster father had spoken on accepting him,--words that at last he had come to understand. a normal child, adopted into a good home, would not have likely given a second thought to a dim and problematical disgrace in his unknown and departed family. he would have found his pride in the achievements and standing of his foster parents. but the trouble was that little bruce had not been adopted into any sort of home, good or bad. the place where the duncans lived was a house, but under no liberal interpretation of the word could it be called a home. there was nothing homelike in it to little bruce. it wasn't that there was actual cruelty to contend with. bruce had never known that. but there was utter indifference which perhaps is worse. and as always, the child filled up the empty space with dreams. he gave all the love and worship that was in him to his own family that he had pictured in imagination. thus any disgrace that had come upon them went home to him very straight indeed. the other lasting memory was of linda. she represented the one living creature in all his assemblage of phantoms--the one person with whom he could claim real kinship. never a wind blew, never the sun shone but that he missed her, with a terrible, aching longing for which no one has ever been able to find words. he had done a bold thing, after his first few years with the duncans. he planned it long and carried it out with infinite care as to details. he wrote to linda, in care of the superintendent of the orphanage. the answer only deepened the mystery. linda was missing. whether she had run away, or whether some one had come by in a closed car and carried her off as she played on the lawns, the superintendent could not tell. they had never been able to trace her. he had been fifteen then, a tall boy with rather unusual muscular development, and the girl was eleven. and in the year nineteen hundred and twenty, ten years after the reply to his letter, bruce had heard no word from her. a man grown, and his boyish dreams pushed back into the furthest deep recesses of his mind, where they could no longer turn his eyes away from facts, he had given up all hope of ever hearing from her again. "my little sister," he said softly to a memory. then bitterness--a whole black flood of it--would come upon him. "good lord, i don't even know that she _was_ my sister." but now he was going to find her and his heart was full of joy and eager anticipation. iii there had not been time to make inquiry as to the land bruce was going to. he only knew one thing,--that it was the wilderness. whether it was a wilderness of desert or of great forest, he did not know. nor had he the least idea what manner of adventure would be his after he reached the old woman's cabin; and he didn't care. the fact that he had no business plans for the future and no financial resources except a few hundred dollars that he carried in his pocket did not matter one way or another. he was willing to spend all the money he had; after it was gone, he would take up some work in life anew. he had a moment's wonder at the effect his departure would have upon the financial problem that had been his father's sole legacy to him. he laughed a little as he thought of it. perhaps a stronger man could have taken hold, could have erected some sort of a structure upon the ruins, and remained to conquer after all. but bruce had never been particularly adept at business. his temperament did not seem suited to it. but the idea that others also--having no business relations with his father--might be interested in this western journey of his did not even occur to him. he would not be missed at his athletic club. he had scarcely any real friends, and none of his acquaintances kept particularly close track of him. but the paths men take, seemingly with wholly different aims, crisscross and become intertwined much more than bruce knew. even as he lay in his berth, the first sweet drifting of sleep upon him, he was the subject of a discussion in a far-distant mountain home; and sleep would not have fallen so easily and sweetly if he had heard it. * * * * * it might have been a different world. only a glimpse of it, illumined by the moon, could be seen through the soiled and besmirched window pane; but that was enough to tell the story. there were no tall buildings, lighted by a thousand electric lights, such as bruce could see through the windows of his bedroom at night. the lights that could be discerned in this strange, dark sky were largely unfamiliar to bruce, because of the smoke-clouds that had always hung above the city where he lived. there were just stars, but there were so many of them that the mind was unable to comprehend their number. there is a perplexing variation in the appearance of these twinkling spheres. no man who has traveled widely can escape this fact. likely enough they are the same stars, but they put on different faces. they seem almost insignificant at times,--dull and dim and unreal. it is not this way with the stars that peer down through these high forests. men cannot walk beneath them and be unaware of them. they are incredibly large and bright and near, and the eyes naturally lift to them. there are nights in plenty, in the wild places, where they seem much more real than the dim, moonlit ridge or even the spark of a trapper's campfire, far away. they grow to be companions, too, in time. perhaps after many, many years in the wild a man even attains some understanding of them, learning their infinite beneficence, and finding in them rare comrades in loneliness, and beacons on the dim and intertwining trails. there was also a moon that cast a little square of light, like a fairy tapestry, on the floor. it was not such a moon as leers down red and strange through the smoke of cities. it was vivid and quite white,--the wilderness moon that times the hunting hours of the forest creatures. but the patch that it cast on the floor was obscured in a moment because the man who had been musing in the big chair beside the empty fireplace had risen and lighted a kerosene lamp. the light prevented any further scrutiny of the moon and stars. and what remained to look at was not nearly so pleasing to the spirit. it was a great, white-walled room that would have been beautiful had it not been for certain unfortunate attempts to beautify it. the walls, that should have been sweeping and clean, were adorned with gaudily framed pictures which in themselves were dim and drab from many summers' accumulation of dust. there was a stone fireplace, and certain massive, dust-covered chairs grouped about it. but the eyes never would have got to these. they would have been held and fascinated by the face and the form of the man who had just lighted the lamp. no one could look twice at that massive physique and question its might. he seemed almost gigantic in the yellow lamplight. in reality he stood six feet and almost three inches, and his frame was perfectly in proportion. he moved slowly, lazily, and the thought flashed to some great monster of the forest that could uproot a tree with a blow. the huge muscles rippled and moved under the flannel shirt. the vast hand looked as if it could seize the glass bowl of the lamp and crush it like an eggshell. the face was huge, big and gaunt of bone; and particularly one would notice the mouth. it would be noticed even before the dark, deep-sunken eyes. it was a bloodhound mouth, the mouth of a man of great and terrible passions, and there was an unmistakable measure of cruelty and savagely about it. but there was strength, too. no eye could doubt that. the jaw muscles looked as powerful as those of a beast of prey. but it was not an ugly face, for all the brutality of the features. it was even handsome in the hard, mountain way. one would notice straight, black hair--the man's age was about thirty-nine--long over rather dark ears, and a great, gnarled throat. the words when he spoke seemed to come from deep within it. "come in, dave," he said. in this little remark lay something of the man's power. the visitor had come unannounced. his visit had been unexpected. his host had not yet seen his face. yet the man knew, before the door was opened, who it was that had come. the reason went back to a certain quickening of the senses that is the peculiar right and property of most men who are really residents of the wilderness. and resident, in this case, does not mean merely one who builds his cabin on the slopes and lives there until he dies. it means a true relationship with the wild, an actual understanding. this man was the son of the wild as much as the wolves that ran in the packs. the wilderness is a fecund parent, producing an astounding variety of types. some are beautiful, many stronger than iron, but her parentage was never more evident than in the case of this bronze-skinned giant that called out through the open doorway. among certain other things he had acquired an ability to name and interpret quickly the little sounds of the wilderness night. soft though it was, he had heard the sound of approaching feet in the pine needles. as surely as he would have recognized the dark face of the man in the doorway, he recognized the sound as dave's step. the man came in, and at once an observer would have detected an air of deference in his attitude. very plainly he had come to see his chief. he was a year or two older than his host, less powerful of physique, and his eyes did not hold quite so straight. there was less savagery but more cunning in his sharp features. he blurted out his news at once. "old elmira has got word down to the settlements at last," he said. there was no muscular response in the larger man. dave was plainly disappointed. he wanted his news to cause a stir. it was true, however, that his host slowly raised his eyes. dave glanced away. "what do you mean?" the man demanded. "mean--i mean just what i said. we should have watched closer. bill--young bill, i mean--saw a city chap just in the act of going in to see her. he had come on to the plateaus with his guide--wegan was the man's name--and bill said he stayed a lot longer than he would have if he hadn't taken a message from her. then young bill made some inquiries--innocent as you please--and he found out for sure that this wegan was from--just the place we don't want him to be from. and he'll carry word sure." "how long ago was this?" "week ago tuesday." "and why have you been so long in telling me?" when dave's chief asked questions in this tone, answers always came quickly. they rolled so fast from the mouth that they blurred and ran together. "why, simon--you ain't been where i could see you. anyway, there was nothin' we could have done." "there wasn't, eh? i don't suppose you ever thought that there's yet two months before we can clinch this thing for good, and young folger might--i say might--have kicking about somewhere in his belongings the very document we've all of us been worrying about for twenty years." simon cursed--a single, fiery oath. "i don't suppose you could have arranged for this wegan to have had a hunting accident, could you? who in the devil would have thought that yelping old hen could have ever done it--would have ever kept at it long enough to reach anybody to carry her message! but as usual, we are yelling before we're hurt. it isn't worth a cussword. like as not, this wegan will never take the trouble to hunt him up. and if he does--well, it's nothing to worry about, either. there is one back door that has been opened many times to let his people go through, and it may easily be opened again." dave's eyes filled with admiration. then he turned and gazed out through the window. against the eastern sky, already wan and pale from the encroaching dawn, the long ridge of a mountain stood in vivid and startling silhouette. the edge of it was curiously jagged with many little upright points. there was only one person who would have been greatly amazed by that outline of the ridge; and the years and distance had obscured her long ago. this was a teacher at an orphanage in a distant city, who once had taken a crude drawing from the hands of a child. here was the original at last. it was the same ridge, covered with pines, that little bruce had drawn. iv the train came to a sliding halt at deer creek, paused an infinitesimal fraction of a second, and roared on in its ceaseless journey. that infinitesimal fraction was long enough for bruce, poised on the bottom step of a sleeping car, to swing down on to the gravel right-of-way. his bag, hurled by a sleepy porter, followed him. he turned first to watch the vanishing tail light, speeding so swiftly into the darkness; and curiously all at once it blinked out. but it was not that the switchmen were neglectful of their duties. in this certain portion of the cascades the railroad track is constructed something after the manner of a giant screw, coiling like a great serpent up the ridges, and the train had simply vanished around a curve. duncan's next impression was one of infinite solitude. he hadn't read any guidebooks about deer creek, and he had expected some sort of town. a western mining camp, perhaps, where the windows of a dance hall would gleam through the darkness; or one of those curious little mushroom-growth cities that are to be found all over the west. but at deer creek there was one little wooden structure with only three sides,--the opening facing the track. it was evidently the waiting room used by the mountain men as they waited for their local trains. there were no porters to carry his bag. there were no shouting officials. his only companions were the stars and the moon and, farther up the slope, certain tall trees that tapered to incredible points almost in the region where the stars began. the noise of the train died quickly. it vanished almost as soon as the dot of red that had been its tail light. it was true that he heard a faint pulsing far below him, a sound that was probably the chug of the steam, but it only made an effective background for the silence. it was scarcely more to be heard than the pulse of his own blood; and as he waited even this faded and died away. the moon cast his shadow on the yellow grass beside the crude station, and a curious flood of sensations--scarcely more tangible than its silver light--came over him. the moment had a quality of enchantment; and why he did not know. his throat suddenly filled, a curious weight and pain came to his eyelids, a quiver stole over his nerves. he stood silent with lifted face,--a strange figure in that mystery of moonlight. the whole scene, for causes deeper than any words may ever seek and reveal, moved him past any experience in his life. it was wholly new. when he had gone to sleep in his berth, earlier that same night, the train had been passing through a level, fertile valley that might have been one of the river bottoms beyond the mississippi. when darkness had come down he had been in a great city in the northern part of the state,--a noisy, busy place that was not greatly different from the city whence he had come. but now he seemed in a different world. possibly, in the long journey to the west, he had passed through forest before. but some way their appeal had not got to him. he was behind closed windows, his thoughts had been busy with reading and other occupations of travel. there had been no shading off, no gradations; he had come straight from a great seat of civilization to the heart of the wilderness. he turned about until the wind was in his face. it was full of fragrances,--strange, indescribable smells that seemed to call up a forgotten world. they carried a message to him, but as yet he hadn't made out its meaning. he only knew it was something mysterious and profound: great truths that flickered, like dim lights, in his consciousness, but whose outline he could not quite discern. they went straight home to him, those night smells from the forest. one of them was a balsam: a fragrance that once experienced lingers ever in the memory and calls men back to it in the end. those who die in its fragrance, just as those who go to sleep, feel sure of having pleasant dreams. there were other smells too--delicate perfumes from mountain flowers that were deep-hidden in the grass--and many others, the nature of which he could not even guess. perhaps there were sounds, but they only seemed part of the silence. the faintest rustle in the world reached him from the forests above of many little winds playing a running game between the trunks, and the stir of the little people, moving in their midnight occupations. each of these sounds had its message for bruce. they all seemed to be trying to tell him something, to make clear some great truth that was dawning in his consciousness. he was not in the least afraid. he felt at peace as never before. he picked up his bag, and with stealing steps approached the long slope behind. the moon showed him a fallen log, and he found a comfortable seat on the ground beside it, his back against its bark. then he waited for the dawn to come out. not even bruce knew or understood all the thoughts that came over him in that lonely wait. but he did have a peculiar sense of expectation, a realization that the coming of the dawn would bring him a message clearer than all these messages of fragrance and sound. the moon made wide silver patches between the distant trees; but as yet the forest had not opened its secrets to him. as yet it was but a mystery, a profundity of shadows and enchantment that he did not understand. the night hours passed. the sense of peace seemed to deepen on the man. he sat relaxed, his brown face grave, his eyes lifted. the stars began to dim and draw back farther into the recesses of the sky. the round outline of the moon seemed less pronounced. and a faint ribbon of light began to grow in the east. it widened. the light grew. the night wind played one more little game between the tree trunks and slipped away to the home of winds that lies somewhere above the mountains. the little night sounds were slowly stilled. bruce closed his eyes, not knowing why. his blood was leaping in his veins. an unfamiliar excitement, almost an exultation, had come upon him. he lowered his head nearly to his hands that rested in his lap, then waited a full five minutes more. then he opened his eyes. the light had grown around him. his hands were quite plain. slowly, as a man raises his eyes to a miracle, he lifted his face. the forest was no longer obscured in darkness. the great trees had emerged, and only the dusk as of twilight was left between. he saw them plainly,--their symmetrical forms, their declining limbs, their tall tops piercing the sky. he saw them as they were,--those ancient, eternal symbols and watchmen of the wilderness. and he knew them at last, acquaintances long forgotten but remembered now. "the pines!" he cried. he leaped to his feet with flashing eyes. "i have come back to the pines!" v the dawn revealed a narrow road along the bank of deer creek,--a brown little wanderer which, winding here and there, did not seem to know exactly where it wished to go. it seemed to follow the general direction of the creek bed; it seemed to be a prying, restless little highway, curious about things in general as the wild creatures that sometimes made tracks in its dust, thrusting now into a heavy thicket, now crossing the creek to examine a green and grassy bank on the opposite side, now taking an adventurous tramp about the shoulder of a hill, circling back for a drink in the creek and hurrying on again. it made singular loops; it darted off at a right and left oblique; it made sudden spurts and turns seemingly without reason or sense, and at last it dimmed away into the fading mists of early morning. bruce didn't know which direction to take, whether up or down the creek. he gave the problem a moment's thought. "take the road up the divide," barney wegan had said; and at once bruce knew that the course lay up the creek, rather than down. a divide means simply the high places between one water-shed and another, and of course trail's end lay somewhere beyond the source of the stream. the creek itself was apparently a sub-tributary of the rogue, the great river to the south. there was something pleasing to his spirit in the sight of the little stream, tumbling and rippling down its rocky bed. he had no vivid memories of seeing many waterways. the river that flowed through the city whence he had come had not been like this at all. it had been a great, slow-moving sheet of water, the banks of which were lined with factories and warehouses. the only lining of the banks of this little stream were white-barked trees, lovely groves with leaves of glossy green. it was a cheery, eager little waterway, and more than once--as he went around a curve in the road--it afforded him glimpses of really striking beauty. sometimes it was just a shimmer of its waters beneath low-hanging bushes, sometimes a distant cataract, and once or twice a long, still place on which the shadows were still deep. these sloughs were obviously the result of dams, and at first he could not understand what had been the purpose of dam-building in this lonely region. there seemed to be no factories needing water power, no slow-moving mill wheels. he left the road to investigate. and he chuckled with delight when he knew the truth. these dams had not been the work of men at all. rather they were structures laid down by those curious little civil engineers, the beavers. the cottonwood trees had been felled so that the thick branches had lain across the waters, and in their own secret ways the limbs had been matted and caked until no water could pass through. true, the beavers themselves did not emerge for him to converse with. perhaps they were busy at their under-water occupations, and possibly the trappers who sooner or later penetrate every wilderness had taken them all away. he looked along the bank for further evidence of the beavers' work. wonderful as the dams were, he found plenty of evidence that the beavers had not always used to advantage the crafty little brains that nature has given them. they had made plenty of mistakes. but these very blunders gave bruce enough delight almost to pay for the extra work they had occasioned. after all, he considered, human beings in their works are often just as short-sighted. for instance, he found tall trees lying rotting and out of reach, many feet back from the stream. the beavers had evidently felled them in high water, forgetting that the stream dwindled in summer and the trees would be of no use to them. they had been an industrious colony! he found short poles of cottonwood sharpened at the end, as if the little fur bearers had intended them for braces, but which--through some wilderness tragedy--had never been utilized. but bruce was in a mood to be delighted, these early morning hours. he was on the way to linda; a dream was about to come true. the whole adventure was of the most thrilling and joyous anticipations. he did not feel the load of his heavy suitcase. it was nothing to his magnificent young strength. and all at once he beheld an amazing change in the appearance of the stream. it had abruptly changed to a stream of melted, shimmering silver. the waters broke on the rocks with opalescent spray; the whole coloring was suggestive of the vivid tints of a turner landscape. the waters gleamed; they danced and sparkled as they sped about the boulders of the river bed; the leaves shimmered above them. and it was all because the sun had risen at last above the mountain range and was shining down. at first bruce could hardly believe that just sunlight could effect such a transformation. for no other reason than that he couldn't resist doing so, he left his bag on the road and crept down to the water's edge. he stood very still. it seemed to him that some one had told him, far away and long ago, that if he wished to see miracles he had only to stand very still. not to move a muscle, so that his vivid shadow would not even waver. it is a trait possessed by all men of the wilderness, but it takes time for city men to learn it. he waited a long time. and all at once the shining surface of a deep pool below him broke with a fountain of glittering spray. something that was like light itself flung into the air and down again with a splash. bruce shouted then. he simply couldn't help it. and all the time there was a strange straining and travail in his brain, as if it were trying to give birth to a memory from long ago. he knew now what had made that glittering arc. such a common thing,--it was singular that it should yield him such delight. it was a trout, leaping for an insect that had fallen on the waters. it was strange that he had such a sense of familiarity with trout. true, he had heard barney wegan tell of them. he had listened to many tales of the way they seized a fly, how the reel would spin, and how they would fight to absolute exhaustion before they would yield to the landing net. "the king among fish," barney had called them. yet the tales seemingly had meant little to him then. his interest in them had been superficial only; and they had seemed as distant and remote as the marsupials of australia. but it wasn't this way now. he had a sense of long and close acquaintance, of an interest such as men have in their own townsmen. he went on, and the forest world opened before him. once a flock of grouse--a hen and a dozen half-grown chickens--scurried away through the underbrush at the sound of his step. one instant, and he had a clear view of the entire covey. the next, and they had vanished like so many puffs of smoke. he had a delicious game of hide-and-seek with them through the coverts, but he was out-classed in every particular. he knew that the birds were all within forty feet of him, each of them pressed flat to the brown earth, but in this maze of light and shadow he could not detect their outline. nature has been kind to the grouse family in the way of protective coloration. he had to give up the search and continue up the creek for further adventure. once a pair of mallards winged by on a straight course above his head. their sudden appearance rather surprised him. these beautiful game birds are usually habitants of the lower lakes and marshes, not rippling mountain streams. he didn't know that a certain number of these winged people nested every year along the rogue river, far below, and made rapturous excursions up and down its tributaries. mallards do not have to have aëroplanes to cover distance quickly. they are the very masters of the aërial lanes, and in all probability this pair had come forty miles already that morning. where they would be at dark no man could guess. their wings whistled down to him, and it seemed to him that the drake stretched down his bright green head for a better look. then he spurted ahead, faster than ever. once, at a distance, bruce caught a glimpse of a pair of peculiar, little, sawed-off, plump-breasted ducks that wagged their tails, as if in signals, in a still place above a dam. he made a wide circle, intending to wheel back to the creekside for a closer inspection of the singular flirtation of those bobbing, fan-like tails. he rather thought he could outwit these little people, at least. but when he turned back to the water's edge they were nowhere to be seen. if he had had more experience with the creatures of the wild he could have explained this mysterious disappearance. these little ducks--"ruddies" the sportsmen call them--have advantages other than an extra joint in their tails. one of them seems to be a total and unprincipled indifference to the available supply of oxygen. when they wish to go out of sight they simply duck beneath the water and stay apparently as long as they desire. of course they have to come up some time--but usually it is just the tip of a bill--like the top of a river-bottom weed, thrust above the surface. bruce gaped in amazement, but he chuckled again when he discovered his birds farther up the creek, just as far distant from him as ever. the sun rose higher, and he began to feel its power. but it was a kindly heat. the temperature was much higher than was commonly met in the summers of the city, but there was little moisture in the air to make it oppressive. the sweat came out on his bronze face, but he never felt better in his life. there was but one great need, and that was breakfast. a man of his physique feels hunger quickly. the sensation increased in intensity, and the suitcase grew correspondingly heavy. and all at once he stopped short in the road. the impulse along his nerves to his leg muscles was checked, like an electric current at the closing of a switch, and an instinct of unknown origin struggled for expression within him. in an instant he had it. he didn't know whence it came. it was nothing he had read or that any one had told him. it seemed to be rather the result of some experience in his own immediate life, an occurrence of so long ago that he had forgotten it. he suddenly knew where he could find his breakfast. there was no need of toiling farther on an empty stomach in this verdant season of the year. he set his suitcase down, and with the confidence of a man who hears the dinner call in his own home, he struck off into the thickets beside the creek bed. instinct--and really, after all, instinct is nothing but memory--led his steps true. he glanced here and there, not even wondering at the singular fact that he did not know exactly what manner of food he was seeking. in a moment he came to a growth of thorn-covered bushes, a thicket that only the she-bear knew how to penetrate. but it was enough for bruce just to stand at its edges. the bushes were bent down with a load of delicious berries. he wasn't in the least surprised. he had known that he would find them. always, at this season of the year, the woods were rich with them; one only had to slip quickly through the back door--while the mother's eye was elsewhere--to find enough of them not only to pack the stomach full but to stain and discolor most of the face. it seemed a familiar thing to be plucking the juicy berries and cramming them into his mouth, impervious as the old she-bear to the remonstrance of the thorns. but it seemed to him that he reached them easier than he expected. either the bushes were not so tall as he remembered them, or--since his first knowledge of them--his own stature had increased. when he had eaten the last berry he could possibly hold, he went to the creek to drink. he lay down beside a still pool, and the water was cold to his lips. then he rose at the sound of an approaching motor car behind him. the driver--evidently a cattleman--stopped his car and looked at bruce with some curiosity. he marked the perfectly fitting suit of dark flannel, the trim, expensive shoes that were already dust-stained, the silken shirt on which a juicy berry had been crushed. "howdy," the man said after the western fashion. he was evidently simply feeling companionable and was looking for a moment's chat. it is a desire that often becomes very urgent and most real after enough lonely days in the wilderness. "how do you do," bruce replied. "how far to martin's store?" the man filled his pipe with great care before he answered. "jump in the car," he replied at last, "and i'll show you. i'm going up that way myself." vi martin's was a typical little mountain store, containing a small sample of almost everything under the sun and built at the forks in the road. the ranchman let bruce off at the store; then turned up the right-hand road that led to certain bunch-grass lands to the east. bruce entered slowly, and the little group of loungers gazed at him with frank curiosity. only one of them was of a type sufficiently distinguished so that bruce's own curiosity was aroused. this was a huge, dark man who stood alone almost at the rear of the building,--a veritable giant with savage, bloodhound lips and deep-sunken eyes. there was a quality in his posture that attracted bruce's attention at once. no one could look at him and doubt that he was a power in these mountain realms. he seemed perfectly secure in his great strength and wholly cognizant of the hate and fear, and at the same time, the strange sort of admiration with which the others regarded him. he was dressed much as the other mountain men who had assembled in the store. he wore a flannel shirt over his gorilla chest, and corduroy trousers stuffed into high, many-seamed riding boots. a dark felt hat was crushed on to his huge head. but there was an aloofness about the man; and bruce realized at once he had taken no part in the friendly gossip that had been interrupted by his entrance. the dark eyes were full upon bruce's face. he felt them--just as if they had the power of actual physical impact--the instant that he was inside the door. nor was it the ordinary look of careless speculation or friendly interest. mountain men have not been taught it is not good manners to stare, but no traveler who falls swiftly into the spirit of the forest ordinarily resents their open inspection. but this look was different. it was such that no man, to whom self-respect is dear, could possibly disregard. it spoke clearly as words. bruce flushed, and his blood made a curious little leap. he slowly turned. his gaze moved until it rested full upon the man's eyes. it seemed to bruce that the room grew instantly quiet. the merchant no longer tied up his bundles at the counter. the watching mountain men that he beheld out of the corners of his eyes all seemed to be standing in peculiar fixed attitudes, waiting for some sort of explosion. it took all of bruce's strength to hold that gaze. the moment was charged with a mysterious suspense. the stranger's face changed too. he did not flush, however. his lips curled ever so slightly, revealing an instant's glimpse of strong, rather well-kept teeth. his eyes were narrowing too; and they seemed to come to life with singular sparkles and glowings between the lids. "well?" he suddenly demanded. every man in the room--except one--started. the one exception was bruce himself. he was holding hard on his nerve control, and he only continued to stare coldly. "are you the merchant?" bruce asked. "no, i ain't," the other replied. "you usually look for the merchant behind the counter." there was no smile on the faces of the waiting mountain men, usually to be expected when one of their number achieves repartee on a tenderfoot. nevertheless, the tension was broken. bruce turned to the merchant. "i would like to have you tell me," he said quite clearly, "the way to mrs. ross's cabin." the merchant seemed to wait a long time before replying. his eye stole to the giant's face, found the lips curled in a smile; then he flushed. "take the left-hand road," he said with a trace of defiance in his tone. "it soon becomes a trail, but keep right on going up it. at the fork in the trail you'll find her cabin." "how far is it, please?" "two hours' walk; you can make it easy by four o'clock." "thank you." his eyes glanced over the stock of goods and he selected a few edibles to give him strength for the walk. "i'll leave my suitcase here if i may," he said, "and will call for it later." he turned to go. "wait just a minute," a voice spoke behind him. it was a commanding tone--implying the expectation of obedience. bruce half turned. "simon wants to talk to you," the merchant explained. "i'll walk with you a way and show you the road," simon continued. the room seemed deathly quiet as the two men went out together. they walked side by side until a turn of the road took them out of eye-range of the store. "this is the road," simon said. "all you have to do is follow it. cabins are not so many that you could mistake it. but the main thing is--whether or not you want to go." bruce had no misunderstanding about the man's meaning. it was simply a threat, nothing more nor less. "i've come a long way to go to that cabin," he replied. "i'm not likely to turn off now." "there's nothing worth seeing when you get there. just an old hag--a wrinkled old dame that looks like a witch." bruce felt a deep and little understood resentment at the words. yet since he had as yet established no relations with the woman, he had no grounds for silencing the man. "i'll have to decide that," he replied. "i'm going to see some one else, too." "some one named--linda?" "yes. you seem quite interested." they were standing face to face in the trail. for once bruce was glad of his unusual height. he did not have to raise his eyes greatly to look squarely into simon's. both faces were flushed, both set; and the eyes of the older man brightened slowly. "i am interested," simon replied. "you're a tenderfoot. you're fresh from cities. you're going up there to learn things that won't be any pleasure to you. you're going into the real mountains--a man's land such as never was a place for tenderfeet. a good many things can happen up there. a good many things have happened up there. i warn you--go back!" bruce smiled, just the faint flicker of a smile, but simon's eyes narrowed when he saw it. the dark face lost a little of its insolence. he knew men, this huge son of the wilderness, and he knew that no coward could smile in such a moment as this. he was accustomed to implicit obedience and was not used to seeing men smile when he uttered a threat. "i've come too far to go back," bruce told him. "nothing can turn me." "men have been turned before, on trails like this," simon told him. "don't misunderstand me. i advised you to go back before, and i usually don't take time or trouble to advise any one. now i _tell_ you to go back. this is a man's land, and we don't want any tenderfeet here." "the trail is open," bruce returned. it was not his usual manner to speak in quite this way. he seemed at once to have fallen into the vernacular of the wilderness of which symbolic reference has such a part. strange as the scene was to him, it was in some way familiar too. it was as if this meeting had been ordained long ago; that it was part of an inexorable destiny that the two should be talking together, face to face, on this winding mountain road. memories--all vague, all unrecognized--thronged through him. many times, during the past years, he had wakened from curious dreams that in the light of day he had tried in vain to interpret. he was never able to connect them with any remembered experience. now it was as if one of these dreams were coming true. there was the same silence about him, the dark forests beyond, the ridges stretching ever. there was some great foe that might any instant overwhelm him. "i guess you heard me," simon said; "i told you to go back." "and i hope you heard me too. i'm going on. i haven't any more time to give you." "and i'm not going to take any more, either. but let me make one thing plain. no man, told to go back by me, ever has a chance to be told again. this ain't your cities--up here. there ain't any policeman on every corner. the woods are big, and all kinds of things can happen in them--and be swallowed up--as i swallow these leaves in my hand." his great arm reached out with incredible power and seized a handful of leaves off a near-by shrub. it seemed to bruce that they crushed like fruit and stained the dark skin. "what is done up here isn't put in the newspapers down below. we're mountain men; we've lived up here as long as men have lived in the west. we have our own way of doing things, and our own law. think once more about going back." "i've already decided. i'm going on." once more they stood, eyes meeting eyes on the trail, and simon's face was darkening with passion. bruce knew that his hands were clenching, and his own muscles bunched and made ready to resist any kind of attack. but simon didn't strike. he laughed instead,--a single deep note of utter and depthless scorn. then he drew back and let bruce pass on up the road. vii bruce couldn't mistake the cabin. at the end of the trail he found it,--a little shack of unpainted boards with a single door and a single window. he stood a moment in the sunlight. his shadow was already long behind him, and the mountains had that curious deep blue of late afternoon. the pine needles were soft under his feet; the later-afternoon silence was over the land. he could not guess what was his destiny behind that rude door. it was a moment long waited; for one of the few times in his life he was trembling with excitement. he felt as if a key, long lost, was turning in the doorway of understanding. he walked nearer and tapped with his knuckles on the door. if the forests have one all-pervading quality it is silence. of course the most silent time is at night, but just before sunset, when most of the forest creatures are in their mid-afternoon sleep, any noise is a rare thing. what sound there is carries far and seems rather out of place. bruce could picture the whole of the little drama that followed his knock by just the faint sounds--inaudible in a less silent land--that reached him from behind the door. at first it was just a start; then a short exclamation in the hollow, half-whispering voice of old, old age. a moment more of silence--as if a slow-moving, aged brain were trying to conjecture who stood outside--then the creaking of a chair as some one rose. the last sounds were of a strange hobbling toward him,--a rustle of shoes half dragged on the floor and the intermittent tapping of a cane. the face that showed so dimly in the shadowed room looked just as bruce had expected,--wrinkled past belief, lean and hawk-nosed from age. the hand that rested on the cane was like a bird's claw, the skin blue and hard and dry. there were a few strands of hair drawn back over her lean head, but all its color had faded out long ago. she stood bowed over her cane. yet in that first instant bruce had an inexplicable impression of being in the presence of a power. he did not have the wave of pity with which one usually greets the decrepit. and at first he didn't know why. but soon he grew accustomed to the shadows and he could see the woman's eyes. then he understood. they were set deep behind grizzled brows, but they glowed like coals. there was no other word. they were not the eyes of one whom time is about to conquer. her bodily strength was gone; any personal beauty that she might have had was ashes long and long ago, but some great fire burned in her yet. as far as bodily appearance went the grave should have claimed her long since; but a dauntless spirit had sustained her. for, as all men know, the power of the spirit has never yet been measured. she blinked in the light. "who is it?" she croaked. bruce did not answer. he had not prepared a reply for this question. but it was not needed. the woman leaned forward, and a vivid light began to dawn in her dark, furrowed face. even to bruce, already succumbed to this atmosphere of mystery into which his adventure had led him, that dawning light was the single most startling phenomenon he had ever beheld. it is very easy to imagine a radiance upon the face. but in reality, most all facial expression is simply a change in the contour of lines. but this was not a case of imagination now. the witchlike face seemed to gleam with a white flame. and bruce knew that his coming was the answer to the prayer of a whole lifetime. it was a thought to sober him. no small passion, no weak desire, no prayer that time or despair could silence could effect such a light as this. "bruce," he said simply. it did not even occur to him to use the surname of duncan. it was a name of a time and sphere already forgotten. "i don't know what my real last name is." "bruce--bruce," the woman whispered. she stretched a palsied hand to him as if it would feel his flesh to reassure her of its reality. the wild light in her eyes pierced him, burning like chemical rays, and a great flood of feeling yet unknown and unrecognized swept over him. he saw her snags of teeth as her dry lips half-opened. he saw the exultation in her wrinkled, lifted face. "oh, praises to his everlasting name!" she cried. "oh, glory--glory to on high!" and this was not blasphemy. the words came from the heart. no matter how terrible the passion from which they sprang, whether it was such evil as would cast her to hell, such a cry as this could not go unheard. the strength seemed to go out of her as water flows. she rocked on her cane, and bruce, thinking she was about to fall, seized her shoulders. "at last--at last," she cried. "you've come at last." she gripped herself, as if trying to find renewed strength. "go at once," she said, "to the end of the pine-needle trail. it leads from behind the cabin." he tried to emerge from the dreamlike mists that had enveloped him. "how far is it?" he asked her steadily. "to the end of pine-needle trail," she rocked again, clutched for one of his brown hands, and pressed it between hers. then she raised it to her dry lips. bruce could not keep her from it. and after an instant more he did not attempt to draw it from her embrace. in the darkness of that mountain cabin, in the shadow of the eternal pines, he knew that some great drama of human life and love and hatred was behind the action; and he knew with a knowledge unimpeachable that it would be only insolence for him to try further to resist it. its meaning went too deep for him to see; but it filled him with a great and wondering awe. then he turned away, up the pine-needle trail. clear until the deeper forest closed around him her voice still followed him,--a strange croaking in the afternoon silence. "at last," he heard her crying. "at last, at last." viii in almost a moment, duncan was out of the thickets and into the big timber, for really the first time. in his journey up the mountain road and on the trail that led to the old woman's cabin, he had been many times in the shade of the tall evergreens, but always there had been some little intrusion of civilization, some hint of the works of man that had kept him from the full sense of the majesty of the wild. at first it had been the gleaming railroad tracks, and then a road that had been built with blasting and shovels. to get the full effect of the forest one must be able to behold wide-stretching vistas, and that had been impossible heretofore because of the brush thickets. but this was the virgin forest. as far as he could see there was nothing but the great pines climbing up the long slope of the ridge. he caught glimpses of them in the vales at either side, and their dark tops made a curious background at the very extremity of his vision. they stood straight and aloof, and they were very old. he fell into their spirit at once. the half-understood emotions that had flooded him in the cabin below died within him. the great calm that is, after all, the all-pervading quality of the big pines came over him. it is always this way. a man knows solitude, his thoughts come clear, superficialities are left behind in the lands of men. bruce was rather tremulous and exultant as he crept softly up the trail. it was the last lap of his journey. at the end of the trail he would find--linda! and it seemed quite fitting that she would be waiting there, where the trail began, in the wildest heart of the pine woods. he was quite himself once more,--carefree, delighting in all the little manifestations of the wild life that began to stir about him. no experience of his existence had ever yielded the same pleasure as that long walk up the trail. every curve about the shoulder of a hill, every still glen into which he dipped, every ridge that he surmounted wakened curious memories within him and stirred him in little secret ways under the skin. his delight grew upon him. it was a dream coming true. always, it seemed to him, he had carried in his mind a picture of this very land, a sort of dream place that was a reality at last. he had known just how it would be. the wind made the same noise in the tree tops that he expected. yet it was such a little sound that it could never be heard in a city at all. his senses had already been sharpened by the silence and the calm. he had always known how the pine shadows would fall across the carpet of needles. the trees themselves were the same grave companions that he had expected, but his delight was all the more because of his expectations. he began to catch glimpses of the smaller forest creatures,--the little people that are such a delight to all real lovers of the wilderness. sometimes it was a chipmunk, trusting to his striped skin--blending perfectly with the light and shadow--to keep him out of sight. these are quivering, restless, ever-frightened little folk, and heaven alone knows what damage they may do to the roots of a tree. but bruce wasn't in the mood to think of forest conservation to-day. he had left a number of his notions in the city where he had acquired them,--and this little, bright-eyed rodent in the tree roots had almost the same right to the forests that he had himself. before, he had a measure of the same arrogance with which most men--realizing the dominance of their breed--regard the lesser people of the wild; but something of a disastrous nature had happened to it. he spoke gayly to the chipmunk and passed on. as the trail climbed higher, the sense of wilderness became more pronounced. even the trees seemed larger and more majestic, and the glimpses of the wild people were more frequent. the birds stopped their rattle-brained conversation and stared at him with frank curiosity. the grouse let him get closer before they took to cover. of course the bird life was not nearly so varied as in the pretty groves of the middle west. most birds are gentle people, requiring an easy and pleasant environment, and these stern, stark mountains were no place for them. only the hardier creatures could flourish here. their songs would have been out of place in the great silences and solemnity of the evergreen forest. this was no land for weaklings. bruce knew that as well as he knew that his legs were under him. the few birds he saw were mostly of the hardier varieties,--hale-fellows-well-met and cheerful members of the lower strata in bird society. "good old roughnecks," he said to them, with an intuitive understanding. that was just the name for them,--a word that is just beginning to appear in dictionaries. they were rough in manner and rough in speech, and they pretended to be rougher than they were. yet bruce liked them. he exulted in the easy freedom of their ways. creatures have to be rough to exist in and love such wilderness as this. life gets down to a matter of cold metal,--some brass but mostly iron! he rather imagined that they could be fairly capable thieves if occasion arose, making off with the edibles he had bought without a twitch of a feather. they squawked and scolded at him, after their curiosity was satisfied. they said the most shocking things they could think of and seemed to rejoice in it. he didn't know their breeds, yet he felt that they were old friends. they were rather large birds, mostly of the families of jays and magpies. the hours passed. the trail grew dimmer. now it was just a brown serpent in the pine needles, coiling this way and that,--but he loved every foot of it. it dipped down to a little stream, of which the blasting sun of summer had made only a succession of shallow pools. yet the water was cold to his lips. and he knew that little brook trout--waiting until the fall rains should make a torrent of their tiny stream and thus deliver them--were gazing at him while he drank. the trail followed the creek a distance, and at last he found the spring that was its source. it was only a small spring, lost in a bed of deep, green ferns. he sat down to rest and to eat part of his lunch. the little wind had died, leaving a profound silence. by a queer pounding of his blood bruce knew that he was in the high altitudes. he had already come six miles from the cabin. the hour was about six-thirty; in two hours more it would be too dark to make his way at all. he examined the mud about the spring, and there was plenty of evidence that the forest creatures had passed that way. here was a little triangle where a buck had stepped, and farther away he found two pairs of deer tracks,--evidently those of a doe with fawn. a wolf had stopped to cool his heated tongue in the waters, possibly in the middle of some terrible hunt in the twilight hours. there was a curious round track, as if of a giant cat, a little way distant in the brown earth. it told a story plainly. a cougar--one of those great felines that is perhaps better called puma--had had an ambush there a few nights before. bruce wondered what wilderness tragedy had transpired when the deer came to drink. then he found another huge abrasion in the mud that puzzled him still more. at first he couldn't believe that it was a track. the reason was simply that the size of the thing was incredible,--as if some one had laid a flour sack in the mud and taken it up again. he did not think of any of the modern-day forest creatures as being of such proportions. it was very stale and had been almost obliterated by many days of sun. perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking it an imprint of a living creature. he went to his knees to examine it. but in one instant he knew that he had not been mistaken. it was a track not greatly different from that of an enormous human foot; and the separate toes were entirely distinct. it was a bear track, of course, but one of such size that the general run of little black bears that inhabited the hills could almost use it for a den of hibernation! his thought went back to his talk with barney wegan; and he remembered that the man had spoken of a great, last grizzly that the mountaineers had named "the killer." no other animal but the great grizzly bear himself could have made such a track as this. bruce wondered if the beast had yet been killed. he got up and went on,--farther toward trail's end. he walked more swiftly now, for he hoped to reach the end of pine-needle trail before nightfall, but he had no intention of halting in case night came upon him before he reached it. he had waited too long already to find linda. the land seemed ever more familiar. a high peak thrust a white head above a distant ridge, and it appealed to him almost like the face of an old friend. sometime--long and long ago--he had gazed often at a white peak of a mountain thrust above a pine-covered ridge. another hour ended the day's sunlight. the shadows fell quickly, but it was a long time yet until darkness. he yet might make the trail-end. he gave no thought to fatigue. in the first place, he had stood up remarkably well under the day's tramp for no other reason than that he had always made a point of keeping in the best of physical condition. besides, there was something more potent than mere physical strength to sustain him now. it was the realization of the nearing end of the trail,--a knowledge of tremendous revelations that would come to him in a few hours more. already great truths were taking shape in his brain; he only needed a single sentence of explanation to connect them all together. he began to feel a growing excitement and impatience. for the first time he began to notice a strange breathlessness in the air. he paused, just for an instant, his face lifted to the wind. he did not realize that all his senses were at razor edge, trying to interpret the messages that the wind brought. he felt that the forest was wakening. a new stir and impulse had come in the growing shadows. all at once he understood. it was the hunting hour. yet even this seemed familiar. always, it seemed to him, he had known this same strange thrill at the fall of darkness, the same sense of deepening mystery. the jays no longer gossiped in the shrubs. they had been silenced by the same awe that had come over bruce. and now the man began to discern, here and there through the forest, queer rustlings of the foliage that meant the passing through of some of the great beasts of prey. once two deer flashed by him,--just a streak that vanished quickly. the dusk deepened. the further trees were dimming. the sky turned green, then gray. the distant mountains were enfolded in gloom. bruce headed on--faster, up the trail. the heaviness in his limbs had changed to an actual ache, but he gave no thought to it. he was enthralled by the change that was on the forest,--a whipping-back of a thousand-thousand years to a young and savage world. there was the sense of vast and tragic events all in keeping with the gathering gloom of the forest. he was awed and mystified as never before. it was quite dark now, and he could barely see the trail. for the first time he began to despair, feeling that another night of overpowering impatience must be spent before he could reach trail's end. the stars began to push through the darkening sky. then, fainter than the gleam of a firefly, he saw the faint light of a far distant camp fire. his heart bounded. he knew what was there. it was the end of the trail at last. and it guided him the rest of the way. when he reached the top of a little rise in the trail, the whole scene was laid out in mystery below him. the fire had been built at the door of a mountain house,--a log structure of perhaps four rooms. the firelight played in its open doorway. something beside it caught his attention, and instinctively he followed it with his eyes until it ended in an incredible region of the stars. it was a great pine tree, the largest he had ever seen,--seemingly a great sentinel over all the land. but the sudden awe that came over him at the sight of it was cut short by the sight of a girl's figure in the firelight. he had an instant's sense that he had come to the wilderness's heart at last, that this tall tree was its symbol, that if he could understand the eternal watch that it kept over this mountain world, he would have an understanding of all things,--but all these thoughts were submerged in the realization that he had come back to linda at last. he had known how the mountains would seem. all that he had beheld to-day was just the recurrence of things beheld long ago. nothing had seemed different from what he had expected; rather he had a sense that a lost world had been returned to him, and it was almost as if he had never been away. but the girl in the firelight did not answer in the least degree the picture he had carried of linda. he remembered her as a blond-headed little girl with irregular features and a rather unreasonable allowance of homeliness. all the way he had thought of her as a baby sister,--not as a woman in her flower. for a long second he gazed at her in speechless amazement. her hair was no longer blond. time, it had peculiar red lights when the firelight shone through it; but he knew that by the light of day it would be deep brown. he remembered her as an awkward little thing that was hardly able to keep her feet under her. this tall girl had the wilderness grace,--which is the grace of a deer and only blind eyes cannot see it. he dimly knew that she wore a khaki-colored skirt and a simple blouse of white tied with a blue scarf. her arms were bare in the fire's gleam. and there was a dark beauty about her face that simply could not be denied. she came toward him, and her hands were open before her. and her lips trembled. bruce could see them in the firelight. it was a strange meeting. the firelight gave it a tone of unreality, and the whole forest world seemed to pause in its whispered business as if to watch. it was as if they had been brought face to face by the mandates of an inexorable destiny. "so you've come," the girl said. the words were spoken unusually soft, scarcely above a whisper; but they were inexpressibly vivid to bruce. in his lifetime he had heard many words that were just so many lifeless selections from a dictionary,--flat utterances with no overtones to give them vitality. he had heard voices in plenty that were merely the mechanical result of the vibration of vocal cords. but these words--not for their meaning but because of the quality of the voice that had spoken them--really lived. they told first of a boundless relief and joy at his coming. but more than that, in these deep vibrant tones was the expression of an unquenchable life and spirit. every fiber of her body lived in the fullest sense; he knew this fact the instant that she spoke. she smiled at him, ever so quietly. "bwovaboo," she said, recalling the name by which she called him in her babyhood, "you've come to linda." ix as the fire burned down to coals and the stars wheeled through the sky, linda told her story. the two of them were seated in the soft grass in front of the cabin, and the moonlight was on linda's face as she talked. she talked very low at first. indeed there was no need for loud tones. the whole wilderness world was heavy with silence, and a whisper carried far. besides, bruce was just beside her, watching her with narrowed eyes, forgetful of everything except her story. it was a perfect background for the savage tale that she had to tell. the long shadow of the giant pine tree fell over them. the fire made a little circle of red light, but the darkness ever encroached upon it. just beyond the moonlight showed them silver-white patches between the trees, across which shadows sometimes wavered from the passing of the wild creatures. "i've waited a long time to tell you this," she told him. "of course, when we were babies together in the orphanage, i didn't even know it. it has taken me a long time since to learn all the details; most of them i got from my aunt, old elmira, whom you talked to on the way out. part of it i knew by intuition, and a little of it is still doubtful. "you ought to know first how hard i have tried to reach you. of course, i didn't try openly except at first--the first years after i came here, and before i was old enough to understand." she spoke the last word with a curious depth of feeling and a perceptible hardness about her lips and eyes. "i remembered just two things. that the man who had adopted you was newton duncan; one of the nurses at the asylum told me that. and i remembered the name of the city where he had taken you. "you must understand the difficulties i worked under. there is no rural free delivery up here, you know, bruce. our mail is sent from and delivered to the little post-office at martin's store--over fifteen miles from here. and some one member of a certain family that lives near here goes down every week to get the mail for the entire district. "at first--and that was before i really understood--i wrote you many letters and gave them to one of this family to mail for me. i was just a child then, you must know, and i lived in the same house with these people. and queer letters they must have been." for an instant a smile lingered at her lips, but it seemed to come hard. it was all too plain that she hadn't smiled many times in the past days. but for some unaccountable reason bruce's heart leaped when he saw it. it had potentialities, that smile. it seemed to light her whole face. he was suddenly exultant at the thought that once he understood everything, he might bring about such changes that he could see it often. "they were just baby letters from--from linda-tinda to bwovaboo--letters about the deer and the berries and the squirrels--and all the wild things that lived up here." "berries!" bruce cried. "i had some on the way up." his tone wavered, and he seemed to be speaking far away. "i had some once--long ago." "yes. you will understand, soon. i didn't understand why you didn't answer my letters. i understand now, though. you never got them." "no. i never got them. but there are several duncans in my city. they might have gone astray." "they went astray--but it was before they ever reached the post-office. they were never mailed, bruce. i was to know why, later. even then it was part of the plan that i should never get in communication with you again--that you would be lost to me forever. "when i got older, i tried other tacks. i wrote to the asylum, enclosing a letter to you. but those letters were not mailed, either. "now we can skip a long time. i grew up. i knew everything at last and no longer lived with the family i mentioned before. i came here, to this old house--and made it decent to live in. i cut my own wood for my fuel except when one of the men tried to please me by cutting it for me. i wouldn't use it at first. oh, bruce--i wouldn't touch it!" her face was no longer lovely. it was drawn with terrible passions. but she quieted at once. "at last i saw plainly that i was a little fool--that all they would do for me, the better off i was. at first, i almost starved to death because i wouldn't use the food that they sent me. i tried to grub it out of the hills. but i came to it at last. but, bruce, there were many things i didn't come to. since i learned the truth, i have never given one of them a smile except in scorn, not a word that wasn't a word of hate. "you are a city man, bruce. you are what i read about as a gentleman. you don't know what hate means. it doesn't live in the cities. but it lives up here. believe me if you ever believed anything--that it lives up here. the most bitter and the blackest hate--from birth until death! it burns out the heart, bruce. but i don't know that i can make you understand." she paused, and bruce looked away into the pine forest. he believed the girl. he knew that this grim land was the home of direct and primitive emotions. such things as mercy and remorse were out of place in the game trails where the wolf pack hunted the deer. "when they knew how i hated them," she went on, "they began to watch me. and once they knew that i fully understood the situation, i was no longer allowed to leave this little valley. there are only two trails, bruce. one goes to elmira's cabin on the way to the store. the other encircles the mountain. with all their numbers, it was easy to keep watch of those trails. and they told me what they would do if they found me trying to go past." "you don't mean--they threatened you?" she threw back her head and laughed, but the sound had no joy in it. "threatened! if you think threats are common up here, you are a greener tenderfoot than i ever took you for. bruce, the law up here is the law of force. the strongest wins. the weakest dies. wait till you see simon. you'll understand then--and you'll shake in your shoes." the words grated upon him, yet he didn't resent them. "i've seen simon," he told her. she glanced toward him quickly, and it was entirely plain that the quiet tone in his voice had surprised her. perhaps the faintest flicker of admiration came into her eyes. "he tried to stop you, did he? of course he would. and you came anyway. may heaven bless you for it, bruce!" she leaned toward him, appealing. "and forgive me what i said." bruce stared at her in amazement. he could hardly realize that this was the same voice that had been so torn with passion a moment before. in an instant all her hardness was gone, and the tenderness of a sweet and wholesome nature had taken its place. he felt a curious warmth stealing over him. "they meant what they said, bruce. believe me, if those men can do no other thing, they can keep their word. they didn't just threaten death to me. i could have run the risk of that. badly as i wanted to make them pay before i died, i would have gladly run that risk. "you are amazed at the free way i speak of death. the girls you know, in the city, don't even know the word. they don't know what it means. they don't understand the sudden end of the light--the darkness--the cold--the awful fear that it is! it is no companion of theirs, down in the city. perhaps they see it once in a while--but it isn't in their homes and in the air and on the trails, like it is here. it's a reality here, something to fight against every hour of every day. there are just three things to do in the mountains--to live and love and hate. there's no softness. there's no middle ground." she smiled grimly. "let them live up here with me--those girls you know--and they'd understand what a reality death is. they'd know it was something to think about and fight against. self-preservation is an instinct that can be forgotten when you have a policeman at every corner. but it is ever present here. "i've lived with death, and i've heard of it, and i've seen it all my life. if there hadn't been any other way, i would have seen it in the dramas of the wild creatures that go on around me all the time. you'll get down to cases here, bruce--or else you'll run away. these men said they'd do worse things to me than kill me--and i didn't dare take the risk. "but once or twice i was able to get word to old elmira--the only ally i had left. she was of the true breed, bruce. you'll call her a hag, but she's a woman to be reckoned with. she could hate too--worse than a she-rattlesnake hates the man that killed her mate--and hating is all that's kept her alive. you shrink when i say the word. maybe you won't shrink when i'm done. hating is a thing that gentlefolk don't do--but gentlefolk don't live up here. it isn't a land of gentleness. up here there are just men and women, just male and female. "this old woman tried to get in communication with every stranger that visited the hills. you see, bruce, she couldn't write herself. and the one time i managed to get a written message down to her, telling her to give it to the first stranger to mail--one of my enemies got it away from her. i expected to die that night. i wasn't going to be alive when the clan came. the only reason i didn't was because simon--the greatest of them all and the one i hate the most--kept his clan from coming. he had his own reasons. "from then on she had to depend on word of mouth. some of the men promised to send letters to newton duncan--but there was more than one newton duncan--as you say--and possibly if the letters were sent they went astray. but at last--just a few weeks ago--she found a man that knew you. and it is your story from now on." they were still a little while. bruce arose and threw more wood on the fire. "it's only the beginning," he said. "and you want me to tell you all?" she asked hesitantly. "of course. why did i come here?" "you won't believe me when i say that i'm almost sorry i sent for you." she spoke almost breathlessly. "i didn't know that it would be like this. that you would come with a smile on your face and a light in your eyes, looking for happiness. and instead of happiness--to find _all this_!" she stretched her arms to the forests. bruce understood her perfectly. she did not mean the woods in the literal sense. she meant the primal emotions that were their spirit. she went on with lowered tones. "may heaven forgive me if i have done wrong to bring you here," she told him. "to show you--all that i have to show--you who are a city man and a gentleman. but, bruce, i couldn't fight alone any more. i had to have help. "to know the rest, you've got to go back a whole generation. bruce, have you heard of the terrible blood-feuds that the mountain families sometimes have?" "of course. many times." "these mountains of trail's end have been the scene of as deadly a blood-feud as was ever known in the west. and for once, the wrong was all on one side. "a few miles from here there is a wonderful valley, where a stream flows. there is not much tillable land in these mountains, bruce, but there, along that little stream, there are almost five sections--three thousand acres--of as rich land as was ever plowed. and bruce--the home means something in the mountains. it isn't just a place to live in, a place to leave with relief. i've tried to tell you that emotions are simple and direct up here, and love of home is one of them. that tract of land was acquired long ago by a family named ross, and they got it through some kind of grant. i can't be definite as to the legal aspects of all this story. they don't matter anyway--only the results remain. "these ross men were frontiersmen of the first order. they were virtuous men too--trusting every one, and oh! what strength they had! with their own hands they cleared away the forest and put the land into rich pasture and hay and grain. they built a great house for the owner of the land, and lesser houses for his kinsfolk that helped him work it on shares. then they raised cattle, letting them range on the hills and feeding them in winter. you see, the snow is heavy in winter, and unless the stock are fed many of them die. the rosses raised great herds of cattle and had flocks of sheep too. "it was then that dark days began to come. another family--headed by the father of the man i call simon--migrated here from the mountain districts of oklahoma. but they were not so ignorant as many mountain people, and they were _killers_. perhaps that's a word you don't know. perhaps you didn't know it existed. a killer is a man that has killed other men. it isn't a hard thing to do at all, bruce, after you are used to it. these people were used to it. and because they wanted these great lands--my own father's home--they began to kill the rosses. "at first they made no war on the folgers. the folgers, you must know, were good people too, honest to the last penny. they were connected, by marriage only, to the ross family. they were on our side clear through. at the beginning of the feud the head of the folger family was just a young man, newly married. and he had a son after a while. "the newcomers called it a feud. but it wasn't a feud--it was simply murder. oh, yes, we killed some of them. folger and my father and all his kin united against them, making a great clan--but they were nothing in strength compared to the usurpers. simon himself was just a boy when it began. but he grew to be the greatest power, the leader of the enemy clan before he was twenty-one. "you must know, bruce, that my own father held the land. but he was so generous that his brothers who helped him farm it hardly realized that possession was in his name. and father was a dead shot. it took a long time before they could kill him." the coldness that had come over her words did not in the least hide her depth of feeling. she gazed moodily into the darkness and spoke almost in a monotone. "but simon--just a boy then--and dave, his brother, and the others of them kept after us like so many wolves. there was no escape. the only thing we could do was to fight back--and that was the way we learned to hate. a man can hate, bruce, when he is fighting for his home. he can learn it very well when he sees his brother fall dead, or his father--or a stray bullet hit his wife. a woman can learn it too, as old elmira did, when she finds her son's body in the dead leaves. there was no law here to stop it. the little semblance of law that was in the valleys below regarded it as a blood-feud, and didn't bother itself about it. besides--at first we were too proud to call for help. and after our numbers were few, the trails were watched--and those who tried to go down into the valleys--never got there. "one after another the rosses were killed, and i needn't make it any worse for you than i can help--by telling of each killing. enough to say that at last no one was left except a few old men whose eyes were too dim to shoot straight, and my own father. and i was a baby then--just born. "then one night my father--seeing the fate that was coming down upon him--took the last course to defeat them. matthew folger--a connection by marriage--was still alive. simon's clan hadn't attacked him yet. he had no share in the land, but instead lived in this house i live in now. he had a few cattle and some pasture land farther down the divide. there had been no purpose in killing him. he hadn't been worth the extra bullet. "one night my father left me asleep and stole through the forests to talk to him. they made an agreement. i have pieced it out, a little at a time. my father deeded all his land to folger. "i can understand now. the enemy clan pretended it was a blood-feud only--and that it was fair war to kill the rosses. although my father knew their real aim was to obtain the land, he didn't think they would dare kill matthew folger to get it. he knew that he himself would fall, sooner or later, but he thought that to kill folger would show their cards--and that would be too much, even for simon's people. but he didn't know. he hadn't foreseen to what lengths they would go." bruce leaned forward. "so they killed--matthew folger?" he asked. he didn't know that his face had gone suddenly stark white, and that a curious glitter had come to his eyes. he spoke breathlessly. for the name--matthew folger--called up vague memories that seemed to reveal great truths to him. the girl smiled grimly. "let me go on. my father deeded folger the land. the deed was to go on record so that all the world would know that folger owned it, and if the clan killed him it was plainly for the purposes of greed alone. but there was also a secret agreement--drawn up in black and white and to be kept hidden for twenty-one years. in this agreement, folger promised to return to me--the only living heir of the rosses--the lands acquired by the deed. in reality, he was only holding them in trust for me, and was to return them when i was twenty-one. in case of my father's death, folger was to be my guardian until that time. "folger knew the risk he ran, but he was a brave man and he did not care. besides, he was my father's friend--and friendship goes far in the mountains. and my father was shot down before a week was past. "the clan had acted quick, you see. when folger heard of it, before the dawn, he came to my father's house and carried me away. before another night was done he was killed too." the perspiration leaped out on bruce's forehead. the red glow of the fire was in his eyes. "he fell almost where this fire is built, with a thirty-thirty bullet in his brain. which one of the clan killed him i do not know--but in all probability it was simon himself--at that time only eighteen years of age. and folger's little boy--something past four years old--wandered out in the moonlight to find his father's body." the girl was speaking slowly now, evidently watching the effect of her words on her listener. he was bent forward, and his breath came in queer, whispering gusts. "go on!" he ordered savagely. "tell me the rest. why do you keep me waiting?" the girl smiled again,--like a sorceress. "folger's wife was from the plains' country," she told him slowly. "if she had been of the mountains she might have remained to do some killing on her own account. like old elmira herself remained to do--killing on her own account! but she was from cities, just as you are, but she--unlike you--had no mountain blood in her. she wasn't used to death, and perhaps she didn't know how to hate. she only knew how to be afraid. "they say that she went almost insane at the sight of that strong, brave man of hers lying still in the pine needles. she hadn't even known he was out of the house. he had gone out on some secret business--late at night. she had only one thing left--her baby boy and her little foster-daughter--little linda ross who is before you now. her only thought was to get those children out of that dreadful land of bloodshed and to hide them so that they could never come back. and she didn't even want them to know their true parentage. she seemed to realize that if they had known, both of them would return some time--to collect their debts. sooner or later, that boy with the folger blood in him and that girl with the ross blood would return, to attempt to regain their ancient holdings, and to make the clan pay! "all that was left were a few old women with hate in their hearts and a strange tradition to take the place of hope. they said that sometime, if death spared them, they would see folger's son come back again, and assert his rights. they said that a new champion would arise and right their wrongs. but mostly death didn't spare them. only old elmira is left. "what became of the secret agreement i do not know. i haven't any hope that you do, either. the deed was carried down to the courts by sharp, one of the witnesses who managed to get past the guard, and put on file soon after it was written. the rest is short. simon and his clan took up the land, swearing that matthew folger had deeded it to them the day he had procured it. they had a deed to show for it--a forgery. and the one thing that they feared, the one weak chain, was that this secret agreement between folger and my father would be found. "you see what that would mean. it would show that he had no right to deed away the land, as he was simply holding it in trust for me. old elmira explained the matter to me--if i get mixed up on the legal end of it, excuse it. if that document could be found, their forged deed would be obviously invalid. and it angered them that they could not find it. "of course they never filed their forged deed--afraid that the forgery would be discovered--but they kept it to show to any one that was interested. but they wanted to make themselves still safer. "there had been two witnesses to the agreement. one of them, a man named sharp, died--or was killed--shortly after. the other, an old trapper named hudson, was indifferent to the whole matter--he was just passing through and was at folger's house for dinner the night ross came. he is still living in these mountains, and he might be of value to us yet. "of course the clan did not feel at all secure. they suspected the secret agreement had been mailed to some one to take care of, and they were afraid that it would be brought to light when the time was ripe. they knew perfectly that their forged deed would never stand the test, so one of the things to do was to prevent their claim ever being contested. that meant to keep folger's son in ignorance of the whole matter. "i hope i can make that clear. the deed from my father to folger was on record, folger was dead, and folger's son would have every right and opportunity to contest the clan's claim to the land. if he could get the matter into court, he would surely win. "the second thing to do was to win me over. i was just a child, and it looked the easiest course of all. that's why i was stolen from the orphanage by one of simon's brothers. the idea was simply that when the time came i would marry one of the clan and establish their claim to the land forever. "up to a few weeks ago it seemed to me that sooner or later i would win out. bruce, you can't dream what it meant! i thought that some time i could drive them out and make them pay, a little, for all they have done. but they've tricked me, after all. i thought that i would get word to folger's son, who by inheritance would have a clear title to the land, and he, with the aid of the courts, could drive these usurpers out. but just recently i've found out that even this chance is all but gone. "within a few more weeks, they will have been in possession of the land for a full twenty years. through some legal twist i don't understand, if a man pays taxes and has undisputed possession of land for that length of time, his title is secure. they failed to win me over, but it looks as if they had won, anyway. the only way that they can be defeated now is for that secret agreement--between my father and folger--to reappear. and i've long ago given up all hope of that. "there is no court session between now and october thirtieth--when their twenty years of undisputed possession is culminated. there seems to be no chance to contest them--to make them bring that forged deed into the light before that time. we've lost, after all. and only one thing remains." he looked up to find her eyes full upon him. he had never seen such eyes. they seemed to have sunk so deep into the flesh about them that only lurid slits remained. it was not that her lids were partly down. rather it was because the flesh-sacks beneath them had become charged with her pounding blood. the fire's glow was in them and cast a strange glamour upon her face. it only added to the strangeness of the picture that she sat almost limp, rather than leaning forward in appeal. bruce looked at her in growing awe. but as the second passed he seemed no longer able to see her plainly. his eyes were misted and blurred, but they were empty of tears as linda's own. rather the focal points of his brain had become seared by a mounting flame within himself. the glow of the fire had seemingly spread until it encompassed the whole wilderness world. "what is the one thing that remains?" he asked her, whispering. she answered with a strange, terrible coldness of tone. "the blood atonement," she said between back-drawn lips. x when the minute hand of the watch in his pocket had made one more circuit, both bruce and linda found themselves upon their feet. the tension had broken at last. her emotion had been curbed too long. it broke from her in a flood. she seized his hands, and he started at their touch. "don't you understand?" she cried. "you--you--you are folger's son. you are the boy that crept out--under this very tree--to find him dead. all my life elmira and i have prayed for you to come. and what are you going to do?" her face was drawn in the white light of the moon. for an instant he seemed dazed. "do?" he repeated. "i don't know what i'm going to do." "you don't!" she cried, in infinite scorn. "are you just clay? aren't you a man? haven't you got arms to strike with and eyes to see along a rifle barrel? are you a coward--and a weakling; one of your mother's blood to run away? haven't you anything to avenge? i thought you were a mountain man--that all your years in cities couldn't take that quality away from you! haven't you any answer?" he looked up, a strange light growing on his face. "you mean--killing?" "what else? to kill--never to stop killing--one after another until they are gone! till simon turner and the whole turner clan have paid the debts they owe." bruce recoiled as if from a blow. "turner? did you say turner?" he asked hoarsely. "yes. that's the clan's name. i thought you knew." there was an instant of strange truce. both stood motionless. the scene no longer seemed part of the world that men have come to know in these latter years,--a land of cities and homes and peaceful twilights over quiet countrysides. the moon was still strange and white in the sky; the pines stood tall and dark and sad,--eternal emblems of the wilderness. the fire had burned down to a few lurid coals glowing in the gray ashes. no longer were these two children of civilization. their passion had swept them back into the immeasurable past; they were simply human beings deep in the simplest of human passions. they trembled all over with it. bruce understood now his unprovoked attack on the little boy when he had been taken from the orphanage on trial. the boy had been named turner, and the name had been enough to recall a great and terrible hatred that he had learned in earliest babyhood. the name now recalled it again; the truth stood clear at last. it was the key to all the mystery of his life; it stirred him more than all of linda's words. in an instant all the tragedy of his babyhood was recalled,--the hushed talk between his parents, the oaths, the flames in their eyes, and finally the body he had found lying so still beneath the pines. it was always the turners, the dread name that had filled his baby days with horror. he hadn't understood then. it had been blind hatred,--hatred without understanding or self-analysis. as she watched, his mountain blood mounted to the ascendancy. a strange transformation came over him. the gentleness that he had acquired in his years of city life began to fall away from him. the mountains were claiming him again. it was not a mental change alone. it was a thing to be seen with the unaided eyes. his hand had swept through his hair, disturbing the part, and now the black locks dropped down on his forehead, almost to his eyes. the whole expression of his face seemed to change. his look of culture dropped from him; his eyes narrowed; he looked grotesquely out of place in his soft, well-tailored clothes. but he was quite cold now. his passion was submerged under a steel exterior. his voice was cold and hard when he spoke. "then you and i are no relation whatever?" "none." "but we fight the same fight now." "yes. until we both win--or both die." before he could speak again, a strange answer came out of the darkness. "not two of you," a croaking old voice told them. it rose, shrill and cracked, from the shadows beyond the fire. they turned, and the moonlight showed a bent old figure hobbling toward them. it was old elmira, her cane tapping along in front of her; and something that caught the moonlight lay in the hollow of her left arm. her eyes still glowed under the grizzled brows. "not two, but three," she corrected, in the hollow voice of uncounted years. in the magic of the moonlight it seemed quite fitting to both of them that she should have come. she was one of the triumvirate; they wondered why they had not missed her before. it was farther than she had walked in years, but her spirit had kept her up. she put the glittering object that she carried into bruce's hands. it was a rifle--a repeating breechloader of a famous make and a model of thirty years before. it was such a rifle as lives in legend, with sights as fine as a razor edge and an accuracy as great as light itself. loving hands had polished it and kept it in perfect condition. "matthew folger's rifle," the old woman explained, "for matthew folger's son." and that is how bruce folger returned to the land of his birth--as most men do, unless death cheats them first--and how he made a pact to pay old debts of death. book two the blood atonement xi "men own the day, but the night is ours," is an old saying among the wild folk that inhabit the forests of trail's end. and the saying has really deep significances that can't be discerned at one hearing. perhaps human beings--their thoughts busy with other things--can never really get them at all. but the mountain lion--purring a sort of queer, singsong lullaby to her wicked-eyed little cubs in the lair--and the gray wolf, running along the ridges in the mystery of the moon--and those lesser hunters, starting with tuft-ear the lynx and going all the way down to that terrible, white-toothed cutthroat, little death the mink--_they_ know exactly what the saying means, and they know that it is true. the only one of the larger forest creatures that doesn't know is old ashur, the black bear (_ashur_ means black in an ancient tongue, just as _brunn_ means brown, and the common oregon bear is usually decidedly black) and the fact that he doesn't is curious in itself. in most ways ashur has more intelligence than all the others put together; but he is also the most indifferent. he is not a hunter; and he doesn't care who owns anything as long as there are plenty of bee trees to mop out with his clumsy paw, and plenty of grubs under the rotten logs. the saying originated long and long ago when the world was quite young. before that time, likely enough, the beasts owned both the day and the night, and you can imagine them denying man's superiority just as long as possible. but they came to it in the end, and perhaps now they are beginning to be doubtful whether they still hold dominion over the night hours. you can fancy the forest people whispering the saying back and forth, using it as a password when they meet on the trails, and trying their best to believe it. "man owns the day but the night is ours," the coyotes whisper between sobs. in a world where men have slowly, steadily conquered all the wild creatures, killed them and driven them away, their one consolation lies in the fact that when the dark comes down their old preëminence returns to them. of course the saying is ridiculous if applied to cities or perhaps even to the level, cleared lands of the middle west. the reason is simply that the wild life is practically gone from these places. perhaps a lowly skunk steals along a hedge on the way to a chicken pen, but he quivers and skulks with fear, and all the arrogance of hunting is as dead in him as his last year's perfume. and perhaps even the little bobwhites, nestling tail to tail, know that it is wholly possible that the farmer's son has marked their roost and will come and pot them while they sleep. but a few places remain in america where the reign of the wild creatures, during the night hours at least, is still supreme. and trail's end is one of them. it doesn't lie in the middle west. it is just about as far west as one can conveniently go, unless he cares to trace the rivers down to their mouths. neither was it cleared land, nor had its soil ever been turned by a plow. the few clearings that there were--such as the great five sections of the rosses--were so far apart that a wolf could run all night (and the night-running of a wolf is something not to speak of lightly) without passing one. there is nothing but forest,--forest that stretches without boundaries, forest to which a great mountain is but a single flower in a meadow, forest to make the brain of a timber cruiser reel and stagger from sheer higher mathematics. perhaps man owns these timber stretches in the daytime. he can go out and cut down the trees, and when they don't choose to fall over on top of him, return safely to his cabin at night. he can venture forth with his rifle and kill ashur the black bear and blacktail the deer, and even old brother bill, the grand and exalted ruler of the elk lodge. the sound of his feet disturbs the cathedral silence of the tree aisles, and his oaths--when the treacherous trail gives way beneath his feet--carry far through the coverts. but he behaves somewhat differently at night. he doesn't feel nearly so sure of himself. the sound of a puma screaming a few dozen feet away in the shadows is likely enough to cause an unpleasant twitching of the skin of his back. and he feels considerably better if there are four stout walls about him. at nighttime, the wild creatures come into their own. bruce sensed these things as he waited for the day to break. for all the hard exertion of the previous day, he wakened early on the first morning of his return to his father's home. through the open window he watched the dawn come out. and he fancied how a puma, still hungry, turned to snarl at the spreading light as he crept to his lair. all over the forest the hunting creatures left their trails and crept into the coverts. their reign was done until darkness fell again. the night life of the forest was slowly stilled. the daylight creatures--such as the birds--began to waken. probably they welcomed the sight of day as much as bruce himself. the man dressed slowly. he wouldn't waken the two women that slept in the next room, he thought. he crept slowly out into the gray dawn. he made straight for the great pine that stood a short distance from the house. for reasons unknown to him, the pine had come often into his dreams. he had thought that its limbs rubbed together and made words,--but of the words themselves he had hardly caught the meaning. there was some high message in them, however; and the dream had left him with a vague curiosity, an unexplainable desire to see the forest monarch in the daylight. as he waited, the mist blew off of the land; the gray of twilight was whisked away to a twilightland that is hidden in the heart of the forest. he found to his delight that the tree was even more impressive in the vivid morning light than it had been at night. it was not that the light actually got into it. its branches were too thick and heavy for that. it still retained its air of eternal secrecy, an impression that it knew great mysteries that a thousand philosophers would give their lives to learn. he was constantly awed by the size of it. he guessed its circumference as about twenty-five feet. the great lower limbs were themselves like massive tree trunks. its top surpassed by fifty feet any pine in the vicinity. as he watched, the sun came up, gleaming first on its tall spire. it slowly overtook it. the dusk of its green lightened. bruce was not a particularly imaginative man; but the impression grew that this towering tree had an answer for some great question in his own heart,--a question that he had never been able to shape into words. he felt that it knew the wholly profound secret of life. after all, it could not but have such knowledge. it was so incredibly old; it had seen so much. his mind flew back to some of the dramas of human life that had been enacted in its shade, and his imagination could picture many more. his own father had lain here dead, shot down by a murderer concealed in the distant thicket. it had beheld his own wonder when he had found the still form lying in the moonlight; it had seen his mother's grief and terror. wilderness dramas uncounted had been enacted beneath it. many times the mountain lion had crept into its dark branches. many times the bear had grunted beneath it and reached up to write a challenge with his claws in its bark. the eyes of tuft-ear the lynx had gleamed from its very top, and the old bull-elk had filed off his velvet on the sharp edges of the bark. it had seen savage battles between the denizens of the wood; the deer racing by with the wolf pack in pursuit. for uncounted years it had stood aloft, above all the madness and bloodshed and passion that are the eternal qualities of the wilderness, somber, stately, unutterably aloof. it had known the snows. when the leaves fell and the wind came out of the north, it would know them again. for the snow falls for a depth of ten feet or more over most of trail's end. for innumerable winters its limbs had been heaped with the white load, the great branches bending beneath it. the wind made faint sounds through its branches now, but would be wholly silent when the winter snows weighted the limbs. he could picture the great, white giant, silent as death, still keeping its vigil over the snow-swept wilderness. bruce felt a growing awe. the great tree seemed so wise, it gave him such a sense of power. the winds had buffeted it in vain. it had endured the terrible cold of winter. generation after generation of the creatures who moved on the face of the earth had lived their lives beneath it; they had struggled and mated and fought their battles and felt their passions, and finally they had died; and still it endured,--silent, passionless, full of thoughts. here was real greatness. not stirring, not struggling, not striving; only standing firm and straight and impassive; not taking part, but only watching, knowing no passion but only strength,--ineffably patient and calm. but it was sad too. such knowledge always brings sadness. it had seen too much to be otherwise. the pines are never cheerful trees, like the apple that blossoms in spring, or the elm whose leaves shimmer in the sunlight; and this great monarch of all the pines was sad as great music. in this quality, as well as in its strength, it was the symbol of the wilderness itself. but it was more than that. it was the great sentinel, and in its unutterable impassiveness it was the emblem and symbol of even mightier powers. bruce's full wisdom had not yet come to him, so he couldn't name these powers. he only knew that they lived far and far above the world and, like the tree itself, held aloof from all the passion of eve and the blood-lust of cain. like the pine itself, they were patient, impassive, and infinitely wise. he felt stilled and calmed himself. such was its influence. and he turned with a start when he saw linda in the doorway. her face was calm too in the morning light. her dark eyes were lighted. he felt a curious little glow of delight at the sight of her. "i've been talking to the pine--all the morning," he told her. "but it won't talk to you," she answered. "it talks only to the stars." xii bruce and linda had a long talk while the sun climbed up over the great ridges to the east and old elmira cooked their breakfast. there was no passion in their words this morning. they had got down to a basis of cold planning. "let me refresh my memory about a few of those little things you told me," bruce requested. "first--on what date does the twenty-year period--of turners' possession of the land--expire?" "on the thirtieth of october, of this year." "not very long, is it? now you understand that on that date they will have had twenty years of undisputed possession of the land; they will have paid taxes on it that long; and unless their title is proven false between now and that date, we can't ever drive them out." "that's just right." "and the fall term of court doesn't begin until the fifth of the following month." "yes, we're beaten. that's all there is to it. simon told me so the last time he talked to me." "it would be to his interest to have you think so. but linda--we mustn't give up yet. we must try as long as one day remains. the law is full of twists; we might find a way to checkmate them, especially if that secret agreement should show up. it isn't just enough--to have vengeance. that wouldn't put the estate back in your hands; they would have won, after all. it seems to me that the first thing to do is to find the trapper, hudson--the one witness that is still alive. you say he witnessed that secret agreement between your father and mine." "yes." "his testimony would be invaluable to us. he might be able to prove to the court that as my father never owned the land in reality, he couldn't possibly have deeded it to the turners. do you know where this hudson is?" "i asked old elmira last night. she thinks she knows. a man told her he had his trap line on the upper umpqua, and his main headquarters--you know that trappers have a string of camps--was at the mouth of little river, that flows into the umpqua. but it is a long way from here." bruce was still a moment. "how far?" he asked. "two full days' tramp at the least--barring out accidents. but if you think it is best--you can start out to-day." bruce was a man who made decisions quickly. he had learned the wisdom of it,--that after all the evidence is gathered on each side, a single second is all the time that is needed for any kind of decision. beyond that point there is only vacillation. "then i'll start--right away. can you tell me how to find the trail?" "i can only tell you to go straight north. use your watch as a compass in the daytime and the north star at night." "i didn't suppose that it was wisdom to travel at night." she looked at him in sudden astonishment. "and where did you learn that fact, bruce?" the man tried hard to remember. "i don't know. i suppose it was something i heard when i was a baby--in these mountains." "it is one of the first things a mountaineer has to know--to make camp at nightfall. you would want to, anyway, bruce. you've got enough real knowledge of the wilderness in you--born in you--to want a camp and a fire at night. besides, the trails are treacherous." "then the thing to do is to get ready at once. and then try to bring hudson back with me--down to the valley. after we get there we can see what can be done." linda smiled rather sadly. "i'm not very hopeful. but he's our last chance--and we might as well make a try. there is no hope that the secret agreement will show up in these few weeks that remain. we'll get your things together at once." they breakfasted, and after the simple meal was finished, bruce began to pack for the journey. he was very thankful for the months he had spent in an army camp. he took a few simple supplies of food: a piece of bacon, a little sack of dried venison--that delicious fare that has held so many men up on long journeys--and a compact little sack of prepared flour. there was no space for delicacies in the little pack. besides, a man forgets about such things on the high trails. butter, sugar, even that ancient friend coffee had to be left behind. he took one little utensil for cooking--a small skillet--and linda furnished him with a camp ax and a long-bladed hunting knife. these things (with the exception of the knife and ax) he tied up in one heavy, all-wool blanket, making a compact pack for carrying on his back. in his pocket he carried cartridges for the rifle, pipe, tobacco, and matches. linda took the hob-nails out of her own shoes and pounded them into his. for there are certain trails in trail's end that to the unnailed shoe are quite like the treadmills of ancient days; the foot slips back after every step. one thing more was needed: tough leggings. the soft flannel trousers had not been tailored for wear in the brush coverts. and there is still another reason why the mountain men want their ankles covered. in portions of trail's end there are certain rock ledges--gray, strange stone heaps blasted by the summer sun--and some of the paths that bruce would take crossed over them. these ledges are the home of a certain breed of forest creatures that bruce did not in the least desire to meet. unlike many of the wild folk, they are not at all particular about getting out of the way, and they are more than likely to lash up at a traveler's instep. it isn't wise to try to jump out of the way. if a man were practiced at dodging lightning bolts he might do it, but not an ordinary mortal. for that lunging head is one of the swiftest things in the whole swift-moving animal world. and it isn't entirely safe to rely on a warning rattle. sometimes the old king-snake forgets to give it. these are the poison people--the gray rattlesnakes that gather in mysterious, grim companies on the rocks--and the only safety from them is thick covering to the knees that the fangs cannot penetrate. but the old woman solved this problem with a deer hide that had been curing for some seasons on the wall behind the house. her eyes were dimmed with age, her fingers were stiff, but in an astonishingly short period of time she improvised a pair of leathern puttees, fastening with a strap, that answered the purpose beautifully. the two women walked with him, out under the pine. bruce shook old elmira's scrawny hand; then she turned back at once into the house. the man felt singularly grateful. he began to credit the old woman with a great deal of intuition, or else memories from her own girlhood of long and long ago. he _did_ want a word alone with this strange girl of the pines. but when elmira had gone in and the coast was clear, it wouldn't come to his lips. he felt curious conjecturings and wonderment arising within him. he couldn't have shaped them into words. it was just that the girl's face intrigued him, mystified him, and perhaps moved him a little too. it was a frank, clear, girlish face, wonderfully tender of feature, and at first her eyes held him most of all. they gave an impression of astounding depth. they were quite serious now; and they had a luster such as can be seen on cold spring water over dark moss,--and few other places on earth. "it seems strange," he said, "to come here only last night--and then to be leaving again." it seemed to his astonished gaze that her lips trembled ever so slightly. "we have been waiting for each other a long time, bwovaboo," she replied. she spoke rather low, not looking straight at him. "and i hate to have you go again so soon." "but i'll be back--in a few days." "you don't know. no one ever knows when they start out in these mountains. promise me, bruce--to keep watch every minute. remember there's nothing--_nothing_--that simon won't stoop to do. he's like a wolf. he has no rules of fighting. he'd just as soon strike from ambush. how do i know that you'll ever come back again?" "but i will." he smiled at her, and his eyes dropped from hers to her lips. his heart seemed to miss a beat. he hadn't noticed these lips in particular before. the mouth was tender and girlish, its sensitiveness scarcely seeming fitting in a child of these wild places. he reached out and took her hand. "good-by, linda," he said, smiling. she smiled in reply, and her old cheer seemed to return to her. "good-by, bwovaboo. be careful." "i'll be careful. and this reminds me of something." "what?" "that for all the time i've been away--and for all the time i'm going to be away now--i haven't done anything more--well, more intimate--than shake your hand." her answer was to pout out her lips in the most natural way in the world. bruce was usually deliberate in his motions; but all at once his deliberation fell away from him. there seemed to be no interlude of time between one position and another. his arms went about her, and he kissed her gently on the lips. but it was not at all as they expected. both had gone into it lightly,--a boy-and-girl caress such as is usually not worth thinking about twice. he had supposed it would be just like the other kisses he had known in his growing-up days: a moment's soft pressure of the lips, a moment's delight, and nothing either to regret or rejoice in. but it was far more than this, after all. perhaps because they had been too long in one another's thoughts; perhaps--living in a land of hated foes--because linda had not known many kisses, this little caress beneath the pine went very straight home indeed to them both. they fell apart, both of them suddenly sobered. the girl's eyes were tender and lustrous, but startled too. "good-by, linda," he told her. "good-by--bwovaboo," she answered. he turned up the trail past the pine. he did not know that she stood watching him a long time, her hands clasped over her breast. xiii miles farther than linda's cabin, clear beyond the end of the trail that duncan took, past even the highest ridge of trail's end and in the region where the little rivers that run into the umpqua have their starting place, is a certain land of used to be. such a name as that doesn't make very good sense to a tenderfoot on the first hearing. perhaps he can never see the real intelligence of it as long as he remains a tenderfoot. such creatures cannot exist for long in the silences and the endless ridges and the unbeaten trails of this land; they either become woodsmen or have communication with the buzzards. it isn't a land of the present time at all. it is a place that has never grown old. when a man passes the last outpost of civilization, and the shadows of the unbroken woods drop over him, he is likely to forget that the year is nineteen hundred and twenty, and that the day before yesterday he had seen an aeroplane passing over his house. it is true that in this place he sees winged creatures in the air, seeming masters of the aërial tracts, but they are not aëroplanes. instead they are the buzzards, and they are keeping even a closer watch on him than he is on them. they know that many things may happen whereby they can get acquainted before the morning breaks. the world seems to have kicked off its thousand-thousand years as a warm man at night kicks off covers; and all things are just as they used to be. it is the young world,--a world of beasts rather than men, a world where the hand of man has not yet been felt. of course it won't be that way forever. sometime the forests will fall. what will become of the beasts that live in them there is no telling; there are not many places left for them to go. but at present it is just as savage, just as primitive and untamed as those ancient forests of the young world that a man recalls sometimes in dreams. on this particular early-september day, the age-old drama of the wilderness was in progress. it was the same play that had been enacted day after day, year upon year, until the centuries had become too many to count, and as usual, there were no human observers. there were no hunters armed with rifles waiting on the deer trails to kill some of the players. there were no naturalists taking notes that no one will believe in the coverts. it was the usual matinée performance; the long, hot day was almost at a close. the play would get better later in the evening, and really would not be at its best until the moon rose; but it was not a comedy-drama even now. rather it was a drama of untamed passions and bloodshed, strife and carnage and lust and rapine; and it didn't, unfortunately, have a particularly happy ending. mother nature herself, sometimes kind but usually cruel, was the producer; she furnished the theater, even the spotted costume by which the fawn remained invisible in the patches of light and shadow; and she had certain great purposes of her own that no man understands. as the play was usually complicated with many fatalities, the buzzards were about the only ones to benefit. they were the real heroes of the play after all. everything always turned out all right for them. they always triumphed in the end. the greatest difference between this wilderness drama and the dramas that human beings see upon a stage is that one was reality and the other is pretense. the players were beasts, not men. the only human being anywhere in the near vicinity was the old trapper, hudson, following down his trap line on the creek margin on the way to his camp. it is true that two other men, with a rather astounding similarity of purpose, were at present coming down two of the long trails that led to the region; but as yet the drama was hidden from their eyes. one of these two was bruce, coming from linda's cabin. one was dave turner, approaching from the direction of the ross estates. turner was much the nearer. curiously, both had business with the trapper hudson. the action of the play was calm at first. mostly the forest creatures were still in their afternoon sleep. brother bill, the great stag elk, had a bed in the very center of a thick wall of buckbush, and human observers at first could not have explained how his great body, with his vast spread of antlers, had been able to push through. but in reality his antlers aided rather than hindered. streaming almost straight back they act something like a snow-plow, parting the heavy coverts. the bull elk is in some ways the master of the forest, and one would wonder why he had gone to such an out-of-the-way place to sleep. unless he is attacked from ambush, he has little to fear even from the tawny one, the great cougar, and ordinarily the cougar waits until night to do his hunting. the lynx is just a source of scorn to the great bull, and even the timber wolf--except when he is combined with his relatives in winter--is scarcely to be feared. yet he had been careful to surround himself with burglar alarms,--in other words, to go into the deep thicket that no beast of prey could penetrate without warning him--by the sound of breaking brush--of its approach. it would indicate that there was at least one living creature in this region--a place where men ordinarily did not come--that the bull elk feared. the does and their little spotted fawns were sleeping too; the blacktail deer had not yet sought the feeding grounds on the ridges. the cougar yawned in his lair, the wolf dozed in his covert, even the poison-people lay like long shadows on the hot rocks. but these latter couldn't be relied upon to sleep soundly. one of the many things they can do is to jump straight out of a dream like a flicking whiplash, coil and hit a mark that many a good pistol shot would miss. yet there was no chance of the buzzards, at present spectators in the clouds and waiting for the final act, to become bored. particularly the lesser animals of the forest--the little people--were busy at their occupations. a little brown-coated pine marten--who is really nothing but an overgrown weasel famous for his particularly handsome coat--went stealing through the branches of a pine as if he had rather questionable business. some one had told him, and he couldn't remember who, that a magpie had her nest in that same tree, and red eye was going to look and see. of course he merely wanted to satisfy his curiosity. perhaps he would try to arrange to get a little sip of the mother's blood, just as it passed through the big vein of the throat,--but of course that was only incidental. he felt some curiosity about the magpie's eggs too, the last brood of the year. it might be that there were some little magpies all coiled up inside of them, that would be worth investigation by one of his scientific turn of mind. perhaps even the male bird, coming frantically to look for his wife, might fly straight into the nest without noticing his brown body curled about the limb. it offered all kinds of pleasing prospects, this hunt through the branches. of course it is doubtful if the buzzards could detect his serpent-like form; yet it is a brave man who will say what a buzzard can and cannot see. anything that can remain in the air as they do, seemingly without the flutter of a wing, has powers not to speak of lightly. but if they could have seen him they would have been particularly interested. a marten isn't a glutton in his feeding, and often is content with just a sip of blood from the throat. that leaves something warm and still for the buzzard's beak. a long, spotted gopher snake slipped through the dead grass on the ground beneath. he didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular. he was just moseying--if there is such a word--along. not a blade of grass rustled. of course there was a chipmunk, sitting at the door of his house in the uplifted roots of a tree; but the snake--although he was approaching in his general direction--didn't seem at all interested in him. were it not for two things, the serpent would have seemed to be utterly bored and indifferent to life in general. one of these things was its cold, glittering, reptile eyes. the other was its darting, forked tongue. it may be, after all, that this little tongue was of really great importance in the serpent's hunting. many naturalists think that quite often the little, rattle-brained birds and rodents that it hunts are so interested in this darting tongue that they quite fail to see the slow approach of the mottled body of the snake behind it. at least it was perfectly evident that the chipmunk did not see limber-spine at present. otherwise he wouldn't have been enjoying the scenery with quite the same complacency. if all went well, there might be a considerable lump in the snake's throat yet this afternoon. but it would be a quite different kind of lump from the one the chipmunk's little mate, waiting in vain for her lord to come to supper, would have in _her_ throat. an old raccoon wakened from his place on a high limb, stretched himself, scratched at his fur, then began to steal down the limb. he had a long way to go before dark. hunting was getting poor in this part of the woods. he believed he would wander down toward hudson's camp and look for crayfish in the water. a coyote is usually listed among the larger forest creatures, but early though the hour was--early, that is, for hunters to be out--he was stalking a fawn in a covert. the coyote has not an especially high place among the forest creatures, and he has to do his hunting early and late and any time that offers. most of the larger creatures pick on him, all the time detesting him for his cunning. the timber wolf, a rather close relation whom he cordially hates, is apt to take bites out of him if he meets him on the trail. the old bull elk would like nothing better than to cut his hide into rag patches with the sharp-edged front hoofs. even the magpies in the tree tops made up ribald verses about him. but nevertheless the spotted fawn had cause to fear him. the coyote is an infamous coward; but even the little cotton tail rabbit does not have to fear a fawn. all these hunts were progressing famously when there came a curious interruption. it was just a sound at first. and strangely, not one of the forest creatures that heard it had ears sharp enough to tell exactly from what direction it had come. and that made it all the more unpleasant to listen to. it was a peculiar growl, quite low at first. it lasted a long time, then died away. there was no opposition to it. the forest creatures had paused in their tracks at its first note, and now they stood as if the winter had come down upon them suddenly and frozen them solid. all the other sounds of the forest--the little whispering noises of gliding bodies and fluttering feet, and perhaps a bird's call in a shrub--were suddenly stilled. there was a moment of breathless suspense. then the sound commenced again. it was louder this time. it rose and gathered volume until it was almost a roar. it carried through the silences in great waves of sound. and in it was a sense of resistless power; no creature in the forest but what knew this fact. "the gray king," one could imagine them saying among themselves. the effect was instantaneous. the little raccoon halted in his descent, then crept out to the end of a limb. perhaps he knew that the gray monarch could not climb trees, but nevertheless he felt that he would be more secure clear at the swaying limb-tip. the marten forgot his curiosity in regard to the nest of the magpie. the gopher snake coiled, then slipped away silently through the grass. the coyote, an instant before crawling with body close to the earth, whipped about as if he had some strange kind of circular spring inside of him. his nerves were always rather ragged, and the sound had frightened out of him the rigid control of his muscles that was so necessary if he were to make a successful stalk upon the fawn. the spotted creature bleated in terror, then darted away; and the coyote snarled once in the general direction of the gray king. then he lowered his head and skulked off deeper into the coverts. the blacktail deer, the gray wolf, even the stately tawny one, stretched in grace in his lair, wakened from sleep. the languor died quickly in the latter's eyes, leaving only fear. these were braver than the little people. they waited until the thick brush, not far distant from where the bull elk slept, began to break down and part before an enormous, gray body. no longer would an observer think of the elk as the forest monarch. he was but a pretender, after all. the real king had just wakened from his afternoon nap and was starting forth to hunt. even his little cousins, the black bears (who, after all is said and done, furnish most of the comedy of the deadly forest drama) did not wait to make conversation. they tumbled awkwardly down the hill to get out of his way. for the massive gray form--weighing over half a ton--was none other than that of the last of the grizzly bears, that terrible forest hunter and monarch, the killer himself. xiv long ago, when oregon was a new land to white men, in the days of the clipper ships and the old oregon trail, the breed to which the killer belonged were really numerous through the little corner north of the siskiyous and west of the cascades. the land was far different then. the transcontinental lines had not yet been built; the only settlements were small trading posts and mining camps, and people did not travel over paved highways in automobiles. if they went at all it was in a prairie-schooner or on horseback. and the old grizzly bears must have found the region a veritable heaven. they were a worthy breed! it is doubtful if any other section of the united states offered an environment so favorable to them. game was in abundance, they could venture down into the valleys at the approach of winter and thus miss the rigors of the snow, and at first there were no human enemies. unfortunately, stories are likely to grow and become sadly addled after many tellings; but if the words of certain old men could be believed, the southern oregon grizzly occasionally, in the bountiful fall days, attained a weight of two thousand pounds. no doubt whatever remains that thousand-pound bears were fairly numerous. they trailed up and down the brown hillsides; they hunted and honey-grubbed and mated in the fall; they had their young and fought their battles and died, and once in a long while the skeleton of a frontiersman would be found with his skull battered perfectly flat where one of the great beasts had taken a short-arm pat at him. but unlike the little black bears, the grizzlies developed displeasing habits. they were much more carnivorous in character than the blacks, and their great bodily strength and power enabled them to master all of the myriad forms of game in the oregon woods. by the same token, they could take a full-grown steer and carry it off as a woman carries her baby. it couldn't be endured. the cattlemen had begun to settle the valleys, and it was either a case of killing the grizzlies or yielding the valleys to them. in the relentless war that followed, the breed had been practically wiped out. a few of them, perhaps, fled farther and farther up the cascades, finding refuges in the canadian mountains. others traveled east, locating at last in the rocky mountains, and countless numbers of them died. at last, as far as the frontiersmen knew, only one great specimen remained. this was a famous bear that men called slewfoot,--a magnificent animal that ranged far and hunted relentlessly, and no one ever knew just when they were going to run across him. it made traveling in the mountains a rather ticklish business. he was apt suddenly to loom up, like a gray cliff, at any turn in the trail, and his disposition grew querulous with age. in fact, instead of fleeing as most wild creatures have learned to do, he was rather likely to make sudden and unexpected charges. he was killed at last; and seemingly the southern oregon grizzlies were wiped out. but it is rather easy to believe that in some of his wanderings he encountered--lost and far in the deepest heart of the land called trail's end--a female of his own breed. there must have been cubs who, in their turn, mated and fought and died, and perhaps two generations after them. and out of the last brood had emerged a single great male, a worthy descendant of his famous ancestor. this was the killer, who in a few months since he had left his fastnesses, was beginning to ruin the cattle business in trail's end. as he came growling from his bed this september evening he was not a creature to speak of lightly. he was down on all fours, his vast head was lowered, his huge fangs gleamed in the dark red mouth. the eyes were small, and curious little red lights glowed in each of them. the killer was cross; and he didn't care who knew it. he was hungry too; but hunger is an emotion for the beasts of prey to keep carefully to themselves. he walked slowly across the little glen, carelessly at first, for he was too cross and out of temper to have the patience to stalk. he stopped, turning his head this way and that, marking the flight of the wild creatures. he saw a pair of blacktail bucks spring up from a covert and dash away; but he only made one short, angry lunge toward them. he knew that it would only cost him his dignity to try to chase them. a grizzly bear can move astonishingly fast considering his weight--for a short distance he can keep pace with a running horse--but a deer is light itself. he uttered one short, low growl, then headed over toward a great wall of buckbush at the base of the hill. but now his hunting cunning had begun to return to him. the sun was setting, the pines were growing dusky, and he began to feel the first excitement and fever that the fall of night always brings to the beasts of prey. it is a feeling that his insignificant cousins, the black bears, could not possibly have,--for the sole reason that they are berry-eaters, not hunters. but the cougar, stealing down a deer trail on the ridge above, and a lean old male wolf--stalking a herd of deer on the other side of the thicket--understood it very well. his blood began to roll faster through his great veins. the sullen glare grew in his eyes. it was the beginning of the hunting hour of the larger creatures. all the forest world knew it. the air seemed to throb and tingle, the shadowing thickets began to pulse and stir with life. the fear--the age-old heritage of all the hunted creatures--returned to the deer. the killer moved quite softly now. one would have marveled how silently his great feet fell upon the dry earth and with what slight sound his heavy form moved through the thickets. once he halted, gazing with reddening eyes. but the coyote--the gray figure that had broken a twig on the trail beside him--slipped quickly away. he skirted the thicket, knowing that no successful stalk could be made where he had to force his way through dry brush. he moved slowly, cautiously--all the time mounting farther up the little hill that rose from the banks of the stream. he came to an opening in the thicket, a little brown pathway that vanished quickly into the shadows of the coverts. the killer slipped softly into the heavy brush just at its mouth. it was his ambush. soon, he knew, some of the creatures that had bowers in the heart of the thicket would be coming along that trail toward the feeding grounds on the ridge. he only had to wait. as the shadows grew and the twilight deepened, the undercurrent of savagery that is the eternal quality of the wilderness grew ever more pronounced. a thrill and fever came in the air, mystery in the deepening shadows, and brighter lights into the eyes of the hunting folk. the dusk deepened between the trees; the distant trunks dimmed and faded quite away. the stars emerged. the nightwind, rising somewhere in the region of the snow banks on the highest mountains, blew down into the killer's face and brought messages that no human being may ever receive. then his sharp ears heard the sound of brush cracked softly as some one of the larger forest creatures came up the trail toward him. the steps drew nearer and the killer recognized them. they were plainly the soft footfall of some member of the deer tribe, yet they were too pronounced to be the step of any of the lesser deer. the bull elk had left his bed. the red eyes of the grizzly seemed to glow as he waited. great though the stag was, only one little blow of the massive forearm would be needed. the huge fangs would have to close down but once. the long, many-tined antlers, the sharp front hoofs would not avail him in a surprise attack such as this would be. best of all, he was not suspecting danger. he was walking down wind, so that the pungent odor of the bear was blown away from him. the bear did not move a single telltale muscle. he scarcely breathed. and the one movement that there was was such that not even the keen ears of an elk could discern, just a curious erection of the gray hairs on his vast neck. the bull was almost within striking range now. the wicked red eyes could already discern the dimmest shadow of his outline through the thickets. but all at once he stopped, head lifting. perhaps a grizzly bear does not have mental processes as human beings know them. perhaps all impulse is the result of instinct alone,--instinct tuned and trained to a degree that human beings find hard to imagine. but if the bear couldn't understand the sudden halt just at the eve of his triumph, at least he felt growing anger. he knew perfectly that the elk had neither detected his odor nor heard him, and he had made no movements that the sharp eyes could detect. just a glimpse of gray in the heavy brush would not have been enough in itself to arouse the stag's suspicions. for the lower creatures are rarely able to interpret outline alone; there must be movement too. yet the bull was evidently alarmed. he stood immobile, one foot lifted, nostrils open, head raised. then, the wind blowing true, the grizzly understood. a pungent smell reached him from below,--evidently the smell of a living creature that followed the trail along the stream that flowed through the glen. he recognized it in an instant. he had detected it many times, particularly when he went into the cleared lands to kill cattle. it was man, an odor almost unknown in this lonely glen. dave turner, brother of simon, was walking down the stream toward hudson's camp. the elk was widely traveled too, and he also realized the proximity of man. but his reaction was entirely different. to the grizzly it was an annoying interruption to his hunt; and a great flood of rage swept over him. it seemed to him that these tall creatures were always crossing his path, spoiling his hunting, even questioning his rule of the forests. they did not seem to realize that he was the wilderness king, and that he could break their slight forms in two with one blow of his paw. it was true that their eyes had strange powers to disquiet him; but his isolation in the fastnesses of trail's end had kept him from any full recognition of their real strength, and he was unfortunately lacking in the awe with which most of the forest creatures regard them. but to the elk this smell was fear itself. he knew the ways of men only too well. too many times he had seen members of his herd fall stricken at a word from the glittering sticks they carried in their hands. he uttered a far-ringing snort. it was a distinctive sound, beginning rather high on the scale as a loud whistle and descending into a deep bass bawl. and the killer knew perfectly what that sound meant. it was a simple way of saying that the elk would progress no further down _that_ trail. the bear leaped in wild fury. a growl that was more near a puma-like snarl came from between the bared teeth, and the great body lunged out with incredible speed. although the distance was far, the charge was almost a success. if one second had intervened before the elk saw the movement, if his muscles had not been fitted out with invisible wings, he would have fought no more battles with his herd brethren in the fall. the bull seemed to leap straight up. his muscles had been set at his first alarm from turner's smell on the wind, and they drove forth the powerful limbs as if by a powder explosion. he was full in the air when the forepaws battered down where he had been. then he darted away into the coverts. the grizzly knew better than to try to overtake him. almost rabid with wrath he turned back to his ambush. xv simon turner had given dave very definite instructions concerning his embassy to hudson. they were given in the great house that simon occupied, in the same room, lighted by the fire's glow, from which instructions had gone out to the clan so many times before. "the first thing this bruce will do," simon had said, "is to hunt up hudson--the one living man that witnessed that agreement between ross and old folger. one reason is that he'll want to verify linda's story. the next is to persuade the old man to go down to the courts with him as his witness. and what you have to do is line him up on our side first." dave had felt simon's eyes upon him, so he didn't look straight up. "and that's what the hundred is for?" he asked. "of course. get the old man's word that he'll tell bruce he never witnessed any such agreement. maybe fifty dollars will do it; the old trapper is pretty hard up, i reckon. he'd make us a lot of trouble if bruce got him as a witness." "you think--" dave's eyes wandered about the room, "you think that's the best way?" "i wouldn't be tellin' you to do it if i didn't think so." simon laughed,--a sudden, grim syllable. "dave, you're a blood-thirsty devil. i see what you're thinking of--of a safer way to keep him from telling. but you know the word i sent out. 'go easy!' that's the wisest course to follow at present. the valley people pay more attention to such things than they used to; the fewer the killings, the wiser we will be. if he'll keep quiet for the hundred let him have it in peace." dave hadn't forgotten. but his features were sharper and more ratlike than ever when he came in sight of hudson's camp, just after the fall of darkness of the second day out. the trapper was cooking his simple meal,--a blue grouse frying in his skillet, coffee boiling, and flapjack batter ready for the moment the grouse was done. he was kneeling close to the coals; the firelight cast a red glow over him, and the picture started a train of rather pleasing conjectures in dave's mind. he halted in the shadows and stood a moment watching. after all he wasn't greatly different from the wolf that watched by the deer trail or the killer in his ambush, less than a mile distant in the glen. the same strange, dark passion that was over them both was over him also. one could see it in the almost imperceptible drawing back of his dark lips over his teeth. there was just a hint of it in the lurid eyes. dave's thought returned to the hundred dollars in his pocket,--a good sum in the hills. a brass rifle cartridge, such as he could fire in the thirty-thirty that he carried in the hollow of his arm, cost only about six cents. the net gain would be--the figures flew quickly through his mind--ninety-nine dollars and ninety-four cents; quite a good piece of business for dave. but the trouble was that simon might find out. it was not, he remembered, that simon was adverse to this sort of operation when necessary. perhaps the straight-out sport of the thing meant more to him than to dave; he was a braver man and more primitive in impulse. there were certain memory pictures in dave's mind of this younger, more powerful brother of his; and he smiled grimly when he recalled them. they had been wild, strange scenes of long ago, usually in the pale light of the moon, and he could recall simon's face with singular clearness. there had always been the same drawing back of the lips, the same gusty breathing, the same strange little flakes of fire in the savage eyes. he had always trembled all over too, but not from fear; and dave remembered especially well the little drama outside matthew folger's cabin in the darkness. he was no stranger to the blood madness, this brother of his, and the clan had high hopes for him even in his growing days. and he had fulfilled those hopes. never could the fact be doubted! he could still make a fresh notch in his rifle stock with the same rapture. but the word had gone out, for the present at least, to "go easy." such little games as occurred to dave now--as he watched the trapper in the firelight with one hundred dollars of the clan's money in his own pocket--had been prohibited until further notice. the thing looked so simple that dave squirmed all over with annoyance. it hurt him to think that the hundred dollars that he carried was to be passed over, without a wink of an eye, to this bearded trapper; and the only return for it was to be a promise that hudson would not testify in bruce's behalf. and a hundred dollars was real money! it was to be thought of twice. on the other hand, it would be wholly impossible for one that lies face half-buried in the pine needles beside a dead fire to make any kind of testimony whatsoever. it would come to the same thing, and the hundred dollars would still be in his pocket. just a little matter of a single glance down his rifle barrel at the figure in the silhouette of the fire glow--and a half-ounce of pressure on the hair trigger. half jesting with himself, he dropped on one knee and raised the weapon. the trapper did not guess his presence. the blood leaped in dave's veins. it would be so easy; the drawing back of the hammer would be only the work of a second; and an instant's peering through the sights was all that would be needed further. his body trembled as if with passion, as he started to draw back the hammer. but he caught himself with a wrench. he had a single second of vivid introspection; and what he saw filled his cunning eyes with wonder. there would have been no holding back, once the rifle was cocked and he saw the man through the sights. the blood madness would have been too strong to resist. he felt as might one who, taking a few injections of morphine on prescription, finds himself inadvertently with a loaded needle in his hands. he knew a moment of remorse--so overwhelming that it was almost terror--that the shedding of blood had become so easy to him. he hadn't known how easy it had been to learn. he didn't know that a vice is nothing but a lust that has been given free play so many times that the will can no longer restrain it. but the sight of hudson's form, sitting down now to his meal, dispelled his remorse quickly. after all, his own course would have been the simplest way to handle the matter. there would be no danger that hudson would double-cross them then. but he realized that simon had spoken true when he said that the old days were gone, that the arm of the law reached farther than formerly, and it might even stretch to this far place. he remembered simon's instructions. "the quieter we can do these things, the better," the clan leader had said. "if we can get through to october thirtieth with no killings, the safer it is for us. we don't know how the tenderfeet in the valley are going to act--there isn't the same feeling about blood-feuds that there used to be. go easy, dave. sound this hudson out. if he'll keep still for a hundred, let him have it in peace." dave slipped his rifle into the hollow of his arm and continued on down the trail. he didn't try to stalk. in a moment hudson heard his step and looked up. they met in a circle of firelight. it is not the mountain way to fraternize quickly, nor are the mountain men quick to show astonishment. hudson had not seen another human being since his last visit to the settlements. yet his voice indicated no surprise at this visitation. "howdy," he grunted. "howdy," dave replied. "how about grub?" "help yourself. supper just ready." dave helped himself to the food of the man that, a moment before, he would have slain; and in the light of the high fire that followed the meal, he got down to the real business of the visit. dave knew that a fairly straight course was best. it was general knowledge through the hills that the turners had gouged the rosses of their lands and it was absurd to think that hudson did not realize the true state of affairs. "i suppose you've forgotten that little deed you witnessed between old mat folger and ross--twenty years ago," dave began easily, his pipe between his teeth. hudson turned with a cunning glitter in his eyes. dave saw it and grew bolder. "who wants me to forget it?" hudson demanded. "i ain't said that anybody wants you to," dave responded. "i asked if you had." hudson was still a moment, stroking absently his beard. "if you want to know," he said, "i ain't forgotten. but there wasn't just a deed. there was an agreement too." dave nodded. hudson's eyes traveled to his rifle,--for the simple reason that he wanted to know just how many jumps he would be obliged to make to reach it in case of emergencies. such things are good to know in meetings like this. "i know all about that agreement," dave confessed. "you do, eh? so do i. i ain't likely to forget." dave studied him closely. "what good is it going to do you to remember?" he demanded. "i ain't saying that it's going to do me any good. at present i ain't got nothing against the turners. they've always been all right to me. what's between them and the rosses is past and done--although i know just in what way folger held that land and no transfer from him to you was legal. but that's all part of the past. as long as the turners continue to be my friends i don't see why anything should be said about it." dave did not misunderstand him. he didn't in the least assume that these friendly words meant that he could go back to the ranches with the hundred dollars still in his pocket. it meant merely that hudson was open to reason and it wouldn't have to be a shooting affair. dave speculated. it was wholly plain that the old man had not yet heard of bruce's return. there was no need to mention him. "we're glad you are our friend," dave went on. "but we don't expect no one to stay friends with us unless they benefit to some small extent by it. how many furs do you hope to take this year?" "not enough to pay to pack out. maybe two hundred dollars in bounties before new year--coyotes and wolves. maybe a little better in the three months following in furs." "then maybe fifty or seventy-five dollars, without bothering to set the traps, wouldn't come in so bad." "it wouldn't come in bad, but it doesn't buy much these days. a hundred would do better." "a hundred it is," dave told him with finality. the eyes above the dark beard shone in the firelight. "i'd forget i had a mother for a hundred dollars," he said. he watched, greedily, as dave's gaunt hand went into his pocket. "i'm gettin' old, dave. every dollar is harder for me to get. the wolves are gettin' wiser, the mink are fewer. there ain't much that i wouldn't do for a hundred dollars now. you know how it is." yes, dave knew. the money changed hands. the fire burned down. they sat a long time, deep in their own thoughts. "all we ask," dave said, "is that you don't take sides against us." "i'll remember. of course you want me, in case i'm ever subpoenaed, to recall signing the deed itself." "yes, we'd want you to testify to that." "of course. if there hadn't been any kind of a deed, folger couldn't have deeded the property to you. but how would it be, if any one asks me about it, to swear that there _never was_ no secret agreement, but a clear transfer; and to make it sound reasonable for me to say--to say that ross was forced to deed the land to folger because he'd had goings-on with folger's wife, and folger was about to kill him?" the only response, at first, was the slightest, almost imperceptible narrowing of dave's eyes. he had considerable native cunning, but such an idea as this had never occurred to him. but he was crafty enough to see its tremendous possibilities at once. all that either simon or himself had hoped for was that the old man would not testify in bruce's behalf. but he saw that such a story, coming from the apparently honest old trapper, might have a profound effect upon bruce. dave understood human nature well enough to know that he would probably lose faith in the entire enterprise. to bruce it had been nothing but an old woman's story, after all; it was wholly possible that he would relinquish all effort to return the lands to linda ross. men always can believe stranger things of sex than any other thing; bruce would in all probability find hudson's story much more logical than the one linda had told him under the pine. it was worth one hundred dollars, after all. "i'll bet you could make him swallow it, hook, bait, and sinker," dave responded at last, flattering. they chuckled together in the darkness. then they turned to the blankets. "i'll show you another trail out to-morrow," hudson told him. "it comes into the glen that you passed to-night--the canyon that the killer has been using lately for a hunting ground." xvi the killer had had an unsuccessful night. he had waited the long hours through at the mouth of the trail, but only the little people--such as the rabbits and similar folk that hardly constituted a single bite in his great jaws--had come his way. now it was morning and it looked as if he would have to go hungry. the thought didn't improve his already doubtful mood. he wanted to growl. the only thing that kept him from it was the realization that it would frighten away any living creature that might be approaching toward him up the trail. he started to stretch his great muscles, intending to leave his ambush. but all at once he froze again into a lifeless gray patch in the thickets. there were light steps on the trail. again they were the steps of deer,--but not of the great, wary elk this time. instead it was just a fawn, or a yearling doe at least, such a creature as had not yet learned to suspect every turn in the trail. the morning light was steadily growing, the stars were all dimmed or else entirely faded in the sky, and it would have been highly improbable that a full-grown buck in his wisdom would draw within leaping range without detecting him. but he hadn't the slightest doubt about the fawn. they were innocent people,--and their flesh was very tender. the forest gods had been good to him, after all. he peered through the thickets, and in a moment more he had a glimpse of the spotted skin. it was almost too easy. the fawn was stealing toward him with mincing steps--as graceful a creature as dwelt in all this wilderness world of grace--and its eyes were soft and tender as a girl's. it was evidently giving no thought to danger, only rejoicing that the fearful hours of night were done. the mountain lion had already sought its lair. the fawn didn't know that a worse terror still lingered at the mouth of the trail. but even as the killer watched, the prize was simply taken out of his mouth. a gray wolf--a savage old male that also had just finished an unsuccessful hunt--had been stealing through the thickets in search of a lair, and he came out on the trail not fifty feet distant, halfway between the bear and the fawn. the one was almost as surprised as the other. the fawn turned with a frightened bleat and darted away; the wolf swung into pursuit. the bear lunged forward with a howl of rage. he leaped into the trail mouth, then ran as fast as he could in pursuit of the running wolf. he was too enraged to stop to think that a grizzly bear has never yet been able to overtake a wolf, once the trim legs got well into action. at first he couldn't think about anything; he had been cheated too many times. his first impulse was one of tremendous and overpowering wrath,--a fury that meant death to the first living creature that he met. but in a single second he realized that this wild chase was fairly good tactics, after all. the chances for a meal were still rather good. the fawn and the wolf were in the open now, and it was wholly evident that the gray hunter would overtake the quarry in another moment. it was true that the killer would miss the pleasure of slaying his own game,--the ecstatic blow to the shoulder and the bite to the throat that followed it. in this case, the wolf would do that part of the work for him. it was just a simple matter of driving the creature away from his dead. the fawn reached the stream bank, then went bounding down the margin. the distance shortened between them. it was leaping wildly, already almost exhausted; the wolf raced easily, body close to the ground, in long, tireless strides. the grizzly bear sped behind him. but at that instant fate took a hand in this merry little chase. to the fawn, it was nothing but a sharp clang of metal behind him and an answering shriek of pain,--sounds that in its terror it heard but dimly. but it was an unlooked-for and tragic reality to the wolf. his leap was suddenly arrested in mid-air, and he was hurled to the ground with stunning force. cruel metal teeth had seized his leg, and a strong chain held him when he tried to escape. he fought it with desperate savagery. the fawn leaped on to safety. but there was no need of the grizzly continuing its pursuit. everything had turned out quite well for him, after all. a wolf is ever so much more filling than any kind of seasonal fawn; and the old gray pack leader was imprisoned and helpless in one of hudson's traps. * * * * * in the first gray of morning, dave turner started back toward his home. "i'll go with you to the forks in the trail," hudson told him. "i want to take a look at some of my traps, anyhow." turner had completed his business none too soon. at the same hour--as soon as it was light enough to see--bruce was finishing his breakfast in preparation for the last lap of his journey. he had passed the night by a spring on a long ridge, almost in eye range of hudson's camp. now he was preparing to dip down into the killer's glen. turner and hudson followed up the little creek, walking almost in silence. it is a habit all mountain men fall into, sooner or later,--not to waste words. the great silences of the wild places seem to forbid it. hudson walked ahead, turner possibly a dozen feet behind him. and because of the carpet of pine needles, the forest creatures could hardly hear them come. occasionally they caught glimpses of the wild life that teemed about them, but they experienced none of the delight that had made the two-day tramp such a pleasure to bruce. hudson thought in terms of pelts only; no creature that did not wear a marketable hide was worth a glance. turner did not feel even this interest. the first of hudson's sets proved empty. the second was about a turn in the creek, and a wall of brush made it impossible for him to tell at a distance whether or not he had made a catch. but when still a quarter of a mile distant, hudson heard a sound that he thought he recognized. it was a high, sharp, agonized bark that dimmed into a low whine. "i believe i've got a coyote or a wolf up there," he said. they hastened their steps. "and you use that little pea-gun for wolves?" dave turner asked. he pointed to the short-barreled, twenty-two caliber rifle that was slung on the trapper's back. "it doesn't look like it would kill a mosquito." "a killer gun," hudson explained. "for polishin' 'em off when they are alive in the traps. of course, it wouldn't be no good more'n ten feet away, and then you have to aim at a vital spot. but i've heard tell of animals i wouldn't want to meet with that thirty-thirty of yours." this was true enough. dave had heard of them also. a thirty-thirty is a powerful weapon, but it isn't an elephant gun. they hurried on, dave very anxious to watch the execution that would shortly ensue if whatever animal had cried from the trap was still alive. such things were only the day's work to hudson, but dave felt a little tingle of anticipation. and the thought damned him beyond redemption. but instead of the joy of killing a cowering, terror-stricken animal, helpless in the trap, the wilderness had made other plans for hudson and dave. they hastened about the impenetrable wall of brush, and in one glance they knew that more urgent business awaited them. the whole picture loomed suddenly before their eyes. there was no wolf in the trap. the steel had sprung, certainly, but only a hideous fragment of a foot remained between the jaws. the bone had been broken sharply off, as a man might break a match in his fingers. there was no living wolf for hudson to execute with his killer gun. life had gone out of the gray body many minutes before. the two men saw all these things as a background only,--dim details about the central figure. but the thing that froze them in their tracks with terror was the great, gray form of the killer, not twenty feet distant, beside the mangled body of the wolf. the events that followed thereafter came in such quick succession as to seem simultaneous. for one fraction of an instant all three figures stood motionless, the two men staring, the grizzly half-leaning over his prey, his head turned, his little red eyes full of hatred. too many times this night he had missed his game. it was the same intrusion that had angered him before,--slight figures to break to pieces with one blow. perhaps--for no man may trace fully the mental processes of animals--his fury fully transcended the fear that he must have instinctively felt; at least, he did not even attempt to flee. he uttered one hoarse, savage note, a sound in which all his hatred and his fury and his savage power were made manifest, whirled with incredible speed, and charged. the lunge seemed only a swift passing of gray light. no eye could believe that the vast form could move with such swiftness. there was little impression of an actual leap. rather it was just a blow; the great form, huddled over the dead wolf, had simply reached the full distance to hudson. the man did not even have time to turn. there was no defense; his killer-gun was strapped on his back, and even if it had been in his hands, its little bullet would not have mattered the sting of a bee in honey-robbing. the only possible chance of breaking that deadly charge lay in the thirty-thirty deer rifle in dave's arms; but the craven who held it did not even fire. he was standing just below the outstretched limb of a tree, and the weapon fell from his hands as he swung up into the limb. the fact that hudson stood weaponless, ten feet away in the clearing, did not deter him in the least. no human flesh could stand against that charge. the vast paw fell with resistless force; and no need arose for a second blow. the trapper's body was struck down as if felled by a meteor, and the power of the impact forced it deep into the carpet of pine needles. the savage creature turned, the white fangs caught the light in the open mouth. the head lunged toward the man's shoulder. no man may say what agony hudson would have endured in the last few seconds of his life if the killer had been given time and opportunity. his usual way was to linger long, sharp fangs closing again and again, until all living likeness was destroyed. the blood-lust was upon him; there would have been no mercy to the dying creature in the pine needles. yet it transpired that hudson's flesh was not to know those rending fangs a second time. although it is an unfamiliar thing in the wilderness, the end of hudson's trail was peaceful, after all. on the hillside above, a stranger to this land had dropped to his knee in the shrubbery, his rifle lifted to the level of his eyes. it was bruce, who had come in time to see the charge through a rift in the trees. xvii there were deep significances in the fact that bruce kept his head in this moment of crisis. it meant nothing less than an iron self-control such as only the strongest men possess, and it meant nerves steady as steel bars. the bear was on hudson, and the man had gone down, before bruce even interpreted him. then it was just a gray patch, a full three hundred yards away. his instinct was to throw the gun to his shoulder and fire without aiming; yet he conquered it with an iron will. but he did move quickly. he dropped to his knee the single second that the gun leaped to his shoulder. he seemed to know that from a lower position the target would be more clearly revealed. the finger pressed back against the trigger. the distance was far; bruce was not a practiced rifle shot, and it bordered on the miraculous that his lead went anywhere near the bear's body. and it was true that the bullet did not reach a vital place. it stung like a wasp at the killer's flank, however, cutting a shallow flesh wound. but it was enough to take his dreadful attention from the mortally wounded trapper in the pine needles. he whirled about, growling furiously and biting at the wound. then he stood still, turning his gaze first to the pale face of dave turner thirty feet above him in the pine. the eyes glowed in fury and hatred. he had found men out at last; they died even more easily than the fawn. he started to turn back to the fallen, and the rifle spoke again. it was a complete miss, this time; yet the bear leaped in fear when the bullet thwacked into the dust beside him. he did not wait for a third. his caution suddenly returning to him, and perhaps his anger somewhat satiated by the blow he had dealt hudson, he crashed into the security of the thicket. bruce waited a single instant, hoping for another glimpse of the creature; then ran down to aid hudson. but in driving the bear from the trapper's helpless body he had already given all the aid that he could. understanding came quickly. he had arrived only in time for the departure,--just a glimpse of a light as it faded. the blow had been more than any human being could survive; even now hudson was entering upon that strange calm which often, so mercifully, immediately precedes death. he opened his eyes and looked with some wonder into bruce's face. the light in them was dimming, fading like a twilight, yet there was indication of neither confusion nor delirium. hudson, in that last moment of his life, was quite himself. there was, however, some indication of perplexity at the peculiar turn affairs had taken. "you're not dave turner," he said wonderingly. dim though the voice was, there was considerable emphasis in the tone. hudson seemed quite sure of this point, whether or not he knew anything concerning the dark gates he was about to enter. he wouldn't have spoken greatly different if he had been sitting in perfect health before his own camp fire and the shadow was now already so deep his eyes could scarcely penetrate it. "no," bruce answered. "dave turner is up a tree. he didn't even wait to shoot." "of course he wouldn't." hudson spoke with assurance. the words dimmed at the end, and he half-closed his eyes as if he were too sleepy to stay awake longer. then bruce saw a strange thing. he saw, unmistakable as the sun in the sky, the signs of a curious struggle in the man's face. there was a singular deepening of the lines, a twitching of the muscles, a queer set to the lips and jaws. they were as much signs of battle as the sound of firing a general hears from far away. the trapper--a moment before sinking into the calm of death--was fighting desperately for a few moments of respite. there could be no other explanation. and he won it at last,--an interlude of half a dozen breaths. "who are you?" he whispered. bruce bowed his head until his ear was close to the lips. "bruce folger," he answered,--for the first time in his knowledge speaking his full name. "son of matthew folger who lived at trail's end long ago." the man still struggled. "i knew it," he said. "i saw it--in your face. i see--everything now. listen--can you hear me?" "yes." "i just did a wrong--there's a hundred dollars in my pocket that i just got for doing it. i made a promise--to lie to you. take the money--it ought to be yours, anyway--and hers; and use it toward fighting the wrong. it will go a little way." "yes," bruce looked him full in the eyes. "no matter about the money. what did you promise turner?" "that i'd lie to you. grip my arms with your hands--till it hurts. i've only got one breath more. your father held those lands only in trust--the turners' deed is forged. and the secret agreement that i witnessed is hidden--" the breath seemed to go out of the man. bruce shook him by the shoulders. dave, still in the tree, strained to hear the rest. "yes--where?" "it's hidden--just--out--" the words were no longer audible to dave, and what followed bruce also strained to hear in vain. the lips ceased moving. the shadow grew in the eyes, and the lids flickered down over them. a traveler had gone. bruce got up, a strange, cold light in his eyes. he glanced up. dave turner was climbing slowly down the tree. bruce made six strides and seized his rifle. the effect on dave was ludicrous. he clung fast to the tree limbs, as if he thought a bullet--like a grizzly's claws--could not reach him there. bruce laid the gun behind him, then stood waiting with his own weapon resting in his arms. "come down, dave," he commanded. "the bear is gone." dave crept down the trunk and halted at its base. he studied the cold face before him. "better not try nothing," he advised hoarsely. "why not?" bruce asked. "do you think i'm afraid of a coward?" the man started at the words; his head bobbed backward as if bruce had struck him beneath the jaw with his fist. "people don't call the turners cowards and walk off with it," the man told him. "oh, the lowest coward!" bruce said between set teeth. "the yellowest, mongrel coward! your own confederate--and you had to drop your gun and run up a tree. you might have stopped the bear's charge." dave's face twisted in a scowl. "you're brave enough now. wait to see what happens later. give me my gun. i'm going to go." "you can go, but you don't get your gun. i'll fill you full of lead if you try to touch it." dave looked up with some care. he wanted to know for certain if this tenderfoot meant what he said. the man was blind in some things, his vision was twisted and dark, but he made no mistake about the look on the cold, set face before him. bruce's finger was curled about the trigger, and it looked to dave as if it itched to exert further pressure. "i don't see why i spare you, anyway," bruce went on. his tone was self-reproachful. "god knows i hadn't ought to--remembering who and what you are. if you'd only give me one little bit of provocation--" dave saw lurid lights growing in the man's eyes; and all at once a conclusion came to him. he decided he'd make no further effort to regain the gun. his life was rather precious to him, strangely, and it was wholly plain that a dread and terrible passion was slowly creeping over his enemy. he could see it in the darkening face, the tight grip of the hands on the rifle stock. his own sharp features grew more cunning. "you ought to be glad i didn't stop the bear with my rifle," he said hurriedly. "i had hudson bribed--you wouldn't have found out something that you did find out if he hadn't lain here dying. you wouldn't have learned--" but the sentence died in the middle. bruce made answer to it. for once in his life dave's cunning had not availed him; he had said the last thing in the world that he should have said, the one thing that was needed to cause an explosion. he hadn't known that some men have standards other than self gain. and some small measure of realization came to him when he felt the dust his full length under him. bruce's answer had been a straight-out blow with his fist, with all his strength behind it, in the very center of his enemy's face. xviii in his years of residence at trail's end, dave turner had acquired a thorough knowledge of all its paths. that knowledge stood him in good stead now. he wished to cross the ridges to simon's house at least an hour before bruce could return to linda. he traveled hard and late, and he reached simon's door just before sundown of the second day. bruce was still a full two hours distant. but dave did not stay to knock. it was chore-time, and he thought he would find simon in his barn, supervising the feeding and care of the livestock. he had guessed right, and the two men had a moment's talk in the dusky passage behind the stalls. "i've brought news," dave said. simon made no answer at first. the saddle pony in the stall immediately in front of them, frightened at dave's unfamiliar figure, had crowded, trembling, against his manger. simon's red eyes watched him; then he uttered a short oath. he took two strides into the stall and seized the halter rope in his huge, muscular hand. three times he jerked it with a peculiar, quartering pull, a curbing that might have been ineffective by a man of ordinary strength, but with the incomprehensible might of the great forearm behind it was really terrible punishment. dave thought for a moment his brother would break the animal's neck; the whites began to show about the soft, dark pupils of its eyes. the strap over the head broke with the fourth pull; then the horse recoiled, plunging and terrified, into the opposite corner of the stall. simon leaped with shattering power at the creature's shoulders, his huge arms encircled its neck, his shoulders heaved, and he half-threw it to the floor. then, as it staggered to rise, his heavy fist flailed against its neck. again and again he struck, and in the half-darkness of the stable it was a dreadful thing to behold. the man's fury, always quickly aroused, was upon him; his brawny form moved with the agility of a panther. even dave, whose shallow eyes were usually wont to feast on cruelty, viewed the scene with some alarm. it wasn't that he was moved by the agony of the horse. but he did remember that horses cost money, and simon seemed determined to kill the animal before his passion was spent. the horse cowered, and in a moment more it was hard to remember he was a member of a noble, high-spirited breed,--a swift runner, brainy as a dog, a servant faithful and worthy. it was no longer easy to think of him as a creature of beauty,--and there is no other word than beauty for these long-maned, long-tailed, trim-lined animals. he stood quiet at last, his head hanging low, knees bent, eyes curiously sorrowful and dark. simon fastened the broken strap about his neck, gave it one more jerk that almost knocked the animal off his feet, then turned back to dave. except for a higher color in his cheeks, darker lights in his eyes, and an almost imperceptible quickening of his breathing, it did not seem as if he had moved. "you're always bringing news," he said. dave opened his eyes. he had forgotten his own words in the tumult of the fight he had just watched, but plainly simon hadn't forgotten. he opened his mouth to speak. "well, what is it? out with it," his brother urged. "if it's as important as some of the other news you've brought don't take my time." "all right," the other replied sullenly. "you don't have to hear it. but i'm telling you it's of real importance this time--and sometime you'll find out." he scowled into the dark face. "but suit yourself." he turned as if to go. he rather thought that simon would call him back. it would be, in a measure, a victory. but simon went back to his inspection of the stalls. dave walked clear to the door, then turned. "don't be a fool, simon," he urged. "listen to what i have to tell you. bruce folger knows where that secret agreement is." for once in his life dave got a response of sufficient emphasis to satisfy him. his brother whirled, his whole expression undergoing an immediate and startling change. if there was one emotion that dave had never seen on simon's face it was fear,--and he didn't know for certain that he saw it now. but there was alarm--unmistakable--and surprise too. "what do you mean?" he demanded. dave exulted inwardly. his brother's response had almost made up for the evil news that he brought. for dave's fortunes, as well as simon's, depended on the vast fertile tract being kept in the clan's possession. his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. for the first time in his life, as far as dave could remember, simon had encountered a situation that he had not immediately mastered. perhaps it was the beginning of simon's downfall, which meant--by no great stretch of the imagination--the advancement of dave. but in another second of clear thinking dave knew that in his brother's strength lay his own; if this mighty force at the head of the clan was weakening, no hope remained for any of them. his own face grew anxious. "out with it," simon stormed. his tone was really urgent now, not insolent as usual. "good lord, man, don't you know that if bruce gets that down to the settlements before the thirtieth of next month we're lost--and nothing in this world can save us? we can't drive _him_ off, like we drove the rosses. there's too much law down in the valleys. if he's got that paper, there's only one thing to do. help me saddle a horse." "wait a minute. i didn't say he had it. i only said he knew where it was. he's still an hour or two walk from here, toward little river, and if we have to wait for him on the trail, we've got plenty of time. and of course i ain't quite sure he _does_ know where it is." simon smiled mirthlessly. "the news is beginning to sound like the rest of yours." "old hudson is dead," dave went on. "and don't look at me--i didn't do it. i wish i had, though, first off. for once my judgment was better than yours. the killer got him." "yes. go on." "i was with him when it happened. my gun got jammed so i couldn't shoot." "where is it now?" dave scrambled in vain for a story to explain the loss of his weapon to bruce, and the one that came out at last didn't do him particular credit. "i--i threw the damn thing away. wish i hadn't now, but it made me so mad by jamming--it was a fool trick. maybe i can go back after it and find it." simon smiled again. "very good so far," he commented. dave flushed. "bruce was there too--fact is, creased the bear--and the last minute before he died hudson told him where the agreement was hidden. i couldn't hear all he said--i was too far away--but i heard enough to think that he told bruce the hiding, place. it was natural hudson would know it, and we were fools for not asking him about it long ago." "and why didn't you get that information away from bruce with your gun?" "didn't i tell you the thing was jammed? if it hadn't of been for that, i'd done something more than find out where it is. i'd stopped this nonsense once and for all, and let a hole through that tenderfoot big enough to see through. _then_ there'd never be any more trouble. it's the thing to do now." simon looked at his brother's face with some wonder. more crafty and cunning, dave was like the coyote in that he didn't yield so quickly to fury as that gray wolf, his brother. but when it did come, it seared him. it had come now. simon couldn't mistake the fact; he saw it plain in the glowing eyes, the clenched hands, the drawn lips. dave was remembering the pain of the blow bruce had given him, and the smart of the words that had preceded it. "you and he must have had a little session down there by the creek," simon suggested slowly, "when your gun was jammed. of course, he took the gun. what's the use of trying to lie to me?" "he did. what could i do?" "and now you want him potted--from ambush." "what's the use of waiting? who'd know?" the two men stood face to face in the quiet and deepening dusk of the barn; and there was growing determination on each face. "every day our chance is less and less," dave went on. "we've been thinking we're safe, but if he knows where that agreement is, we're not safe at all. how would you like to get booted off these three thousand acres now, just after we've all got attached to them? to start making our living as day laborers--and maybe face a hangin' for some things of long ago? with this land behind him, he'd be in a position to pay old debts, i'm telling you. we're not secure, and you know it. the law doesn't forget, and it doesn't forgive. we've been fooling away our time ever since we knew he was coming. we should have met him on the trail and let the buzzards talk to him." "yes," simon echoed in a strange half-whisper. "let the buzzards talk to him." dave took fresh heart at the sound of that voice. "no one would have ever knowed it," he went on. "no one would ever know it now. they'd find his bones, some time maybe, but there'd be no one to point to. they'd never get any thing against us. everybody except the mountain people have forgotten about this affair. those in the mountains are too scattered and few to take any part in it. i tell you--it's all the way, or no way at all. tell me to wait for him on the trail." "wait. wait a minute. how long before he will come?" "any time now. and don't postpone this matter any more. we're men, not babies. he's not a fool or not a coward, either. he's got his old man's blood in him--not his mother's to run away. as long as he ain't croaked, all we've done so far is apt to come to nothing. and there's one thing more. he's going to take the blood-feud up again." "lots of good it would do him. one against a dozen." "but he's a shot--i saw that plain enough--and how'd you like to have him shoot through _your_ windows some time? old elmira and linda have set him on, and he's hot for it." "i wish you'd got that old heifer when you got her son," simon said. he still spoke calmly; but it was plain enough that dave's words were having the desired effect. dave could discern this fact by certain lights and expressions about the pupils of his brother's eyes, signs learned and remembered long ago. "so he's taken up the blood-feud, has he? i thought i gave his father some lessons in that a long time since. well, i suppose we must let him have his way!" "and remember too," dave urged, "what you told him when you met him in the store. you said you wouldn't warn him twice." "i remember." the two men were silent, but dave stood no longer motionless. the motions that he made, however, were not discernible in the growing gloom of the barn. he was shivering all over with malice and fury. "then you've given the word?" he asked. "i've given the word, but i'll do it my own way. listen, dave." simon stood, head bent, deep in thought. "could you arrange to have linda and the old hag out of the house when bruce gets back?" "yes--" "we've got to work this thing right. we can't operate in the open like we used to. this man has taken up the blood-feud--but the thing to do--is to let him come to us." "but he won't do it. he'll go to the courts first." simon's face grew stern. "i don't want any more interruptions, dave. i mean we will want to give the impression that he attacked us first--on his own free will. what if he comes into our house-a man unknown in these parts--and something happens to him there--in the dead of night? it wouldn't look so bad then, would it? besides--if we got him here--before the clan, we might be able to find out where that document is. at least we'll have him here where everything will be in our favor. first, how can you tell when he's going to come?" "he ought to be here very soon. the moon's bright and i can get up on the ridge and see his shadow through your field glasses when he crosses the big south pasture. that will give me a full half-hour before he comes." "it's enough. i'm ready to give you your orders now. they are--just to use your head, and on some pretext get those two women out of the house so that bruce can't find them when he returns. don't let them come back for an hour, if you can help it. if it works--all right. if it doesn't, we'll use more direct measures. i'll tend to the rest." he strode to the wall and took down a saddle from the hook. quickly he threw it over the back of one of the cow ponies, the animal that he had punished. he put the bridle in dave's hand. "stop at the house for the glasses, then ride to the ridge at once," he ordered. "then keep watch." without words dave led the horse through the door and swung on to its back. in an instant the wild folk, in the fringe of forest beyond, paused in their night occupations to listen to the sound of hoof beats on the turf. then simon slowly saddled his own horse. xix the day was quite dead when dave turner reached his post on top of the ridge. the gray of twilight had passed, the forest was lost in darkness, the stars were all out. the only vestige of daylight that remained was a pale, red glow over the western mountains,--and this was more like red flowers that had been placed on its grave in remembrance. fortunately, the moon rose early. otherwise dave's watch would have been in vain. the soft light wrought strange miracles in the forest: bathing the tree tops in silver, laying wonderful cobweb tapestries between the trunks, upsetting the whole perspective as to distance and contour. dave didn't have long to wait. at the end of a half-hour he saw, through the field glasses, the wavering of a strange black shadow on the distant meadow. only the vivid quality of the full moon enabled him to see it at all. he tried to get a better focus. it might be just the shadow of deer, come to browse on the parched grass. dave felt a little tremor of excitement at the thought that if it were not bruce, it was more likely the last of the grizzlies, the killer. the previous night the gray forest king had made an excursion into simon's pastures and had killed a yearling calf; in all probability he would return to-night to finish his feast. in fact, this night would in all probability see the end of the killer. some one of the turners would wait for him, with a loaded rifle, in a safe ambush. but it wasn't the killer, after all. it was before his time; besides, the shadow was too slender to be that of the huge bear. dave turner watched a moment longer, so that there could be no possibility of a mistake. bruce was returning; he was little more than a half-hour's walk from linda's home. turner swung on his horse, then lashed the animal into a gallop. less than five minutes later he drew up to a halt beneath the sentinel pine, almost a mile distant. for the first time, dave began to move cautiously. it would complicate matters if the two women had already gone to bed. the hour was early--not yet nine--but the fall of darkness is often the going-to-bed time of the mountain people. it is warmer there and safer; and the expense of candles is lessened. incidentally, it is the natural course for the human breed,--to bed at nightfall and up at dawn; and only distortion of nature can change the habit. it is doubtful if even the earliest men--those curious, long-armed, stiff-thumbed, heavy-jowled forefathers far remote--were ever night hunters. like the hawks and most of the other birds of prey they were content to leave the game trails to the beasts at night. as life in the mountains gets down to a primitive basis, most of the hill people soon fall into this natural course. but to-night linda and old elmira were sitting up, waiting for bruce's return. a candle flame flickered at the window. dave went up to the door and knocked. "who's there?" elmira called. it was a habit learned in the dreadful days of twenty years ago, not to open a door without at least some knowledge of who stood without. a lighted doorway sets off a target almost as well as a field of white sets off a black bull's-eye. dave knew that truth was the proper course. "dave turner," he replied. a long second of heavy, strange silence ensued. then the woman spoke again. there was a new note in her voice, a curious hoarseness, but at the same time a sense of exultation and excitement. but dave didn't notice it. perhaps the oaken door that the voice came through stripped away all the overtones; possibly his own perceptions were too blunt to receive it. he might, however, have been interested in the singular look of wonder that flashed over linda's face as she stared at her aged aunt. linda was not thinking of dave. she had forgotten that he stood outside. his visit was the last thing that either of them expected--except, perhaps, on some such deadly business as the clan had come years before--yet she found no space in her thought for him. her whole attention was seized and held by the unfamiliar note in her aunt's voice, and a strange drawing of the woman's features that the closed door prevented dave from seeing. it was a look almost of rapture, hardly to be expected in the presence of an enemy. the dim eyes seemed to glow in the shadows. it was the look of one who had wandered steep and unknown trails for uncounted years and sees the distant lights of his home at last. she got up from her chair and moved over to the little pack she had carried on her back when she had walked up from her cabin. linda still gazed at her in growing wonder. the long years seemed to have fallen away from her; she slipped across the uncarpeted floor with the agility and silence of a tiger. she always had given the impression of latent power, but never so much as now. she took some little object from the bag and slipped it next to her withered and scrawny breast. "what do you want?" she called out into the gloom. dave had been getting a little restless in the silence; but the voice reassured him. "i'll tell you when you open the door. it's something about bruce." linda remembered him then. she leaped to the door and flung it wide. she saw the stars without, the dark fringe of pines against the sky line behind. she felt the wind and the cool breath of the darkness. but most of all she saw the cunning, sharp-featured face of dave turner, with the candlelight upon him. the yellow beams were in his eyes too. they seemed full of guttering lights. the few times that linda had talked to dave she had always felt uneasy beneath his speculative gaze. the same sensation swept over her now. she knew perfectly what she would have had to expect, long since, from this man, were it not that he had lived in fear of his brother simon. the mighty leader of the clan had set a barrier around her as far as personal attentions went,--and his reasons were obvious. the mountain girls do not usually attain her perfection of form and face; his desire for her was as jealous as it was intense and real. this dark-hearted man of great and terrible emotions did not only know how to hate. in his own savage way he could love too. linda hated and feared him, but the emotion was wholly different from the dread and abhorrence with which she regarded dave. "what about bruce?" she demanded. dave leered. "do you want to see him? he's lying--up here on the hill." the tone was knowing, edged with cruelty; and it had the desired effect. the color swept from the girl's face. in a single fraction of an instant it showed stark white in the candlelight. there was an instant's sensation of terrible cold. but her voice was hard and lifeless when she spoke. "you mean you've killed him?" she asked simply. "we ain't killed him. we've just been teaching him a lesson," dave explained. "simon warned him not to come up--and we've had to talk to him a little--with fists and heels." linda cried out then, one agonized syllable. she knew what fists and heels could do in the fights between the mountain men. they are as much weapons of torture as the claws and fangs of the killer. she had an instant's dread picture of this strong man of hers lying maimed and broken, a battered, whimpering, ineffective thing in the moonlight of some distant hillside. the vision brought knowledge to her. even more clearly than in the second of their kiss, before he had gone to see hudson, she realized what an immutable part of her he was. she gazed with growing horror at dave's leering face. "where is he?" she asked. she remembered, with singular steadfastness, the pistol she had concealed in her own room. "i'll show you. if you want to get him in you'd better bring the old hag with you. it'll take two of you to carry him." "i'll come," the old woman said from across the shadowed room. she spoke with a curious breathlessness. "i'll go at once." the door closed behind the three of them, and they went out into the moonlit forest. dave walked first. there was an unlooked-for eagerness in his motions, but linda thought that she understood it. it was wholly characteristic of him that he should find a degenerate rapture in showing these two women the terrible handiwork of the turners. he rejoiced in just this sort of cruelty. she had no suspicion that this excursion was only a pretext to get the two women away from the house, and that his eagerness arose from deeper causes. it was true that dave exulted in the work, and strangely the fact that it was part of the plot against bruce had been almost forgotten in the face of a greater emotion. he was alone in the darkness with linda--except of course for a helpless old woman--and the command of simon in regard to his attitude toward her seemed suddenly dim and far away. he led them over a hill, into the deeper forest. he walked swiftly, eagerly; the two women could hardly keep pace with him. he left the dim trail and skirted about the thickets. no cry for help could carry from this lonely place. no watchman on a hill could see what transpired in the heavy coverts. so intent was he that he quite failed to observe a singular little signal between old elmira and linda. the woman half turned about, giving the girl an instant's glimpse of something that she transferred from her breast to her sleeve. it was slender and of steel, and it caught the moonlight on its shining surface. the girl's eyes glittered when she beheld it. she nodded, scarcely perceptibly, and the strange file plunged deeper into the shadows. fifteen minutes later dave drew up to a halt in a little patch of moonlight, surrounded by a wall of low trees and brush. "there's more than one way to make a date for a walk with a pretty girl," he said. the girl stared coldly into his eyes. "what do you mean?" she asked. the man laughed harshly. "i mean that bruce ain't got back yet--he's still on the other side of little river, for all i know--" "then why did you bring us here?" "just to be sociable," dave returned. "i'll tell you, linda. i wanted to talk to you. i ain't been in favor of a lot of things simon's been doing--to you and your people. i thought maybe you and i would like to be--friends." no one could mistake the emotion behind the strained tone, the peculiar languor in the furtive eyes. the girl drew back, shuddering. "i'm going back," she told him. "wait. i'll take you back soon. let's have a kiss and make friends. the old lady won't look--" he laughed again, a hoarse sound that rang far through the silences. he moved toward her, hands reaching. she backed away. then she half-tripped over an outstretched root. the next instant she was in his arms, struggling against their steel. she didn't waste words in pleading. a sob caught at her throat, and she fought with all her strength against the drawn, nearing face. she had forgotten elmira; in this dreadful moment of terror and danger the old woman's broken strength seemed too little to be of aid. and dave thought her as helpless to oppose him as the tall pines that watched from above them. his wild laughter obscured the single sound that she made, a strange cry that seemed lacking in all human quality. rather it was such a sound as a puma utters as it leaps upon its prey. it was the articulation of a whole life of hatred that had come to a crisis at last,--of deadly and terrible triumph after a whole decade of waiting. if dave had discerned that cry in time he would have hurled linda from his arms to leap into a position of defense. the desire for women in men goes down to the roots of the world, but self-preservation is a deeper instinct still. but he didn't hear it in time. elmira had not struck with her knife. the distance was too far for that. but she swung her cane with all her force. the blow caught the man at the temple, his arms fell away from the girl's body, he staggered grotesquely in the carpet of pine needles. then he fell face downward. "his belt, quick!" the woman cried. no longer was her voice that of decrepit age. the girl struggled with herself, wrenched back her self-control, and leaped to obey her aunt. they snatched the man's belt from about his waist, and the women locked it swiftly about his ankles. with strong, hard hands they drew his wrists back of him and tied them tight with the long bandana handkerchief he wore about his neck. they worked almost in silence, with incredible rapidity and deftness. the man was waking now, stirring in his unconsciousness, and swiftly the old woman cut the buckskin thongs from his tall logging boots. these also she twisted about the wrists, knotting them again and again, and pulling them so tight they were almost buried in the lean flesh. then they turned him face upward to the moon. the two women stood an instant, breathing hard. "what now?" linda asked. and a shiver of awe went over her at the sight of the woman's face. "nothing more, linda," she answered, in a distant voice. "leave dave turner to me." it was a strange picture. womanhood--the softness and tenderness which men have learned to associate with the name--seemed fallen away from linda and elmira. they were only avengers,--like the she-bear that fights for her cubs or the she-wolf that guards the lair. there was no more mercy in them than in the females of the lower species. the moon flooded the place with silver, the pines were dark and impassive as ever above them. dave wakened. they saw him stir. they watched him try to draw his arms from behind him. it was just a faint, little-understanding pull at first. then he wrenched and tugged with all his strength, flopping strangely in the dirt. the effort increased until it was some way suggestive of an animal in the death struggle,--a fur bearer dying in the trap. terror was upon him. it was in his wild eyes and his moonlit face; it was in the desperation and frenzy of his struggles. and the two women saw it and smiled into each other's eyes. slowly his efforts ceased. he lay still in the pine needles. he turned his head, first toward linda, then to the inscrutable, dark face of the old woman. as understanding came to him, the cold drops emerged upon his swarthy skin. "good god!" he asked. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going back," linda answered. "you had some other purpose in bringing me out here--or you wouldn't have brought elmira, too. i'm going back to wait for bruce." "and you and i will linger here," elmira told him. "we have many things to say to each other. we have many things to do. about my abner--there are many things you'll want to hear of him." the last vestige of the man's spirit broke beneath the words. abner had been old elmira's son,--a youth who had laughed often, and the one hope of the old woman's declining years. and he had fallen before dave's ambush in a half-forgotten fight of long years before. the man shivered in his bonds. linda turned to go. the silence of the wilderness deepened about them. "oh, linda, linda," the man called. "don't leave me. don't leave me here with her!" he pleaded. "please--please don't leave me in this devil's power. make her let me go." but linda didn't seem to hear. the brush crackled and rustled; and the two--this dark-hearted man and the avenger--were left together. xx the homeward journey over the ridges had meant only pleasure to bruce. every hour of it had brought a deeper and more intimate knowledge of the wilderness. the days had been full of little, nerve-tingling adventures, and the nights full of peace. and beyond all these, there was the hope of seeing linda again at the end of the trail. thoughts of her hardly ever left him throughout the long tramp. she had more than fulfilled every expectation. it was true that he had found no one of his own kin, as he had hoped; but the fact opened up new possibilities that would have been otherwise forbidden. it was strange how he remembered her kiss. he had known other kisses in his days--being a purely rational and healthy young man--but there had been nothing of immortality about them. their warmth had died quickly, and they had been forgotten. they were just delights of moonlight nights and nothing more. but he would wake up from his dreams at night to feel linda's kiss still upon his lips. to recall it brought a strange tenderness,--a softening of all the hard outlines of his picture of life. it changed his viewpoint; it brought him a knowledge of a joy and a gentleness that could exist even in this stern world of wilderness and pines. with her face lingering before his eyes, the ridges themselves seemed less stern and forbidding; there were softer messages in the wind's breath; the drama of the wild that went on about him seemed less remorseless and cruel. he remembered the touch of her hands. they had been so cool, so gentle. he remembered the changing lights in her dark eyes. life had opened up new vistas to him. instead of a stern battleground, he began to realize that it had a softer, gentler, kinder side,--a place where there could be love as well as hatred, peace as well as battle, cheery homes and firesides and pleasant ways and laughter instead of cold ways and lonely trails and empty hearts and grim thoughts. perhaps, if all went well, tranquillity might come to him after all. perhaps he might even know the tranquil spirit of the pines. these were mating days. it was true that the rutting season had not, in reality, commenced. the wolf pack had not yet gathered, and would not until after the heavy frosts. but the bucks had begun to rub the velvet from their horns so that they would be hard and sharp for the fights to come. and these would be savage battles--with death at the end of many of them. but perhaps the joys that would follow--the roving, mating days with the does--would more than make up for their pain. the trim females were seen less often with their fawns; and they seemed strangely restless and tremulous, perhaps wondering what fortune the fall would have for them in the way of a mate. the thought gave bruce pleasure. he could picture the deer herd in the fall,--the proud buck in the lead, ready to fight all contenders, his harem of does, and what fawns and young bucks he permitted to follow him. they would make stealing journeys down to the foothills to avoid the snow, and all manner of pleasures would be theirs in the gentler temperatures of the lowlands. they would know crisp dawns and breathless nights, long runnings into the valleys, and to the does the realization of motherhood when the spring broke. but aside from his contemplations of linda, the long tramp had many delights for him. he rejoiced in every manifestation of the wild life about him, whether it was a bushy-tailed old gray squirrel, watching him from a tree limb, a magpie trying its best to insult him, or the fleeting glimpse of a deer in the coverts. once he saw the black form of ashur the bear, mumbling and grunting as he searched under rotten logs for grubs. but he didn't see the killer again. he didn't particularly care to do so. he kept his rifle ready during the day for game, but he shot only what he needed. he did not attempt to kill the deer. he knew that he would have no opportunity to care for the meat. but he did, occasionally, shoot the head off a cock-grouse at close range, and no chef of paris could offer a more tempting dish than its flesh, rolled in flour and served up, fried brown, in bacon grease. it was mostly white meat, exceedingly tender, yet with the zest of wild game. but he dined on bacon exclusively one night because, after many misses at grouse, he declined to take the life of a gray squirrel that had perched in an oak tree above the trail. someway, it seemed to be getting too much pleasure out of life for him to blast it with a rifle shot. a squirrel has only a few ounces of flesh, and the woods without them would be dull and inane indeed. besides, they were bright-eyed, companionable people--dwellers of the wilderness even as bruce--and their personality had already endeared itself to him. once he startled a fawn almost out of its wits when he came upon it suddenly in a bend in the trail, and he shouted with delight as it bounded awkwardly away. once a porcupine rattled its quills at him and tried to seem very ferocious. but it was all the most palpable of bluffs, for urson, while particularly adept at defense, has no powers of offense whatever. he cannot move quickly. he can't shoot his spines, as the story-books say. he can only sit on the ground and erect them into a sort of suit of armor to repel attack. but bruce knew enough not to attempt to stroke the creature. if he had done so, he would have spent the remainder of the season pulling out spines from the soft flesh of his hand. urson was a patient, stupid, guileless creature, and he and bruce had a strange communion together as they stood face to face on the trail. "you've got the right idea," bruce told him. "to erect a wall around you and let 'em yell outside without giving them a thought. to stand firm, not to take part. you're a true son of the pines, urson. now let me past." but the idea was furthest from urson's mind. he sat firm on the trail, hunched into a spiny ball. instead of killing him with his rifle butt, as dave would have done, bruce laughed good-naturedly and went around him. both days of the journey home he wakened sharply at dawn. the cool, morning hours were the best for travel. he would follow down the narrow, brown trail,--now through a heavy covert that rustled as the wild creatures sped from his path, now up a long ridge, now down into a still, dark glen, and sometimes into a strange, bleak place where the forest fire had swept. every foot was a delight to him. he was of naturally strong physique, and although the days fatigued him unmercifully, he always wakened refreshed in the dawn. at noon he would stop to lunch, eating a few pieces of jerkey and frying a single flapjack in his skillet. he learned how to effect it quickly, first letting his fire burn down to coals. and usually, during the noon rest, he would practice with his rifle. he knew that if he were to fight the turners, skill with a rifle was an absolute necessity; such skill as would have felled the grizzly with one shot instead of administering merely a flesh wound, accuracy to take off the head of a grouse at fifty yards; and at the same time, an ability to swing and aim the weapon in the shortest possible space of time. the only thing that retarded him was the realization that he must not waste too many cartridges. elmira had brought him only a small supply. he would walk all afternoon--going somewhat easier and resting more often than in the morning; and these were the times that he appreciated a fragment of jerked venison. he would halt just before nightfall and make his camp. the first work was usually to strip a young fir tree of its young, slender branches. these, according to linda's instructions, were laid on the ground, their stalks overlapping, and in a remarkably few minutes he could construct a bed as comfortable as a hair mattress. it was true that the work always came at an hour when most of all he wanted food and rest, but he knew that a restless night means quick fatigue the next day. then he would clean his game and build his fire and cook his evening meal. simple food had never tasted so good to him before. bacon grease was his only flavor, but it had a zest that all the sauces and dressings of france could not approach. the jerkey was crisp and nutty; his flapjacks went directly to the spot where he desired them to go. but the best hour of all was after his meal, as he sat in the growing shadows with his pipe. it was always an hour of calm. the little, breathless noises of the wild people in the thickets; the gophers, to whose half blind eyes--used to the darkness of their underground passages--the firelight was almost blinding; the chipmunks, and even the larger creatures came clearest to him then and told him more. but they didn't frighten him. ordinarily, he knew, the forest creatures of the southern oregon mountains mean and do no harm to lonely campers. nevertheless, he kept fairly accurate track of his rifle. he had enough memory of the charge of the killer to wish to do that. and he thought with some pleasure that he had a reserve arsenal,--dave's thirty-thirty with five shells in its magazine. at this hour he felt the spirit of the pines as never before. he knew their great, brooding sorrow, their infinite wisdom, their inexpressible aloofness with which they kept watch over the wilderness. the smoke would drift about him in soothing clouds; the glow of the coals was red and warm over him. he could think then. life revealed some of its lesser mysteries to him. and he began to glimpse the distant gleam of even greater truths, and sometimes it seemed to him that he could almost catch and hold them. always it was some message that the pines were trying to tell him,--partly in words they made when their limbs rubbed together, partly in the nature of a great allegory of which their dark, impassive forms were the symbols. if he could only see clearly! but it seemed to him that passion blinded his eyes. "they talk only to the stars," linda had said once of the pines. but he had no illusions about this talk of theirs. it was greater, more fraught with wisdom, than anything men might say together below them. he could imagine them telling high secrets that he himself could discern but dimly and could hardly understand. more and more he realized that the pines, like the stars, were living symbols of great powers who lived above the world, powers that would speak to men if they would but listen long and patiently enough, and in whose creed lay happiness. when the pipe was out he would go to his fragrant bed. the night hours would pass in a breath. and he would rise and go on in the crisp dawns. the last afternoon he traveled hard. he wanted to reach linda's house before nightfall. but the trail was too long for that. the twilight fell, to find him still a weary two miles distant. and the way was quite dark when he plunged into the south pasture of the ross estates. half an hour later he was beneath the sentinel pine. he wondered why linda was not waiting beneath it; in his fancy, he thought of it as being the ordained place for her. but perhaps she had merely failed to hear his footsteps. he called into the open door. "linda," he said. "i've come back." no answer reached him. the words rang through the silent rooms and echoed back to him. he walked over the threshold. a chair in the front room was turned over. his heart leaped at the sight of it. "linda," he called in alarm, "where are you? it's bruce." he stood an instant listening, a great fear creeping over him. he called once more, first to linda and then to the old woman. then he leaped through the doorway. the kitchen was similarly deserted. from there he went to linda's room. her coat and hat lay on the bed, but there was no linda to stretch her arms to him. he started to go out the way he had come, but went instead to his own room. a sheet of note-paper lay on the bed. it had been scrawled hurriedly; but although he had never received a written word from linda he did not doubt but that it was her hand: the turners are coming--i caught a glimpse of them on the ridge. there is no use of my trying to resist, so i'll wait for them in the front room and maybe they won't find this note. they will take me to simon's house, and i know from its structure that they will lock me in an interior room in the east wing. use the window on that side nearest the north corner. my one hope is that you will come at once to save me. bruce's eyes leaped over the page; then thrust it into his pocket. he slipped through the rear door of the house, into the shadows. xxi as bruce hurried up the hill toward the ross estates, he made a swift calculation of the rifle shells in his pocket. the gun held six. he had perhaps fifteen others in his pockets, and he hadn't stopped to replenish them from the supply elmira had brought. he hadn't brought dave's rifle with him, but had left it with the remainder of his pack. he knew that the lighter he traveled the greater would be his chance of success. the note had explained the situation perfectly. obviously the girl had written when the clan was closing about the house, and finding her in the front room, there had been no occasion to search the other rooms and thus discover it. the girl had kept her head even in that moment of crisis. a wave of admiration for her passed over him. and the little action had set an example for him. he knew that only rigid self-control and cool-headed strategy could achieve the thing he had set out to do. there must be no false motions, no missteps. he must put out of his mind all thought of what dreadful fate might have already come upon the girl; such fancies would cost him his grip upon his own faculties and lose him the power of clear thinking. his impulse was to storm the door, to pour his lead through the lighted windows; but such things could never take linda out of simon's hands. only stealth and caution, not blind courage and frenzy, could serve her now. such blind killing as his heart prompted had to wait for another time. nevertheless, the stock of his rifle felt good in his hands. perhaps there would be a running fight after he got the girl out of the house, and then his cartridges would be needed. there might even be a moment of close work with what guards the turners had set over her. but the heavy stock, used like a club, would be most use to him then. he knew only the general direction of the ross house where simon lived. linda had told him it rested upon the crest of a small hill, beyond a ridge of timber. the moonlight showed him a well-beaten trail, and he strode swiftly along it. for once, he gave no heed to the stirring forest life about him. when a dead log had fallen across his path, he swung over it and hastened on. he had a vague sense of familiarity with this winding trail. perhaps he had toddled down it as a baby, perhaps his mother had carried him along it on a neighborly visit to the rosses. he went over the hill and pushed his way to the edge of the timber. all at once the moon showed him the house. he couldn't mistake it, even at this distance. and to bruce it had a singular effect of unreality. the mountain men did not ordinarily build homes of such dimensions. they were usually merely log cabins of two or three lower rooms and a garret to be reached with a ladder; or else, on the rough mountain highways, crude dwellings of unpainted frame. the ancestral home of the rosses, however, had fully a dozen rooms, and it loomed to an incredible size in the mystery of the moonlight. he saw quaint gabled roofs and far-spreading wings. and it seemed more like a house of enchantment, a structure raised by the rubbing of a magic lamp, than the work of carpenters and masons. probably its wild surroundings had a great deal to do with this effect. there were no roads leading to trail's end. material could not be carried over its winding trails except on pack animals. he had a realization of tremendous difficulties that had been conquered by tireless effort, of long months of unending toil, of exhaustless patience, and at the end,--a dream come true. all of its lumber had to be hewed from the forests about. its stone had been quarried from the rock cliffs and hauled with infinite labor over the steep trails. he understood now why the turners had coveted it. it seemed the acme of luxury to them. and more clearly than ever he understood why the rosses had died, sooner than relinquish it, and why its usurpation by the turners had left such a debt of hatred to linda. it was such a house as men dream about, a place to bequeath to their children and to perpetuate their names. built like a rock, it would stand through the decades, to pass from one generation to another,--an enduring monument to the strong thews of the men who had builded it. all men know that the love of home is one of the few great impulses that has made toward civilization, but by the same token it has been the cause of many wars. it was never an instinct of a nomadic people, and possibly in these latter days--days of apartments and flats and hotels--its hold is less. perhaps the day is coming when this love will die in the land, but with it will die the strength to repel the heathen from our walls, and the land will not be worth living in, anyway. but it was not dead to the mountain people. no really primitive emotion ever is. perhaps, after all, it is a question of the age-old longing for immortality, and therefore it must have its seat in a place higher than this world of death. men know that when they walk no longer under the sun and the moon it is good to have certain monuments to keep their name alive, whether it be blocks of granite at the grave-head, or sons living in an ancestral home. the rosses had known this instinct very well. as all men who are strong-thewed and of real natural virtue, they had known pride of race and name, and it had been a task worth while to build this stately house on their far-lying acres. they had given their fiber to it freely; no man who beheld the structure could doubt that fact. they had simply consecrated their lives to it; their one work by which they could show to all who came after that by their own hands they had earned their right to live. they had been workers, these men; and there is no higher degree. but their achievements had been stolen from their hands. bruce felt the real significance of his undertaking as never before. he saw the broad lands lying under the moon. there were hundreds of acres in alfalfa and clover to furnish hay for the winter feeding. there were wide, green pastures, ensilvered by the moon; and fields of corn laid out in even rows. the old appeal of the soil, an instinct that no person of anglo-saxon descent can ever completely escape, swept through him. they were worth fighting for, these fertile acres. the wind brought up the sweet breath of ripening hay. not for nothing have a hundred generations of anglo-saxon people been tillers of the soil. they had left a love of it to bruce. in a single flash of thought, even as he hastened toward the house where he supposed linda was held prisoner, the ancient joy returned to him. he knew what it would be like to feel the earth's pulse through the handles of a plow, to behold the first start of green things in the spring and the golden ripening in fall; to watch the flocks through the breathless nights and the herds feeding on the distant hills. bruce looked over the ground. he knew enough not to continue the trail farther. the space in front was bathed in moonlight, and he would make the best kind of target to any rifle-man watching from the windows of the house. he turned through the coverts, seeking the shadow of the forests at one side. by going in a quartering direction he was able to approach within two hundred yards of the house without emerging into the moonlight. at that point the real difficulty of the stalk began. he hovered in the shadows, then slipped one hundred feet farther to the trunk of a great oak tree. he could see the house much more plainly now. true, it had suffered neglect in the past twenty years; it needed painting and many of its windows were broken, but it was a magnificent old mansion even yet. it stood lost in its dreams in the moonlight; and if, as old stories say, houses have memories, this old structure was remembering certain tragic dramas that had waged within and about it in a long-ago day. bruce rejoiced to see that there were no lights in the east wing of the house; the window that linda had indicated in the note was just a black square on the moonlit wall. there was a neglected garden close to this wing of the house. bruce could make out rose bushes, grown to brambles, tall, rank weeds, and heavy clumps of vines. if he could reach this spot in safety he could approach within a few feet of the house and still remain in cover. he went flat; then slowly crawled toward it. once a light sprang up in a window near the front, and he pressed close to the earth. but in a moment it went away. he crept on. he didn't know when a watchman in one of the dark windows would discern his creeping figure. but he did know perfectly just what manner of greeting he might expect in this event. there would be a single little spurt of fire in the darkness, so small that probably his eyes would quite fail to catch it. if they did discern it, there would be no time for a message to be recorded in his brain. it would mean a swift and certain end of all messages. the turners would lose no time in emptying their rifles at him, and there wouldn't be the slightest doubt about their hitting the mark. all the clan were expert shots and the range was close. the house was deeply silent. he felt a growing sense of awe. in a moment more, he slipped into the shadows of the neglected rose gardens. he lay quiet an instant, resting. he didn't wish to risk the success of his expedition by fatiguing himself now. he wanted his full strength and breath for any crisis that he should meet in the room where linda was confined. many times, he knew, skulking figures had been concealed in this garden. probably the turners, in the days of the blood-feud, had often waited in its shadows for a sight of some one of their enemies in a lighted window. old ghosts dwelt in it; he could see their shadows waver out of the corner of his eyes. or perhaps it was only the shadow of the brambles, blown by the wind. once his heart leaped into his throat at a sharp crack of brush beside him; and he could scarcely restrain a muscular jerk that might have revealed his position. but when he turned his head he could see nothing but the coverts and the moon above them. a garden snake, or perhaps a blind mole, had made the sound. four minutes later he was within one dozen feet of the designated window. there was a stretch of moonlight between, but he passed it quickly. and now he stood in bold relief against the moonlit house-wall. he was in perfectly plain sight of any one on the hill behind. possibly his distant form might have been discerned from the window of one of the lesser houses occupied by simon's kin. but he was too close to the wall to be visible from the windows of simon's house, except by a deliberate scrutiny. and the window slipped up noiselessly in his hands. he was considerably surprised. he had expected this window to be locked. some way, he felt less hopeful of success. he recalled in his mind the directions that linda had left, wondering if he had come to the wrong window. but there was no chance of a mistake in this regard; it was the northernmost window in the east wing. however, she had said that she would be confined in an interior room, and possibly the turners had seen no need of barriers other than its locked door. probably they had not even anticipated that bruce would attempt a rescue. he leaped lightly upward and slipped silently into the room. except for the moonlit square on the floor it was quite in darkness. it seemed to him that even in the night hours over a camp fire he had never known such silence as this that pressed about him now. he stood a moment, hardly breathing. but he decided it was not best to strike a match. there were no enemies here, or they certainly would have accosted him when he raised the window; and a match might reveal his presence to some one in an adjoining room. he rested his hand against the wall, then moved slowly around the room. he knew that by this course he would soon encounter the door that led into the interior rooms. in a moment he found it. he stood waiting. he turned the knob gently; then softly pulled. but the door was locked. there was no sound now but the loud beating of his own heart. he could no longer hear the voices of the wind outside the open window. he wondered whether, should he hurl all his magnificent strength against the panels, he could break the lock; and if he did so, whether he could escape with the girl before he was shot down. but his hand, wandering over the lock, encountered the key. it was easy, after all. he turned the key. the door opened beneath his hand. if there had been a single ray of light under the door or through the keyhole, his course would have been quite different. he would have opened the door suddenly in that case, hoping to take by surprise whosoever of the clan were guarding linda. to open a door slowly into a room full of enemies is only to give them plenty of time to cock their rifles. but in this case the room was in darkness, and all that he need fear was making a sudden sound. the opening slowly widened. then he slipped through and stood ten breathless seconds in silence. "linda," he whispered. he waited a long time for an answer. then he stole farther into the room. "linda," he said again. "it's bruce. are you here?" and in that unfathomable silence he heard a sound--a sound so dim and small that it only reached the frontier of hearing. it was a strange, whispering, eerie sound, and it filled the room like the faintest, almost imperceptible gust of wind. but there was no doubting its reality. and after one more instant in which his heart stood still, he knew what it was: the sound of suppressed breathing. a living creature occupied this place of darkness with him, and was either half-gagged by a handkerchief over the face or was trying to conceal its presence by muffling its breathing. "linda," he said again. there was a strange response to the calling of that name. he heard no whispered answer. instead, the door he had just passed through shut softly behind him. for a fleeting instant he hoped that the wind had blown it shut. for it is always the way of youth to hope,--as long as any hope is left. his heart leaped and he whirled to face it. then he heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt being slid into place. some little space of time followed in silence. he struggled with growing horror, and time seemed limitless. then a strong man laughed grimly in the darkness. xxii as bruce waited, his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness. he began to see the dim outlines of his fellow occupants of the room,--fully seven brawny men seated in chairs about the walls. "let's hear you drop your rifle," one of them said. bruce recognized the grim voice as simon's,--heard on one occasion before. he let his rifle fall from his hands. he knew that only death would be the answer to any resistance to these men. then simon scratched a match, and without looking at him, bent to touch it to the wick of the lamp. the tiny flame sputtered and flickered, filling the room with dancing shadows. bruce looked about him. it was the same long, white-walled room that dave and simon had conversed in, after elmira had first dispatched her message by barney wegan. bruce knew that he faced the turner clan at last. simon sat beside the fireplace, the lamp at his elbow. as the wick caught, the light brightened and steadied, and bruce could see plainly. on each side of him, in chairs about the walls, sat simon's brothers and his blood relations that shared the estate with him. they were huge, gaunt men, most of them dark-bearded and sallow-skinned, and all of them regarded him with the same gaze of speculative interest. bruce did not flinch before their gaze. he stood erect as he could, instinctively defiant. "our guest is rather early," simon began. "dave hasn't come yet, and dave is the principal witness." a bearded man across the room answered him. "but i guess we ain't goin' to let the prisoner go for lack of evidence." the circle laughed then,--a harsh sound that was not greatly different from the laughter of the coyotes on the sagebrush hills. but they sobered when they saw that simon hadn't laughed. his dark eyes were glowing. "you, by no chance, met him on the way home, did you?" he asked. "i wish i had," bruce replied. "but i didn't." "i don't understand your eagerness. you didn't seem overly eager to meet us." bruce smiled wanly. these wilderness men regarded him with fresh interest. somehow, they hadn't counted on his smiling. it was almost as if he were of the wilderness breed himself, instead of the son of cities. "i'm here, am i not?" he said. "it isn't as if you came to my house first." he regarded the clansmen again. he _had_ missed dave's crafty face in the circle. "yes, you're here," simon confirmed. "and i'm wondering if you remember what i told you just as you left martin's store that day--that i gave no man two warnings." "i remember that," bruce replied. "i saw no reason for listening to you. i don't see any reason now, and i wouldn't if it wasn't for that row of guns." simon studied his pale face. "perhaps you'll be sorry you didn't listen, before this night is over. and there are many hours yet in it. bruce--you came up here to these mountains to open old wounds." "simon, i came up here to right wrongs--and you know it. if old wounds are opened, i can't help it." "and to-night," simon went on as if he had not been answered, "you have come unbidden into our house. it would be all the evidence the courts would need, bruce--that you crept into our house in the dead of night. if anything happened to you here, no word could be raised against us. you were a brave man, bruce." "so i can suppose you left the note?" the circle laughed again, but simon silenced them with a gesture. "you're very keen," he said. "then where is linda?" bruce's eyes hardened. "i am more interested in her whereabouts than in this talk with you." "the last seen of her, she was going up a hill with dave. when dave returns you can ask him." the bearded man opposite from simon uttered a short syllable of a laugh. "and it don't look like he's going to return," he said. the knowing look on his face was deeply abhorrent to bruce. curiously, simon's face flushed, and he whirled in his chair. "do you mean anything in particular, old bill?" he demanded. "it looks to me like maybe dave's forgot a lot of things you told him, and he and linda are havin' a little sparkin' time together out in the brush." the idea seemed to please the clan. but simon's eyes glowed, and bruce himself felt the beginnings of a blind rage that might, unless he held hard upon it, hurl him against their remorseless weapons. "i don't want any more such talk out of you, old bill," simon reproved him, "and we've talked enough, anyway." his keen eyes studied bruce's flushed face. "one of you give our guest a chair and fix him up in it with a thong. we don't want him flying off the coop and getting shot until we're done talking to him." one of the clansmen pushed a chair forward with sudden force, striking bruce in the knees and almost knocking him over. the circle leered, and he sat down in it with as much ease as possible. then one of the men looped his arms to the arms of the chair with thongs of buckskin. another thong was tied about his ankles. then the clansmen went back to their chairs. "i really don't see the use of all these dramatics," bruce said coldly. "and i don't particularly like veiled threats. at present i seem to be in your hands." "you don't seem to be," simon answered with reddening eyes. "you are." "i have no intention of saying i'm sorry i didn't heed the threats you gave me before--and as to those i've heard to-night--they're not going to do you any good, either. it is true that you found me in the house you occupy in the dead of night--but it isn't your house to start with. what a man seizes by murder isn't his." "what a man holds with a hard fist and his rifle--in these mountains--_is_ his," simon contradicted him. "besides, you got me here with a trick," bruce went on without heeding him. "so don't pretend that any wickedness you do to-night was justified by my coming. you'll have to answer for it just the same." simon leaned forward in his chair. his dark eyes glowed in the lamplight. "i've heard such talk as that before," he said. "i expect your own father talked like that a few times himself." the words seemed to strike straight home to the gathered turners. the moment was breathless, weighted with suspense. all of them seemed straining in their chairs. bruce's head bowed, but the veins stood out beneath the short hair on his temples, and his lips trembled when he answered. "that was a greater wickedness than anything--_anything_ you can do to-night. and you'll have to answer for it all the more." he spoke the last sentence with a calm assurance. though spoken softly, the words rang clear. but the answer of the evil-hearted man before him was only a laugh. "and there's one thing more i want to make clear," bruce went on in the strong voice of a man who had conquered his terror. and it was not because he did not realize his danger. he was in the hands of the turners, and he knew that simon had spoken certain words that, if for no other reason than his reputation with his followers, he would have to make good. bruce knew that no moment of his life was ever fraught with greater peril. but the fact itself that there were no doors of escape open to him, and he was face to face with his destiny, steadied him all the more. the boy that had been wakened in his bed at home by the ring of the 'phone bell had wholly vanished now. a man of the wild places had come instead, stern and courageous and unflinching. "everything is tolerable clear to us already," simon said, "except your sentence." "i want you to know that i refuse to be impressed with this judicial attitude of you and your blackguard followers," bruce went on. "this gathering of the group of you doesn't make any evil that you do any less wrong, or the payment you'll have to make any less sure. it lies wholly in your power to kill me while i'm sitting here, and i haven't much hope but that you'll do it. but let me tell you this. a reign of bloodshed and crime can go on only so long. you've been kings up here, and you think the law can't reach you. but it will--believe me, it will." "and this was the man who was going to begin the blood-feud--already hollering about the law," simon said to his followers. he turned to bruce. "it's plain that dave isn't going to come. i'll have to be the chief witness myself, after all. however, dave told me all that i needed to know. the first question i have to ask of you, folger, is the whereabouts of that agreement between your late lamented father and the late lamented matthew ross, according to what the trapper hudson told you a few days ago." bruce was strong enough to laugh in his bonds. "up to this time i have given you and your murderous crowd credit for at least natural intelligence," he replied, "but i see i was mistaken--or you wouldn't expect an answer to that question." "do you mean you don't know its whereabouts?" "i won't give you the satisfaction of knowing whether i know or not. i just refuse to answer." "i trust the ropes are tight enough about your wrists." "plenty tight, thank you. they are cutting the flesh so it bleeds." "how would you like them some tighter?" "pull them till they cut my arms off, and you won't get a civil answer out of me. in fact--" and the man's eyes blazed--"i'm tired of talking to this outlaw crowd. and the sooner you do what you're going to do, the better it will suit me." "we'll come to that shortly enough. disregarding that for a moment--we understand that you want to open up the blood-feud again. is that true?" bruce made no answer, only gazed without flinching into his questioner's face. "that was what my brother dave led me to understand," simon went on, "so we've decided to let you have your way. it's open--it's been open since you came here. you disregarded the warning i gave--and men don't disregard my warnings twice. you threatened dave with your rifle. this is a different land than you're used to, bruce, and we do things our own way. you've hunted for trouble and now you've found it. your father before you thought he could stand against us--but he's been lying still a long time. the rosses thought so too. and it is part of our code never to take back a threat--but always to make it good." bruce still sat with lowered head, seemingly not listening. the clansmen gazed at him, and a new, more deadly spirit was in the room. none of them smiled now; the whole circle of faces was dark and intent, their eyes glittered through narrowed lids, their lips set. the air was charged with suspense. the moment of crisis was near. sometimes the men glanced at their leader's face, and what they saw there filled them with a grim and terrible eagerness. simon was beginning to run true to form. his dark passions were slowly mastering him. for a moment they all sat as if entranced in a communion of cruelty, and to bruce they seemed like a colony of spotted rattlesnakes such as sometimes hold their communions of hatred on the sun-blasted cliffs. all at once simon laughed,--a sharp, hoarse sound that had, in its overtones, a note of madness. every man in the room started. they seemed to have forgotten bruce. they looked at their leader with a curious expectancy. they seemed to know that that wild laugh betokened but one thing--the impact of some terrible sort of inspiration. as they watched, they saw the idea take hold of him. the huge face darkened. his eyes seemed to smolder as he studied his huge hands. they understood, these wilderness men. they had seen their leader in such sessions before. a strange and grim idea had come to him; already he was feasting on its possibilities. it seemed to heat his blood and blur his vision. "we've decided to be merciful, after all," he said slowly. but neither bruce nor the clansmen misunderstood him or were deceived. they only knew that these words were simply part of a deadly jest that in a moment all would understand. "instead of filling you full of thirty-thirty bullets, as better men than you have been filled and what we _ought_ to do--we're just going to let you lay out all night--in the pasture--with your feet tied and your hands behind your back." no one relaxed. they listened, staring, for what would follow. "you may get a bit cold before morning," simon went on, "but you're warmly dressed, and a little frost won't hurt you. and i've got the place all picked out for you. and we're even going to move something that's laying there so it will be more pleasant." again he paused. bruce looked up. "the thing that's lying there is a dead yearling calf, half ate up. it was killed last night by the killer--the old grizzly that maybe you've heard of before. some of the boys were going to wait in trees to-night by the carcass and shoot the killer when he comes back after another meal--something that likely won't happen until about midnight if he runs true to form. but it won't be necessary now. we're going to haul the carcass away--down wind where he won't smell it. and we're going to leave you there in its place to explain to him what became of it." bruce felt their glowing eyes upon him. exultation was creeping over the clan; once more their leader had done himself proud. it was such suggestions as this that kept them in awe of him. and they thought they understood. they supposed that the night would be of the utter depths of terror to the tenderfoot from the cities, that the bear would sniff and wander about him, and perchance the man's hair would be turned quite white by morning. but being mountain men, they thought that the actual danger of attack was not great. they supposed that the inborn fear of men that all animals possess would keep him at a distance. and, if by any unlikely chance the theft of the beef-carcass should throw him into such a rage that he would charge bruce, no harm in particular would be done. the man was a folger, an enemy of the clan, and after once the telltale ropes were removed, no one would ask questions about the mutilated, broken thing that would be found next morning in the pasture. the story would carry down to the settlements merely as a fresh atrocity of the killer, the last and greatest of the grizzlies. but they had no realization of the full dreadfulness of the plan. they hadn't heard the more recent history of the killer,--the facts that simon had just learned from dave. strange and dark conjecturing occupied simon's mind, and he knew--in a moment's thought--that something more than terror and indignity might be bruce's fate. but his passion was ripe for what might come. the few significant facts that they did not know were merely that the killer had already found men out, that he had learned in an instant's meeting with hudson beside little river that men were no longer to be feared, and worse, that he was raving and deadly from the pain of the wound that bruce's bullet had inflicted. the circle of faces faded out for both of them as the eyes of bruce and simon met and clashed and battled in the silent room. xxiii "if simon turner isn't a coward," bruce said slowly to the clan, "he will give me a chance to fight him now." the room was wholly silent, and the clan turned expectant eyes to their leader. simon scowled, but he knew he had to make answer. his eyes crept over bruce's powerful body. "there is no obligation on my part to answer any challenges by you," he said. "you are a prisoner. but if you think you can sleep better in the pasture because of it, i'll let you have your chance. take off his ropes." a knife slashed at his bonds. simon stood up, and bruce sprang from his chair like a wild cat, aiming his hardened knuckles straight for the leering lips. he made the attack with astonishing swiftness and power, and his intention was to deliver at least one terrific blow before simon could get his arms up to defend himself. he had given the huge clan leader credit for tremendous physical strength, but he didn't think that the heavy body could move with real agility. but the great muscles seemed to snap into tension, the head ducked to one side, and his own huge fists struck out. if bruce's blow had gone straight home where it had been aimed, simon would have had nothing more to say for a few moments at least. when man was built of clay, nature saw fit to leave him with certain imperfections lest he should think himself a god, and a weak spot in the region of the chin is one of them. the jaw bones carry the impact of a hard blow to certain nerve centers near the temples, and restful sleep comes quickly. there are never any ill effects, unless further damage is inflicted while unconsciousness is upon him. in spite of the fact that simon got quickly into a position of defense, that first blow still had a fair chance of bringing the fight to an abrupt end. but still another consideration remained. bruce's muscles had refused to respond. the leap had been powerful and swift yet wholly inaccurate. and the reason was just that his wrists and ankles had been numbed by the tight thongs by which they had been confined. simon met the leap with a short, powerful blow into bruce's face; and he reeled backward. the arms of the clansmen alone kept him from falling. the blow seemed to daze bruce; and at first his only realization was that the room suddenly rang with harsh and grating laughter. then simon's words broke through it. "put back the thongs," he ordered, "and go get your horses." bruce was dimly aware of the falling of a silence, and then the arms of strong men half carrying him to the door. but he couldn't see plainly at first. the group stood in the shadow of the building; the moon was behind. he knew that the clan had brought their horses and were waiting for simon's command. they loosened the ropes from about his ankles, and two of the clansmen swung him on to the back of a horse. then they passed a rope under the horse's belly and tied his ankles anew. simon gave a command, and the strange file started. the night air dispelled the mists in bruce's brain, and full realization of all things came to him again. one of the men--he recognized him as young bill--led the horse on which he rode. two of the clansmen rode in front, grim, silent, incredibly tall figures in the moonlight. the remainder rode immediately behind. simon himself, bowed in his saddle, kept a little to one side. their shadows were long and grotesque on the soft grass of the meadows, and the only sound was the soft footfall of their mounts. a full mile distant across the lush fields the cavalcade halted about a grotesque shadow in the grass. bruce didn't have to look at it twice to know what it was: the half-devoured body of the yearling calf that had been the killer's prey the night before. from thence on, their operations became as outlandish occurrences in a dream. they seemed to know just what to do. they took him from the saddle and bound his feet again; then laid him in the fragrant grass. they searched his pockets, taking the forged note that had led to his downfall. "it saves me a trip," simon commented. he saw two of them lift the torn body of the animal on to the back of one of the horses, and he watched dully as the horse plunged and wheeled under the unfamiliar weight. he thought for an instant that it would step upon his own prone body, but he didn't flinch. simon spoke in the silence, but his words seemed to come from far away. "quiet that horse or kill him," he said softly. "you can't drag the carcass with your rope--the killer would trace it if you did and maybe spoil the evening for bruce." strong arms sawed at the bits, and the horse quieted, trembling. for a moment bruce saw their white moonlit faces as they stared down at him. "what about a gag?" one of them asked. "no. let him shout if he likes. there is no one to hear him here." then the tall men swung on their horses and headed back across the fields. bruce watched them dully. their forms grew constantly more dim, the sense of utter isolation increased. then he saw the file pause, and it seemed to him that words, too faint for him to understand, reached him across the moonlit spaces. then one of the party turned off toward the ridge. he guessed that it was simon. he thought the man was riding toward linda's home. he watched until the shadows had hidden them all. then, straining upward, he tested his bonds. he tugged with the full strength of his arms, but there was not the play of an inch between his wrists. the turners had done their work well. not the slightest chance of escape lay in this quarter. he wrenched himself to one side, then looked about him. the fields stretched even and distant on one side, but he saw that the dark forest was but fifty yards away on the other. he listened; and the little night sounds reached him clearly. they had been sounds to rejoice in before,--impulses to delightful fancies of a fawn stealing through the thickets, or some of the little people in their scurried, tremulous business of the night hours. but lying helpless at the edge of the forest, they were nothing to rejoice in now. he tried to shut his ears to them. he rolled again to his back and tried to find peace for his spirit in the stars. there were millions of them. they were larger and more bright than any time he had ever seen them. they stood in their high places, wholly indifferent and impassive to all the strife and confusion of the world below them; and bruce wished that he could partake of their spirit enough so that he could rise above the fear and bitterness that had begun to oppress him. but only the pines could talk to them. only the tall trees, stretching upward toward them, could reach into their mysterious calm. his eyes discerned a thin filament of cloud that had swept up from behind the ridges, and the sight recalled him to his own position with added force. the moonlight, soft as it was, had been a tremendous relief to him. at least, it would have enabled him to keep watch, and now he dreaded the fall of utter darkness more than he had ever dreaded anything in his life. it was an ancient instinct, coming straight from the young days of the world when nightfall brought the hunting creatures to the mouth of the cave, but he had never really experienced it before. if the clouds spread, the moon that was his last remaining solace would be obscured. he watched with growing horror the slow extension of the clouds. one by one the stars slipped beneath them. they drew slowly up to the moon and for a long minute seemed to hover. they were not heavy clouds, however, and in their thinner patches the stars looked dimly through. finally the moon swept under them. the shadow fell around bruce. for the first time he knew the age-old terror of the darkness. dreadful memories arose within him,--vague things that had their font in the labyrinthal depths of the germ-plasm. it is a knowledge that no man, with the weapons of the twentieth century in his hands and in the glow of that great symbol of domain, the camp fire, can really possess; but here, bound hand and foot in the darkness, full understanding came to bruce. he no longer knew himself as one of a dominant breed, master of all the wild things in the world. he was simply a living creature in a grim and unconquered world, alone and helpless in the terror of the darkness. the moonlight alternately grew and died as the moon passed in and out of the heavier cloud patches. winds must have been blowing in the high lanes of the air, but there was no breath of them where bruce lay. the forests were silent, and the little rustlings and stirrings that reached him from time to time only seemed to accentuate the quiet. he speculated on how many hours had passed. he wondered if he could dare to hope that midnight had already gone by and, through some divergence from wilderness customs, the grizzly had failed to return to his feast. it seemed endless hours since he had reëntered the empty rooms of linda's home. a wave of hope crept through the whole hydraulic system of his veins. and then, as a sudden sound reached him from the forests at one side, that bright wave of hope turned black, receded, and left only despair. he heard the sound but dimly. in fact, except for his straining with every nerve alert, he might not have heard it at all. nevertheless, distance alone had dimmed it; it had been a large sound to start with. so far had it come that only a scratch on the eardrums was left of it; but there was no chance to misunderstand it. it cracked out to him through the unfathomable silence, and all the elements by which he might recognize it were distinct. it was the noise of a heavy thicket being broken down and parted before an enormous body. he waited, scarcely breathing, trying to tell himself he had been mistaken. but a wiser, calmer self deep within him would not accept the lie. he listened, straining. then he heard the sound again. whoever came toward him had passed the heavy brush by now. the sounds that reached him were just faint and intermittent whispers,--first of a twig cracking beneath a heavy foot, then the rattle of two pebbles knocked together. long moments of utter silence would ensue between, in which he could hear the steady drum of his heart in his breast and the long roll of his blood in his veins. the shadows grew and deepened and faded and grew again, as the moon passed from cloud to cloud. the limbs of a young fir tree rustled and whispered as something brushed against them. leaves flicked together, and once a heavy limb popped like a distant small-calibered rifle as a great weight broke it in two. then, as if the gods of the wilderness were using all their ingenuity to torture him, the silence closed down deeper than ever before. it lasted so long that he began to hope again. perhaps the sounds had been made by a deer stealing on its way to feed in the pastures. yet he knew the step had been too heavy for anything but the largest deer, and their way was to encircle a thicket rather than crash through it. the deer make it their business always to go with silence in these hours when the beasts of prey are abroad, and usually a beetle in the leaves makes more noise than they. it might have been the step of one of the small, black bears--a harmless and friendly wilderness dweller. yet the impression lingered and strengthened that only some great hunter, a beast who feared neither other beasts nor men, had been steadily coming toward him through the forest. in the long silence that ensued bruce began to hope that the animal had turned off. at that instant the moon slipped under a particularly heavy fragment of cloud, and deep darkness settled over him. even his white face was no longer discernible in the dusk. he lay scarcely breathing, trying to fight down his growing terror. this silence could mean but one of two things. one of them was that the creature who had made the sounds had turned off on one of the many intersecting game trails that wind through the forest. this was his hope. the alternative was one of despair. it was simply that the creature had detected his presence and was stalking him in silence through the shadows. he thought that the light would never come. he strained again at his ropes. the dark cloud swept on; and the moonlight, silver and bright, broke over the scene. the forest stood once more in sharp silhouette against the sky. the moon stood high above the tapering tops of the pines. he studied with straining eyes the dark fringe of shadows one hundred feet distant. and at first he could see only the irregularities cast by the young trees, the firs between which lay the brush coverts. then he detected a strange variation in the dark border of shadows. it held his gaze, and its outlines slowly strengthened. so still it stood, so seemingly a natural shadow that some irregularly shaped tree had cast, that his eyes refused to recognize it. but in an instant more he knew the truth. the shadow was that of a great beast that had stalked him clear to the border of the moonlight. the killer had come for his dead. xxiv when linda returned home the events of the night partook even of a greater mystery. the front door was open, and she found plenty of evidence that bruce had returned from his journey. in the center of the room lay his pack, a rifle slanting across it. at first she did not notice the gun in particular. she supposed it was bruce's weapon and that he had come in, dropped his luggage, and was at present somewhere in the house. it was true that one chair was upset, but except for an instant's start she gave no thought to it. she thought that he would probably go to the kitchen first for a bite to eat. he was not in this room, however, nor had the lamp been lighted. her next idea was that bruce, tired out, had gone to bed. she went back softly to the front room, intending not to disturb him. once more she noticed the upset chair. the longer she regarded it, the more of a puzzle it became. she moved over toward the pack and looked casually at the rifle. in an instant more it was in her hands. she saw at once that it was not bruce's gun. the action, make, and caliber were different. she was not a rifle-woman, and the little shooting she had done had been with a pistol; but even a layman could tell this much. besides, it had certain peculiar notches on the stock that the gun elmira had furnished bruce did not have. she stood a moment in thought. the problem offered no ray of light. she considered what bruce's first action would have been, on returning to the house to find her absent. possibly he had gone in search of her. she turned and went to the door of his bedroom. she knocked on it softly. "are you there, bruce?" she called. no answer returned to her. the rooms, in fact, were deeply silent. she tried the door and found it unlocked. the room had not been occupied. thoroughly alarmed, she went back into the front room and tried to decipher the mystery of the strange weapon. she couldn't conceive of any possibility whereby bruce would exchange his father's trusted gun for this. possibly it was an extra weapon that he had procured on his journey. and since no possible gain would come of her going out into the forests to seek him, she sat down to wait for his return. she knew that if she did start out he might easily return in her absence and be further alarmed. the moments dragged by and her apprehension grew. she took the rifle in her hands and, slipping the lever part way back, looked to see if there were a cartridge in the barrel. she saw a glitter of brass, and it gave her a measure of assurance. she had a pistol in her own room--a weapon that elmira had procured, years before, from a passing sportsman--and for a moment she considered getting it also. she understood its action better and would probably be more efficient with it if the need arose, but for certain never-to-be-forgotten reasons she wished to keep this weapon until the moment of utmost need. her whole stock of pistol cartridges consisted of six--completely filling the magazine of the pistol. closely watched by the turners, she had been unable to procure more. many a dreadful night these six little cylinders of brass had been a tremendous consolation to her. they had been her sole defense, and she knew that in the final emergency she could use them to deadly effect. linda was a girl who had always looked her situations in the face. she was not one to flinch from the truth and with false optimism disbelieve it. she had the courage of many generations of frontiersmen and woodsmen, and she had their vision too. she knew these mountain realms; better still she understood the dark passions of simon and his followers, and this little half-pound of steel and wood with its brass shells might mean, in the dreadful last moment of despair, deliverance from them. it might mean escape for herself when all other ways were cut off. in this wild land, far from the reaches of law and without allies except for a decrepit old woman, the pistol and its deadly loads had been her greatest solace. but she relied on the rifle now. and sitting in the shadow, she kept watch over the moonlit ridge. the hours passed, and the clouds were starting up from the horizon when she thought she saw bruce returning. a tall form came swinging toward her, over the little trail that led between the tree trunks. she peered intently. and in one instant more she knew that the approaching figure was not bruce, but the man she most feared of anyone on earth, simon turner. she knew him by his great form, his swinging stride. her thoughts came clear and true. it was obvious that his was no mission of stealth. he was coming boldly, freely, not furtively; and he must have known that he presented a perfect rifle target from the windows. nevertheless, it is well to be prepared for emergencies. if life in the mountains teaches anything, it teaches that. she took the rifle and laid it behind a little desk, out of sight. then she went to the door. "i want to come in, linda," simon told her. "i told you long ago you couldn't come to this house," linda answered through the panels. "i want you to go away." simon laughed softly. "you'd better let me in. i've brought word of the child you took to raise. you know who i mean." yes, linda knew. "do you mean bruce?" she asked. "i let dave in to-night on the same pretext. don't expect me to be caught twice by the same lie." "dave? where is dave?" the fact was that the whereabouts of his brother had suddenly become considerable of a mystery to simon. all the way from the pasture where he had left his clan he had been having black pictures of dave. he had thought about him and linda out in the darkness together, and his heart had seemed to smolder and burn with jealousy in his breast. it had been a great relief to him to find her in the house. "i wonder--where he is by now," linda answered in a strange voice. "no one in this world can answer that question, simon. tell me what you want." she opened the door. she couldn't bear to show fear of this man. and she knew that an appearance of courage, at least, was the wisest course. "no matter about him now. i want to talk to you on business. if i had meant rough measures, i wouldn't have come alone." "no," linda scorned. "you would have brought your whole murdering band with you. the turners believe in overwhelming numbers." the words stung him but he smiled grimly into her face. "i've come in peace, linda," he said, more gently. "i've come to give you a last chance to make friends." he walked past her into the room. he straightened the chair that had been upset, smiling strangely the while, and sat down in it. "then tell me what you have to tell me," she said. "i'm in a hurry to go to bed--and this really isn't the hour for calls." he looked a long time into her face. she found it hard to hold her own gaze. many things could be doubted about this man, but his power and his courage were not among them. the smile died from his lips, the lines deepened on his face. she realized as never before the tempestuous passions and unfathomable intensity of his nature. "we've never been good friends," simon went on slowly. "we never could be," the girl answered. "we've stood for different things." "at first my efforts to make friends were just--to win you over to our side. it didn't work--all it did was to waken other desires in me--desires that perhaps have come to mean more than the possession of the lands. you know what they are. you've always known--that any time you wished--you could come and rule my house." she nodded. she knew that she had won, against her will, the strange, somber love of this mighty man. she had known it for months. "as my wife--don't make any mistake about that. linda, i'm a stern, hard man. i've never known how to woo. i don't know that i want to know how, the way it is done by weaker men. it has never been my way to ask for what i wanted. but sometimes it seems to me that if i'd been a little more gentle--not so masterful and so relentless--that i'd won you long ago." linda looked up bravely into his face. "no, simon. you could have never--never won me! oh, can't you see--even in this awful place a woman wants something more than just brute strength and determination. every woman prays to find strength in the man she loves--but it isn't the kind that you have, the kind that makes your men grovel before you, and makes me tremble when i'm talking to you. it's a big, calm strength--and i can't tell you what it is. it's something the pines have, maybe--strength not to yield to the passions, but to restrain, not to be afraid of, but to cling to--to stand upright and honorable and manly, and make a woman strong just to see it in the man she loves." he listened gravely. her cheeks blazed. it was a strange scene--the silent room, the implacable foes, the breathless suspense, the prophecy and inspiration in her tones. "perhaps i should have been more gentle," he admitted. "i might have forgotten--for a little while--this surging, irresistible impulse in my muscles--and tried just to woo you, gently and humbly. but it's too late now. i'm not a fool. i can't expect you to begin at the beginning. i can only go on in my own way--my hard, remorseless, ruthless way. "it isn't every man who is brave enough to see what he wants and knock away all obstacles to get it," he went on. "put that bravery to my credit. to pay no attention to methods, only to look forward to the result. that has been my creed. it is my creed now. many less brave men would fear your hatred--but i don't fear it as long as i possess what i go after and a hope that i can get you over it. many of my own brothers hate me, but yet i don't care as long as they do my will. no matter how much you scorn it, this bravery has always got me what i wanted, and it will get me what i want now." the high color died in her face. she wondered if the final emergency had come at last. "i've come to make a bargain. you can take it or you can refuse. on one side is the end of all this conflict, to be my wife, to have what you want--bought by the rich return from my thousands of acres. and i love you, linda. you know that." the man spoke the truth. his terrible, dark love was all over him--in his glowing eyes, in his drawn, deeply-lined face. "in time, when you come around to my way of thinking, you'll love me. if you refuse--this last time--i've got to take other ways. on that side is defeat for you--as sure as day. the time is almost up when the title to those lands is secure. bruce is in our hands--" she got up, white-faced. "bruce--?" he arose too. "yes! did you think he could stand against us? i'll show him to you in the morning. to-night he's paying the price for ever daring to oppose my will." she turned imploring eyes. he saw them, and perhaps--far distant--he saw the light of triumph too. a grim smile came to his lips. "simon," she cried. "have mercy." the word surprised him. it was the first time she had ever asked this man for mercy. "then you surrender--?" "simon, listen to me," she begged. "let him go--and i won't even try to fight you any more. i'll let you keep those lands and never try any more to make you give them up. you and your brothers can keep them forever, and we won't try to get revenge on you either. he and i will go away." he gazed at her in deepening wonderment. for the moment, his mind refused to accept the truth. he only knew that since he had faced her before, some new, great strength had come to her,--that a power was in her life that would make her forego all the long dream of her days. he had known perfectly the call of the blood in her. he had understood her hatred of the turners, he could hate in the same way himself. he realized her love for her father's home and how she had dreamed of expelling its usurpers. yet she was willing to renounce it all. the power that had come to her was one that he, a man whose code of life was no less cruel and remorseless than that of the killer himself, could not understand. "but why?" he demanded. "why are you willing to do all this for him?" "why?" she echoed. once more the luster was in her dark eyes. "i suppose it is because--i love him." he looked at her with slowly darkening face. passion welled within him. an oath dropped from his lips, blasphemous, more savage than any wilderness voice. then he raised his arm and struck her tender flesh. he struck her breast. the brutality of the man stood forth at last. no picture that all the dreadful dramas of the wild could portray was more terrible than this. the girl cried out, reeled and fell fainting from the pain, and with smoldering eyes he gazed at her unmoved. then he turned out of the door. but the curtain of this drama in the mountain home had not yet rung down. half-unconscious, she listened to his steps. he was out in the moonlight, vanishing among the trees. strange fancies swept her, all in the smallest fraction of an instant, and a voice spoke clearly. with all the strength of her will she dispelled the mists of dawning unconsciousness that the pain had wrought and crept swiftly to the little desk placed against the wall. her hand fumbled in the shadow behind it and brought out a glittering rifle. then she crept to the open doorway. lying on the floor, she raised the weapon to her shoulder. her thumb pressed back, strong and unfaltering, against the hammer; and she heard it click as it sprung into place. then she looked along the barrel until she saw the swinging form of simon through the sights. there was no remorse in that cold gaze of hers. the wings of death hovered over the man, ready to swoop down. her fingers curled tighter about the trigger. one ounce more pressure, and simon's trail of wickedness and bloodshed would have come to an end at last. but at that instant her eyes widened with the dawn of an idea. she knew this man. she knew the hatred that was upon him. and she realized, as if by an inspiration from on high, that before he went to his house and to sleep he would go once more into the presence of bruce, confined somewhere among these ridges and suffering the punishment of having opposed his will. simon would want one look to see how his plan was getting on; perhaps he would want to utter one taunting word. and linda saw her chance. she started to creep out of the door. then she turned back, crawled until she was no longer revealed in the silhouette of the lighted doorway, and got swiftly to her feet. she dropped the rifle and darted into her own room. there she procured a weapon that she trusted more, her little pistol, loaded with six cartridges. if she had understood the real nature of the danger that bruce faced she would have retained the rifle. it shot with many times the smashing power of the little gun, and at long range was many times as accurate, but even it would have seemed an ineffective defense against such an enemy as was even now creeping toward bruce's body. but she knew that in a crisis, against such of the turners as she thought she might have to face, it would serve her much better than the more awkward, heavier weapon. besides, she knew how to wield it, and all her life she had kept it for just such an emergency. the pain of the blow was quite gone now, except for a strange sickness that had encompassed her. but she was never colder of nerve and surer of muscle. cunningly she lay down again before she crept through the door, so that if simon chanced to look about he would fail to see that she followed him. she crept to the thickets, then stood up. three hundred yards down the slope she could see simon's dimming figure in the moonlight, and swiftly she sped after him. xxv the shadow that bruce saw at the edge of the forest could not be mistaken as to identity. the hopes that he had held before--that this stalking figure might be that of a deer or an elk--could no longer be entertained. men as a rule do not love the wild and wailing sobs of a coyote, as he looks down upon a camp fire from the ridge above. sleep does not come easily when a gaunt wolf walks in a slow, inquisitive circle about the pallet, scarcely a leaf rustling beneath his feet. and a few times, in the history of the frontier, men have had queer tinglings and creepings in the scalp when they have happened to glance over their shoulders and see the eyes of a great, tawny puma, glowing an odd blue in the firelight. yet bruce would have had any one of these, or all three together, in preference to the killer. the reason was extremely simple. no words have ever been capable of expressing the depths of cowardice of which a coyote is capable. he will whine and weep about a camp, like a soul lost between two worlds, but if he is in his right mind he would have each one of his gray hairs plucked out, one by one, rather than attack a man. the cunning breed to which he belongs has found out that it doesn't pay. the wolf is sometimes disquietingly brave when he is fortified by his pack brethren in the winter, but in such a season as this he is particularly careful to keep out of the sight of man. and the tawny one himself, white-fanged and long-clawed and powerful as he is, never gets farther than certain dreadful, speculative dreams. but none of these things was true of the killer. he had already shown his scorn of men. his very stride showed that he feared no living creature that shared the forest with him. in fact, he considered himself the forest master. the bear is never a particularly timid animal, and whatever timidity the killer possessed was as utterly gone as yesterday's daylight. bruce watched him with unwinking eyes. the shadow wavered ever so slightly, as the killer turned his head this way and that. but except to follow it with his eyes, bruce made no motion. the inner guardians of a man's life--voices that are more to be relied upon than the promptings of any conscious knowledge--had already told him what to do. these monitors had the wisdom of the pines themselves, and they had revealed to him his one hope. it was just to lie still, without a twitch of a muscle. it might be that the killer would fail to discern his outline. bruce had no conscious knowledge, as yet, that it is movement rather than form to which the eyes of the wild creatures are most receptive. but he acted upon that fact now as if by instinct. he was not lying in quite the exact spot where the killer had left his dead the preceding night, and possibly his outline was not enough like it to attract the grizzly's attention. besides, in the intermittent light, it was wholly possible that the grizzly would try to find the remains of his feast by smell alone; and if this were lacking, and bruce made no movements to attract his attention, he might wander away in search of other game. for the first time in his life, bruce knew fear as it really was. it is a knowledge that few dwellers in cities can possibly have; and so few times has it really been experienced in these days of civilization that men have mostly forgotten what it is like. if they experience it at all, it is usually only in a dream that arises from the germ-plasm,--a nightmare to paralyze the muscles and chill the heart and freeze a man in his bed. the moon was strange and white as it slipped in and out of the clouds, and the forest, mysterious as death itself, lightened and darkened alternately with a strange effect of unreality; but for all that, bruce could not make himself believe that this was just a dream. the dreadful reality remained that the killer, whose name and works he knew, was even now investigating him from the shadows one hundred feet away. the fear that came to him was that of the young world,--fear without recompense, direct and primitive fear that grew on him like a sickness. it was the fear that the deer knew as they crept down their dusky trails at night; it was the fear of darkness and silence and pain and heaven knows what cruelty that would be visited upon him by those terrible, rending fangs and claws. it was the fear that can be heard in the pack song in the dreadful winter season, and that can be felt in strange overtones, in the sobbing wail of despair that the coyote utters in the half-darkness. he had been afraid for his life every moment he was in the hands of the turners. he knew that if he survived this night, he would have to face death again. he had no hopes of deliverance altogether. but the turners were men, and they worked with knife blade and bullet, not rending fang and claw. he could face men bravely; but it was hard to keep a strong heart in the face of this ancient fear of beasts. the killer seemed disturbed and moved slowly along the edge of the moonlight. bruce could trace his movements by the irregularity in the line of shadows. he seemed to be moving more cautiously than ever, now. bruce could not hear the slightest sound. for an instant bruce had an exultant hope that the bear would continue on down the edge of the forest and leave him; and his heart stood still as the great beast paused, sniffing. but some smell in the air seemed to reach him, and he came stealing back. in reality, the killer was puzzled. he had come to this place straight through the forest with the expectation that food--flesh to tear with his fangs--would be waiting for him. perhaps he had no actual memory of killing the calf the night before. possibly it was only instinct, not conscious intelligence, that brought him back to what was left of his feast the preceding night. and now, as he waited at the border of the darkness, he knew that a strange change had taken place. and the killer did not like strangeness. the smell that he had expected had dimmed to such an extent that it promoted no muscular impulse. perhaps it was only obliterated by a stranger smell,--one that was vaguely familiar and wakened a slow, brooding anger in his great beast's heart. he was not timid; yet he retained some of his natural caution and remained in the gloom while he made his investigations. probably it was a hunting instinct alone. he crept slowly up and down the border of moonlight, and his anger seemed to grow and deepen within him. he felt dimly that he had been cheated out of his meal. and once before he had been similarly cheated; but there had been singular triumph at the end of that experience. all at once a movement, far across the pasture, caught his attention. remote as it was, he identified the tall form at once; it was just such a creature as he had blasted with one blow a day or two before. but it dimmed quickly in the darkness. it seemed only that some one had come, taken one glance at the drama at the edge of the forest, and had departed. bruce himself had not seen the figure; and perhaps it was the mercy of fate--not usually merciful--that he did not. he might have been caused to hope again, only to know a deeper despair when the man left him without giving aid. for the tall form had been that of simon coming, as linda had anticipated, for a moment's inspection of his handiwork. and seeing that it was good, he had departed again. the grizzly watched him go, then turned back to his questioning regard of the strange, dark figure that lay so prone in the grass in front. the darkness dropped over him as the moon went behind a heavy patch of cloud. and in that moment of darkness, the killer understood. he remembered now. possibly the upright form of simon had suggested it to him; possibly the wind had only blown straighter and thus permitted him to identify the troubling smells. all at once a memory flashed over him,--of a scene in a distant glen, and similar tall figures that tried to drive him from his food. he had charged then, struck once, and one of the forms had lain very still. he remembered the pungent, maddening odor that had reached him after his blow had gone home. most clearly of all, he remembered how his fangs had struck and sunk. he knew this strange shadow now. it was just another of that tall breed he had learned to hate, and it was simply lying prone as his foe had done after the charge beside little river. in fact, the still-lying form recalled the other occasion with particular vividness. the excitement that he had felt before returned to him now; he remembered his disappointment when the whistling bullets from the hillside above had driven him from his dead. but there were no whistling bullets now. except for them, there would have been further rapture beside that stream; but he might have it now. his fangs had sunk home just once, before, and his blood leaped as he recalled the passion he had felt. the old hunting madness came back to him. it was the fair game, this that lay so still in the grass, just as the body of the calf had been and just as the warm body of hudson in the distant glen. the wound at his side gave him a twinge of pain. it served to make his memories all the clearer. the lurid lights grew in his eyes. rage swept over him. but he didn't charge blindly. he retained enough of his hunting caution to know that to stalk was the proper course. it was true that there was no shrubbery to hide him, yet in his time he had made successful stalks in the open, even upon deer. he moved farther out from the edge of the forest. at that instant the moon came out and revealed him, all too vividly, to bruce. the killer's great gray figure in the silver light was creeping toward him across the silvered grass. * * * * * when linda left her house, her first realization was the need of caution. it would not do to let simon see her. and she knew that only her long training in the hills, her practice in climbing the winding trails, would enable her to keep pace with the fast-walking man without being seen. in her concern for bruce, she had completely forgotten the events of the earlier part of the evening. wild and stirring though they were, they now seemed to her as incidents of remote years, nothing to be remembered in this hour of crisis. but she remembered them vividly when, two hundred yards from the house, she saw two strange figures coming toward her between the moonlit tree trunks. there was very little of reality about either. the foremost figure was bent and strange, but she knew that it could be no one but elmira. the second, however--half-obscured behind her--offered no interpretation of outline at all at first. but at the turn of the trail she saw both figures in vivid profile. elmira was coming homeward, bent over her cane, and she led a saddled horse by its bridle rein. still keeping simon in sight, linda ran swiftly toward her. she didn't understand the deep awe that stole over her,--an emotion that even her fear for bruce could not transcend. there was a quality in elmira's face and posture that she had never seen before. it was as if she were walking in her sleep, she came with such a strange heaviness and languor, her cane creeping through the pine needles of the trail in front. she did not seem to be aware of linda's approach until the girl was only ten feet distant. then she looked up, and linda saw the moonlight on her face. she saw something else too, but she didn't know what it was. her own eyes widened. the thin lips were drooping, the eyes looked as if she were asleep. the face was a strange net of wrinkles in the soft light. terrible emotions had but recently died and left their ashes upon it. but linda knew that this was no time to stop and wonder and ask questions. "give me the horse," she commanded. "i'm going to help bruce." "you can have it," elmira answered in an unfamiliar voice. "it's the horse that--that dave turner rode here--and he won't want him any more." linda took the rein, passed it over the horse's head, and started to swing into the saddle. then she turned with a gasp as the woman slipped something into her hand. linda looked down and saw it was the hilt of the knife that elmira had carried with her when the two women had gone with dave into the woods. the blade glittered; but linda was afraid to look at it closely. "you might need that, too," the old woman said. "it may be wet--i can't remember. but take it, anyway." linda hardly heard. she thrust the blade into the leather of the saddle, then swung on her horse. once more she sought simon's figure. far away she saw it, just as it vanished into the heavy timber on top of the hill. she rode swiftly until she began to fear that he might hear the hoof beat of her mount; then she drew up to a walk. and when she had crested the hill and had followed down its long slope into the glen, the moon went under the clouds for the first time. she lost sight of simon at once. seemingly her effort to save bruce had come to nothing, after all. but she didn't turn back. there were light patches in the sky, and the moon might shine forth again. she followed down the trail toward the cleared lands that the turners cultivated. she went to their very edge. it was a rather high point, so she waited here for the moon to emerge again. never, it seemed to her, had it moved so slowly. but all at once its light flowed forth over the land. her eyes searched the distant spaces, but she could catch no glimpse of simon between the trees. evidently he no longer walked in the direction of the house. then she looked out over the tilled lands. almost a quarter of a mile away she saw the flicker of a miniature shadow. only the vivid quality of the moonlight, against which any shadow was clear-cut and sharp, enabled her to discern it at all. it was simon, and evidently his business had taken him into the meadows. feeling that she was on the right track at last, she urged her horse forward again, keeping to the shadow of the timber at first. simon walked almost parallel to the dark fringe for nearly a mile; then turned off into the tilled lands. she rode opposite him and reined in the horse to watch. when the distance had almost obscured him, she saw him stop. he waited a long time, then turned back. the moon went in and out of the clouds. then, trusting to the distance to conceal her, linda rode slowly out into the clearing. simon reëntered the timber, his inspection seemingly done, and linda still rode in the general direction he had gone. the darkness fell again, and for the space of perhaps five minutes all the surroundings were obscured. a curious sense of impending events came over her as she headed on toward the distant wall of forest beyond. then, the clouds slowly dimming under the moon, the light grew with almost imperceptible encroachments. at first it was only bright enough to show her own dim shadow on the grass. the utter gloom that was over the fields lessened and drew away like receding curtains; her vision reached ever farther, the shadows grew more clearly outlined and distinct. then the moon rolled forth into a wholly open patch of sky--a white sphere with a sprinkling of vivid stars around it--and the silver radiance poured down. it was like the breaking of dawn. the fields stretched to incredible distances about her. the forest beyond emerged in distinct outline; she could see every irregularity in the plain. and in one instant's glance she knew that she had found bruce. his situation went home to her in one sweep of the eyes. bruce was not alone. even now a great, towering figure was creeping toward him from the forest. linda cried out, and with the long strap of her rein lashed her horse into the fastest pace it knew. * * * * * bruce did not hear her come. he lay in the soft grass, waiting for death. a great calm had come upon him; a strange, quiet strength that the pines themselves might have lent to him; and he made no cry. in this dreadful last moment of despair the worst of his terror had gone and left his thoughts singularly clear. and but one desire was left to him: that the killer might be merciful and end his frail existence with one blow. it was not a great deal to ask for; but he knew perfectly that only by the mercy of the forest gods could it come to pass. they are usually not so kind to the dying; and it is not the wild-animal way to take pains to kill at the first blow. yet his eyes held straight. the killer crept slowly toward him; more and more of his vast body was revealed above the tall heads of the grass. and now all that bruce knew was a great wonder,--a strange expectancy and awe of what the opening gates of darkness would reveal. the killer moved with dreadful slowness and deliberation. he was no longer afraid. it was just as it had been before,--a warm figure lying still and helpless for his own terrible pleasure. a few more steps and he would be near enough to see plainly; then--after the grizzly habit--to fling into the charge. it was his own way of hunting,--to stalk within a few score of feet, then to make a furious, resistless rush. he paused, his muscles setting. and then the meadows suddenly rang with the undulations of his snarl. almost unconscious, bruce did not understand what had caused this utterance. but strangely, the bear had lifted his head and was staring straight over him. for the first time bruce heard the wild beat of hoofs on the turf behind him. he didn't have time to turn and look. there was no opportunity even for a flood of renewed hope. events followed upon one another with startling rapidity. the sharp, unmistakable crack of a pistol leaped through the dusk, and a bullet sung over his body. and then a wild-riding figure swept up to him. it was linda, firing as she came. how she had been able to control her horse and ride him into that scene of peril no words may reveal. perhaps, running wildly beneath the lash, his starting eyes did not discern or interpret the gray figure scarcely a score of yards distant from bruce; and it is true the grizzly's pungent smell--a thing to terrify much more and to be interpreted more clearly than any kind of dim form in the moonlight--was blown in the opposite direction. perhaps the lashing strap recalled the terrible punishment the horse had undergone earlier that evening at the hands of simon and no room was left for any lesser terror. but most likely of all, just as in the case of brave soldiers riding their horses into battle, the girl's own strength and courage went into him. always it has been the same; the steed partook of its rider's own spirit. the bear reared up, snarling with wrath, but for a moment it dared not charge. the sudden appearance of the girl and the horse held him momentarily at bay. the girl swung to the ground in one leap, fired again, thrust her arm through the loop of the bridle rein, then knelt at bruce's side. the white blade that she carried in her left hand slashed at his bonds. the horse, plunging, seemed to jerk her body back and forth, and endless seconds seemed to go by before the last of the thongs was severed. in reality the whole rescue was unbelievably swift. the man helped her all he could. "up--up into the saddle," she commanded. the grizzly growled again, advancing remorselessly toward them, and twice more she fired. two of the bullets went home in his great body, but their weight and shocking power were too slight to affect him. he went down once more on all fours, preparing to charge. bruce, in spite of the fact that his limbs had been nearly paralyzed by the tight bonds, managed to grasp the saddlehorn. in the strength of new-born hope he pulled himself half up on it, and he felt linda's strong arms behind him pushing up. the horse plunged in deadly fear; and the killer leaped toward them. once more the pistol cracked. then the horse broke and ran in a frenzy of terror. bruce was full in the saddle by then, and even at the first leap his arm swept out to the girl on the ground beside him. he swung her towards him, and at the same time her hands caught at the arching back of the saddle. never had her fine young strength been put to a greater test than when she tried to pull herself up on the speeding animal's back. for the first fifty feet she was half-dragged, but slowly--with bruce's help--she pulled herself up to a position of security. the killer's charge had come a few seconds too late. for a moment he raced behind them in insane fury, but only his savage growl leaped through the darkness fast enough to catch up with them. and the distance slowly widened. the killer had been cheated again; and by the same token simon's oath had been proved untrue. for once the remorseless strength of which he boasted had been worsted by a greater strength; and love, not hate, was the power that gave it. for once a girl's courage--a courage greater than that with which he obeyed the dictates of his cruel will--had cost him his victory. the war that he and his outlaw band had begun so long ago had not yet been won. indeed, if simon could have seen what the moon saw as it peered out from behind the clouds, he would have known that one of the debts of blood incurred so many years ago had even now been paid. far away on a distant hillside there was one who gave no heed to the fast hoof beats of the speeding horse. it was dave turner, and his trail of lust and wickedness was ended at last. he lay with lifted face, and there were curious dark stains on the pine needles. it was the first blood since the reopening of the feud. and the pines, those tall, dark sentinels of the wilderness, seemed to look down upon him in passionless contemplation, as if they wondered at the stumbling ways of men. their branches rubbed together and made words as the wind swept through them, but no man may say what those words were. book three the coming of the strength xxvi fall was at hand at trail's end. one night, and the summer was still a joyous spirit in the land, birds nested, skies were blue, soft winds wandered here and there through the forest. one morning, and a startling change had come upon the wilderness world. the spirit of autumn had come with golden wings. the wild creatures, up and about at their pursuits long before dawn, were the first to see the change. a buck deer--a noble creature with six points on his spreading horns--got the first inkling of it when he stopped at a spring to drink. it was true that an hour before he had noticed a curious crispness and a new stir in the air, but he had been so busy keeping out of the ambushes of the tawny one that he had not noticed it. the air had been chill in his nostrils, but thanks to a heavy growth of hair that--with mysterious foresight--had begun to come upon his body, it gave him no discomfort. but it was a puzzling and significant thing that the water he bent to drink had been transformed to something hard and white and burning cold to the tip of his nose. it was the first real freeze. true, for the past few nights there had been a measure of tinkling, cobweb frost on the ground in wet places, but even the tender-skinned birds--always most watchful of signs of this kind--had disregarded it. but there was no disregarding this half-inch of blue ice that had covered the spring. the buck deer struck it angrily with his front hoofs, broke through and drank; then went snorting up the hill. his anger was in itself a significant thing. in the long, easy-going summer days, blacktail had almost forgotten what anger was like. he had been content to roam over the ridges, cropping the leaves and grass, avoiding danger and growing fat. but all at once this kind of existence had palled on him. he felt that he wanted only one thing--not food or drink or safety--but a good, slashing, hooking, hoof-carving battle with another buck of his own species. an unwonted crossness had come upon him, and his soft eyes burned with a blue fire. he remembered the does, too--with a sudden leap of his blood--and wondered where they were keeping themselves. being only a beast he did not know that this new belligerent spirit was just as much a sign of fall as the soft blush that was coming on the leaves. the simple fact was that fall means the beginning of the rut--the wild mating days when the bucks battle among themselves and choose their harems of does. he had rather liked his appearance as he saw himself in the water of the spring. the last of the velvet had been rubbed from his horns, and the twelve tines (six on each horn) were as hard and almost as sharp as so many bayonet points. as the morning dawned, the change in the face of nature became ever more manifest. the leaves of the shrubbery began to change in color. the wind out of the north had a keener, more biting quality, and the birds were having some sort of exciting debate in the tree tops. the birds are always a scurried, nervous, rather rattle-brained outfit, and seem wholly incapable of making a decision about anything without hours of argument and discussion. their days are simply filled with one excitement after another, and they tell more scandal in an hour than the old ladies in a resort manage in the entire summer. this slow transformation in the color of the leaves, not to mention the chill of the frost through their scanty feathers, had created a sensation from one end of birdland to another. and there was only one thing to do about it. that was to wait until the darkness closed down again, then start away toward the path of the sun in search of their winter resorts in the south. the little people in the forest of ferns beneath were not such gay birds, and they did not have such high-flown ideas as these feathered folk in the branches. they didn't talk such foolishness and small talk from dawn to dark. they didn't wear gay clothes that weren't a particle of good to them in cold weather. you can imagine them as being good, substantial, middle-class people, much more sober-minded, tending strictly to business and working hard, and among other things they saw no need of flitting down to southern resorts for the cold season. these people--being mostly ground squirrels and gophers and chipmunks and rabbits--had not been fitted by nature for wide travel and had made all arrangements for a pleasant winter at home. you could almost see a smile on the fat face of a plump old gopher when he came out and found the frost upon the ground; for he knew that for months past he had been putting away stores for just this season. in the snows that would follow he would simply retire into the farthest recesses of his burrow and let the winds whistle vainly above him. the larger creatures, however, were less complacent. the wolves--if animals have any powers of foresight whatever--knew that only hard days, not luscious nuts and roots, were in store for them. there would be many days of hunger once the snow came over the land. the black bear saw the signs and began a desperate effort to lay up as many extra pounds of fat as possible before the snows broke. ashur's appetite was always as much with him as his bobbed-off excuse for a tail, and as he was more or less indifferent to a fair supply of dirt, he always managed to put away considerable food in a rather astonishingly short period of time; and now he tried to eat all the faster in view of the hungry days to come. he would have need of the extra flesh. the time was coming when all sources of food would be cut off by the snows, and he would have to seek the security of hibernation. he had already chosen an underground abode for himself and there he could doze away in the cold-trance through the winter months, subsisting on the supplies of fat that he had stored next to his furry hide. the greatest of all the bears, the killer, knew that some such fate awaited him also. but he looked forward to it with wretched spirit. he was master of the forest, and perhaps he did not like to yield even to the spirit of winter. his savagery grew upon him every day, and his dislike for men had turned to a veritable hatred. but he had found them out. when he crossed their trails again, he would not wait to stalk. they were apt to slip away from him in this case and sting him unmercifully with bullets. the thing to do was charge quickly and strike with all his power. the three minor wounds he had received--two from pistol bullets and one from bruce's rifle--had not lessened his strength at all. they did, however, serve to keep his blood-heat at the explosive stage most of the day and night. the flowers and the grasses were dying; the moths that paid calls on the flowers had laid their eggs and had perished, and winter lurked--ready to pounce forth--just beyond the distant mountains. there is nothing so thoroughly unreliable as the mountain autumn. it may linger in entrancing golds and browns month after month, until it is almost time for spring to come again; and again it may make one short bow and usher in the winter. to bruce and linda, in the old folger home in trail's end, these fall days offered the last hope of success in their war against the turners. the adventure in the pasture with the killer had handicapped them to an unlooked-for degree. bruce's muscles had been severely strained by the bonds; several days had elapsed before he regained their full use. linda was a mountain girl, hardy as a deer, yet her nerves had suffered a greater shock by the experience than either of them had guessed. the wild ride, the fear and the stress, and most of all the base blow that simon had dealt her had been too much even for her strong constitution; and she had been obliged to go to bed for a few days of rest. old elmira worked about the house the same as ever, but strange, new lights were in her eyes. for reasons that went down to the roots of things, neither bruce nor linda questioned her as to her scene with dave turner in the coverts; and what thoughts dwelt in her aged mind neither of them could guess. the truth was that in these short weeks of trial and danger whatever dreadful events had come to pass in that meeting were worth neither thought nor words. both bruce and linda were down to essentials. it is a descent that most human beings--some time in their lives--find they are able to make; and there was no room for sentimentality or hysteria in this grim household. the ideas, the softnesses, the laws of the valleys were far away from them; they were face to face with realities. their code had become the basic code of life: to kill for self-protection without mercy or remorse. they did not know when the turners would attack. it was the dark of the moon, and the men would be able to approach the house without presenting themselves as targets for bruce's rifle. the danger was not a thing on which to conjecture and forget; it was an ever-present reality. never they stepped out of the door, never they crossed a lighted window, never a pane rattled in the wind but that the wings of death might have been hovering over them. the days were passing, the date when the chance for victory would utterly vanish was almost at hand, and they were haunted by the ghastly fact that their whole defense lay in a single thirty-thirty rifle and five cartridges. bruce's own gun had been taken from him in simon's house; linda had emptied her pistol at the killer. "we've got to get more shells," bruce told linda. "the turners won't be such fools as to wait until we have the moon again to attack. i can't understand why they haven't already come. of course, they don't know the condition of our ammunition supply, but it doesn't seem to me that that alone would have held them off. they are sure to come soon, and you know what we could do with five cartridges, don't you?" "i know." she looked up into his earnest face. "we could die--that's all." "yes--like rabbits. without hurting them at all. i wouldn't mind dying so much, if i did plenty of damage first. it's death for me, anyway, i suppose--and no one but a fool can see it otherwise. there are simply too many against us. but i do want to make some payment first." her hand fumbled and groped for his. her eyes pled to him,--more than any words. "and you mean you've given up hope?" she asked. he smiled down at her,--a grave, strange little smile that moved her in secret ways. "not given up hope, linda," he said gently. they were standing at the door and the sunlight--coming low from the south--was on his face. "i've never had any hope to give up--just realization of what lay ahead of us. i'm looking it all in the face now, just as i did at first." "and what you see--makes you afraid?" yet she need not have asked that question. his face gave an unmistakable answer: that this man had conquered fear in the terrible night with the killer. "not afraid, linda," he explained, "only seeing things as they really are. there are too many against us. if we had that great estate behind us, with all its wealth, we might have a chance; if we had an arsenal of rifles with thousands of cartridges, we might make a stand against them. but we are three--two women and one man--and one rifle between us all. five little shells to be expended in five seconds. they are seven or eight, each man armed, each man a rifle-shot. they are certain to attack within a day or two--before we have the moon again. in less than two weeks we can no longer contest their title to the estate. a little month or two more and we will be snowed in--with no chance to get out at all." "perhaps before that," she told him. "yes. perhaps before that." they found a confirmation of this prophecy in the signs of fall without--the coloring leaves, the dying flowers, the new, cold breath of the wind. only the pines remained unchanged; they were the same grave sentinels they always were. "and you can forgive me?" linda asked humbly. "forgive you?" the man turned to her in surprise. "what have you done that needs to be forgiven?" "oh, don't you see? to bring you here--out of your cities--to throw your life away. to enlist you in a fight that you can't hope to win. i've killed you, that's all i've done. perhaps to-night--perhaps a few days later." he nodded gravely. "and i've already killed your smile," she went on, looking down. "you don't smile any more the way you used to. you're not the boy you were when you came. oh, to think of it--that it's all been my work. to kill your youth, to lead you into this slaughter pen where nothing--nothing lives but death--and hatred--and unhappiness." the tears leaped to her eyes. he caught her hands and pressed them between his until pain came into her fingers. "listen, linda," he commanded. she looked straight up at him. "are you sorry i came?" "more than i can tell you--for your sake." "but when people look for the truth in this world, linda, they don't take any one's sake into consideration. they balance all things and give them their true worth. would you rather that you and i had never met--that i had never received elmira's message--that you should live your life up here without ever hearing of me?" she dropped her eyes. "it isn't fair--to ask me that--" "tell me the truth. hasn't it been worth while? even if we lose and die before this night is done, hasn't it all been worth while? are you sorry you have seen me change? isn't the change for the better--a man grown instead of a boy? one who looks straight and sees clear?" he studied her face; and after a while he found his answer. it was not in the form of words at first. as a man might watch a miracle he watched a new light come into her dark eyes. all the gloom and sorrow of the wilderness without could not affect its quality. it was a light of joy, of exultation, of new-found strength. "you hadn't ought to ask me that, bruce," she said with a rather strained distinctness. "it has been like being born again. there aren't any words to tell you what it has meant to me. and don't think i haven't seen the change in you, too--the birth of a new strength that every day is greater, higher--until it is--almost more than i can understand. the old smiles are gone, but something else has taken their place--something much more dear to me--but what it is i can hardly tell you. maybe it's something that the pines have." but he hadn't wholly forgotten how to smile. his face lighted as remembrance came to him. "they are a different kind of smiles--that's all," he explained. "perhaps there will be many of them in the days to come. linda, i have no regrets. i've played the game. whether it was destiny that brought me here, or only chance, or perhaps--if we take just life and death into consideration--just misfortune, whatever it is i feel no resentment toward it. it has been the worthwhile adventure. in the first place, i love the woods. there's something else in them besides death and hatred and unhappiness. besides, it seems to me that i can understand the whole world better than i used to. maybe i can begin to see a big purpose and theme running through it all--but it's not yet clear enough to put into words. certain things in this world are essentials, certain other ones are froth. and i see which things belong to one class and which to another so much more clearly than i did before. one of the things that matters is throwing one's whole life into whatever task he has set out to do--whether he fails or succeeds doesn't seem greatly to matter. the main thing, it appears to me, is that he has tried. to stand strong and kind of calm, and not be afraid--if i can always do it, linda, it is all i ask for myself. not to flinch now. not to give up as long as i have the strength for another step. and to have you with me--all the way." "then you and i--take fresh heart?" "we've never lost heart, linda." "not to give up, but only be glad we've tried?" "yes. and keep on trying." "with no regrets?" "none--and maybe to borrow a little strength from the pines!" this was their new pact. to stand firm and strong and unflinching, and never to yield as long as an ounce of strength remained. as if to seal it, her arms crept about his neck and her soft lips pressed his. xxvii toward the end of the afternoon linda saddled the horse and rode down the trail toward martin's store. she had considerable business to attend to. among other things, she was going to buy thirty-thirty cartridges,--all that martin had in stock. she had some hope of securing an extra gun or two with shells to match. the additional space in her pack was to be filled with provisions. for she was faced with the unpleasant fact that her larder was nearly empty. the jerked venison was almost gone; only a little flour and a few canned things remained. she had space for only small supplies on the horse's back, and there would be no luxuries among them.--their fare had been plain up to this time; but from now on it was to consist of only such things as were absolutely necessary to sustain life. she rode unarmed. without informing him of the fact, the rifle had been left for bruce. she did not expect for herself a rifle shot from ambush--for the simple reason that simon had bidden otherwise--and bruce might be attacked at any moment. she was dreaming dreams, that day. the talk with bruce had given her fresh heart, and as she rode down the sunlit trail the future opened up entrancing vistas to her. perhaps they yet could conquer, and that would mean reëstablishment on the far-flung lands of her father. matthew folger had possessed a fertile farm also, and its green pastures might still be utilized. it suddenly occurred to her that it would be of interest to turn off the main trail, take a little dim path up the ridge that she had discovered years before, and look over these lands. the hour was early; besides, bruce would find her report of the greatest interest. she jogged slowly along in the western fashion,--which means something quite different from army fashion or sportsman fashion. western riders do not post. riding is not exercise to them; it is rest. they hang limp in the saddle, and all jar is taken up, as if by a spring, somewhere in the region of the floating ribs that only a physician can correctly designate. they never sit firm, these western riders, and as a rule their riding is not a particularly graceful thing to watch. but they do not care greatly about grace as long as they may encompass their fifty miles a day and still be fresh enough for a country dance at night. there are many other differences in western and eastern riding, one of them being the way in which the horse is mounted. another difference is the riding habit. linda had no trim riding trousers, with tall glossy boots, red coat, and stock. it was rather doubtful whether she knew such things existed. she did, however, wear a trim riding skirt of khaki and a middie blouse washed spotlessly clean by her own hands; and no one would have missed the other things. it is an indisputable fact that she made a rather alluring picture--eyes bright and hair dark and strong arms bare to the elbow--as she came riding down the pine-needle trail. she came to the opening of the dimmer trail and turned down it. she did not jog so easily now. the descent was more steep. she entered a still glen, and the color in her cheeks and the soft brown of her arms blended well with the new tints of the autumn leaves. then she turned up a long ridge. the 'trail led through an old burn--a bleak, eerie place where the fire had swept down the forest, leaving only strange, black palings here and there--and she stopped in the middle of it to look down. the mountain world was laid out below her as clearly as in a relief map. her eyes lighted as its beauty and its fearsomeness went home to her, and her keen eyes slowly swept over the surrounding hill tops. then for a long moment she sat very still in the saddle. a thousand feet distant, on the same ridge on which she rode, she caught sight of another horse. it held her gaze, and in an instant she discerned the rather startling fact that it was saddled, bridled, and apparently tied to a tree. momentarily she thought that its rider was probably one of the turners who was at present at work on the old folger farm; yet she knew at once the tilled lands were still too far distant for that. she studied closely the maze of light and shadow of the underbrush and in a moment more distinguished the figure of the horseman. it was one of the turners,--but he was not working in the fields. he was standing near the animal's head, back to her, and his rifle lay in his arms. and then linda understood. he was simply guarding the trail down to martin's store. except for the fact that she had turned off the main trail by no possibility could she have seen him and escaped whatever fate he had for her. she held hard on her faculties and tried to puzzle it out. she understood now why the turners had not as yet made an attack upon them at their home. it wasn't the turner way to wage open warfare. they were the wolves that struck from ambush, the rattlesnakes that lunged with poisoned fangs from beneath the rocks. there was some security for her in the folger home, but none whatever here. there she had a strong man to fight for her, a loaded rifle, and under ordinary conditions the turners could not hope to batter down the oaken door and overwhelm them without at least some loss of life. for all they knew, bruce had a large stock of rifles and ammunition,--and the turners did not look forward with pleasure to casualties in their ranks. the much simpler way was to watch the trail. they had known that sooner or later one of them would attempt to ride down after either supplies or aid. linda was a mountain girl and she knew the mountain methods of procedure; and she knew quite well what she would have had to expect if she had not discovered the ambush in time. she didn't think that the sentry would actually fire on her; he would merely shoot the horse from beneath her. it would be a simple feat by the least of the turners,--for these gaunt men were marksmen if nothing else. it wouldn't be in accord with simon's plan or desire to leave her body lying still on the trail. but the horse killed, flight would be impossible, and what would transpire thereafter she did not dare to think. she had not forgotten simon's threat in regard to any attempt to go down into the settlements. she knew that it still held good. of course, if bruce made the excursion, the sentry's target would be somewhat different. he would shoot him down as remorselessly as he would shatter a lynx from a tree top. the truth was that linda had guessed just right. "it's the easiest way," simon had said. "they'll be trying to get out in a very few days. if the man--shoot straight and to kill! if linda, plug the horse and bring her here behind the saddle." linda turned softly, then started back. she did not even give a second's thought to the folly of trying to break through. she watched the sentinel over her shoulder and saw him turn about. far distant though he was, she could tell by the movement he made that he had discovered her. she was almost four hundred yards away by then, and she lashed her horse into a gallop. the man cried to her to halt, a sound that came dim and strange through the burn, and then a bullet sent up a cloud of ashes a few feet to one side. but the range was too far even for the turners, and she only urged her horse to a faster pace. she flew down the narrow trail, turned into the main trail, and galloped wildly toward home. but the sentry did not follow her. he valued his precious life too much for that. he had no intention of offering himself as a target to bruce's rifle as he neared the house. he headed back to report to simon. young bill--for such had been the identity of the sentry--found his chief in the large field not far distant from where bruce had been confined. the man was supervising the harvest of the fall growth of alfalfa. the two men walked slowly away from the workers, toward the fringe of woods. "it looks as if we'll have to adopt rough measures, after all," young bill began. simon turned with flushing face. "do you mean you let him get past you--and missed him? young bill, if you've done that--" "won't you wait till i've told you how it happened? it wasn't bruce; it was linda. for some reason i can't dope out, she went up in the big burn back of me and saw me--when i was too far off to shoot her horse. then she rode back like a witch. they'll not take that trail again." "it means one of two things," simon said after a pause. "one of them is to starve 'em out. it won't take long. their supplies won't last forever. the other is to call the clan and attack--to-night." "and that means loss of life." "not necessarily. i don't know how many guns they've got. if any of you were worth your salt, you'd find out those things. i wish dave was here." and simon spoke the truth for once in his life: he did miss dave. and it was not that there had been any love lost between them. but the truth was--although simon never would have admitted it--the weaker man's cunning had been of the greatest aid to his chief. simon needed it sorely now. "and we can't wait till to-morrow night--because we've got the moon then," young bill added. "just a new moon, but it will prevent a surprise attack. i suppose you still have hopes of dave coming back?" "i don't see why not. i'll venture to say now he's off on some good piece of business--doing something none of the rest of you have thought of. he'll come riding back one of these days with something actually accomplished. i see no reason for thinking that he's dead. bruce hasn't had any chance at him that i know of. but if i thought he was--there'd be no more waiting. we'd tear down that nest to-night." simon spoke in his usual voice--with the same emphasis, the same undertones of passion. but the last words ended with a queer inflection. the truth was that he had slowly become aware that young bill was not giving him his full attention, but rather was gazing off--unfamiliar speculation in his eyes--toward the forests beyond. simon's impulse was to follow the gaze; yet he would not yield to it. "well?" he demanded. "i'm not talking to amuse myself." the younger man seemed to start. his eyes were half-closed; and there was a strange look of intentness about his facial lines when he turned back to simon. "you haven't missed any stock?" he asked abruptly. simon's eyes widened. "no. why?" "look there--over the forest." young bill pointed. simon shielded his eyes from the sunset glare and studied the blue-green skyline above the fringe of pines. there were many grotesque, black birds wheeling on slow wings above the spot. now and then they dropped down, out of sight behind the trees. "buzzards!" simon exclaimed. "yes," young bill answered quietly. "you see, it isn't much over a mile from folger's house--in the deep woods. there's something dead there, simon. and i think we'd better look to see what it is." "you think--" then simon hesitated and looked again with reddening eyes toward the gliding buzzards. "i think--that maybe we're going to find dave," young bill replied. xxviii the darkness of this october night fell before its time. the twilight at trail's end is never long in duration, due to the simple fact that the mountains cut off the flood of light from the west after the setting of the sun, but to-night there seemed none at all. the reason was merely that heavy banks of clouds swept up from the southeast just after sunset. they came with rather startling rapidity and almost immediately completely filled the sky. young bill had many things on his mind as he rode beneath them, yet he found time to gaze at them with some curiosity. they were of singular greenish hue, and they hung so low that the tops of near-by mountains were obscured. the fact that there would be no moon to-night was no longer important. the clouds would have cut off any telltale light that might illumine the activities of the turners. there would not be even the dim mist of starlight. young bill rode from house to house through the estate,--the homes occupied by simon's brothers and cousins and their respective families. he knocked on each door and he only gave one little message. "simon wants you at the house," he said, "and come heeled." he would turn to go, but always a singular quiet and breathlessness remained in the homes after his departure. there would be a curious exchange of glances and certain significant sounds. one of them was the metallic click of cartridges being slipped into the magazine of a rifle. another was the buckling on of spurs, and perhaps the rattle of a pistol in its holster. before the night fell in reality, the clan came riding--strange, tall figures in the half-darkness--straight for simon's house. his horse was saddled too, and he met them in front of his door. and in a very few words he made all things plain to them. "we've found dave," he told them simply. "most of you already know it. we've decided there isn't any use of waiting any more. we're going to the folger house to-night." the men stood silent, breathing hard. the clouds seemed to lower, menacingly, toward them. simon spoke very quietly, yet his voice carried far. in their growing excitement they did not observe the reason, that a puzzling, deep calm had come over the whole wilderness world. even in the quietest night there is usually a faint background of winds in the mountain realms--troubled breaths that whisper in the thickets and rustle the dead leaves--but to-night the heavy air had no breath of life. "to-night bruce folger is going to pay the price, just as i said." he spoke rather boastingly; perhaps more to impress his followers than from impulse. indeed, the passion that he felt left no room for his usual arrogance. "fire on sight. bill and i will come from the rear, and we will be ready to push through the back door the minute you break through the front. the rest of you surround the house on three sides. and remember--no man is to touch linda." they nodded grimly; then the file of horsemen started toward the ridge. far distant they heard a sound such as had reached them often in summer but was unfamiliar in fall. it was the faint rumble of distant thunder. * * * * * bruce and linda sat in the front room of the folger house, quiet and watchful and unafraid. it was not that they did not realize their danger. they had simply taken all possible measures of defense; and they were waiting for what the night would bring forth. "i know they'll come to-night," linda had said. "to-morrow night there will be a moon, and though it won't give much light, it will hurt their chances of success. besides--they've found that their other plot--to kill you from ambush--isn't going to work." bruce nodded and got up to examine the shutters. he wanted no ray of light to steal out into the growing darkness and make a target. it was a significant fact that the rifle did not occupy its usual place behind the desk. bruce kept it in his hands as he made the inspection. linda had her empty pistol, knowing that it might--in the mayhap of circumstance--be of aid in frightening an assailant. old elmira sat beside the fire, her stiff fingers busy at a piece of sewing. "you know--" bruce said to her, "that we are expecting an attack to-night?" the woman nodded, but didn't miss a stitch. no gleam of interest came into her eyes. bruce's gaze fell to her work basket, and something glittered from its depth. evidently elmira had regained her knife. he went back to his chair beside linda, and the two sat listening. they had never known a more quiet night. they listened in vain for the little night sounds that usually come stealing, so hushed and tremulous, from the forest. the noises that always, like feeble ghosts, dwell in a house at night--the little explosions of a scraping board or a banging shutter or perhaps a mouse, scratching in the walls--were all lacking too. and they both started, ever so slightly, when they heard a distant rumble of thunder. "it's going to storm," linda told him. "yes. a thunderstorm--rather unusual in the fall, isn't it?" "almost unknown. it's growing cold too." they waited a breathless minute, then the thunder spoke again. it was immeasurably nearer. it was as if it had leaped toward them, through the darkness, with incredible speed in the minute that had intervened. the last echo of the sound was not dead when they heard it a third time. the storm swept toward them and increased in fury. on a distant hillside the strange file that was the turners halted, then gathered around simon. already the lightning made vivid, white gashes in the sky and illumined--for a breathless instant--the long sweep of the ridge above them. "we'll make good targets in the lightning," old bill said. "ride on," simon ordered. "you know a man can't find a target in the hundredth of a second of a lightning flash. we're not going to turn back now." they rode on. far away they heard the whine and roar of wind, and in a moment it was upon them. the forest was no longer silent. the peal of the thunder was almost continuous. the breaking of the storm seemed to rock the folger house on its foundation. both linda and bruce leaped to their feet; but they felt a little tingle of awe when they saw that old elmira still sat sewing. it was as if the calm that dwelt in the sentinel pine outside had come down to abide in her. no force that the world possessed could ever take it from her. they heard the rumble and creak of the trees as the wind smote them, and the flame of the lamp danced wildly, filling the room with flickering shadows. bruce straightened, the lines of his face setting deep. he glanced once more at the rifle in his hands. "linda," he said, "put out that fire. if there's going to be an attack, we'd have a better chance if the room were in darkness. we can shoot through the door then." she obeyed at once, knocking the burning sticks apart and drenching them with water. they hissed, and steamed, but the noise of the storm almost effaced the sound. "now the light?" linda asked. "yes. see where you are and have everything ready." she took off the glass shade of the lamp, and the little gusts of wind that crept in the cracks of the windows immediately extinguished the flame. the darkness dropped down. then bruce opened the door. the whole wilderness world struggled in the grasp of the storm. the scene was such that no mortal memory could possibly forget. they saw it in great, vivid glimpses in the intermittent flashes of the lightning, and the world seemed no longer that which they had come to know. chaos was upon it. they saw young trees whipping in the wind, their slender branches flailing the air. they saw the distant ridges in black and startling contrast against the lighted sky. the tall tops of the trees wagged back and forth in frenzied signals; their branches smote and rubbed together. and just without their door the sentinel pine stood with top lifted to the fury of the storm. a strange awe swept over bruce. a moment later he was to behold a sight that for the moment would make him completely forget the existence of the great tree; but for an instant he poised at the brink of a profound and far-reaching discovery. there was a great lesson for him in that dark, towering figure that the lightning revealed. even in the fury of the storm it still stood infinitely calm, watchful, strong as the mountains themselves. its great limbs moved and spoke; its top swayed back and forth, yet still it held its high place as sentinel of the forest, passionless, patient, talking through the murk of clouds to the stars that burned beyond. "see," linda said. "the turners are coming." it was true. bruce dropped his eyes. even now the clan had spread out in a great wing and was bearing down upon the house. the lightning showed them in strange, vivid flashes. bruce nodded slowly. "i see," he answered. "i'm ready." "then shoot them, quick--when the lightning shows them," she whispered in his ear. "they're in range now." her hand seized his arm. "what are you waiting for?" he turned to her sternly. "have you forgotten we only have five shells?" he asked. "go back to elmira." her eyes met his, and she tried to smile into them. "forgive me, bruce--it's hard--to be calm." but at once she understood why he was waiting. the flashes of lightning offered no opportunity for an accurate shot. bruce meant to conserve his little supply of shells until the moment of utmost need. the clan drew nearer. they were riding slowly, with ready rifles. and ever the storm increased in fury. the thunder was so close that it no longer gave the impression of being merely sound. it was a veritable explosion just above their heads. the flashes came so near together that for an instant bruce began to hope they would reveal the attackers clearly enough to give him a chance for a well-aimed shot. the first drops of rain fell one by one on the roof. his eyes sought for simon's figure. to simon he owed the greatest debt, and to lay simon low might mean to dishearten the whole clan. but although the attackers were in fair range now, scarcely two hundred yards away, he could not identify him. they drew closer. he raised his gun, waiting for a chance to fire. and at that instant a resistless force hurled him to the floor. there was the sense of vast catastrophe, a great rocking and shuddering that was lost in billowing waves of sound; and then a frantic effort to recall his wandering faculties. a blinding light cut the darkness in twain; it smote his eyeballs as if with a physical blow; and summoning all his powers of will he sprang to his feet. there was only darkness at first; and he did not understand. but it was of scarcely less duration than the flash of lightning. a red flame suddenly leaped into the air, roared and grew and spread as if scattered by the wind itself. and bruce's breath caught in a sob of wonder. the sentinel pine, that ancient friend and counselor that stood not over one hundred feet from the house, had been struck by a lightning bolt, its trunk had been cleft open as if by a giant's ax, and the flame was already springing through its balsam-laden branches. xxix bruce stood as if entranced, gazing with awed face at the flaming tree. there was little danger of the house itself catching fire. the wind blew the flame in the opposite direction; besides, the rains were beating on the roof. the fire in the great tree itself, however, was too well started to be extinguished at once by any kind of rainfall; but it did burn with less fierceness. dimly he felt the girl's hand grasping at his arm. her fingers pressed until he felt pain. his eyes lowered to hers. the sight of that passion-drawn face--recalling in an instant the scene beside the camp fire his first night at trail's end--called him to himself. "shoot, you fool!" she stormed at him. "the tree's lighted up the whole countryside, and you can't miss. shoot them before they run away." he glanced quickly out. the clan that had drawn within sixty yards of the house at the time the lightning struck had been thrown into confusion. their horses had been knocked down by the force of the bolt and were fleeing, riderless, away. the men followed them, shouting, plainly revealed in the light from the burning tree. the great torch beside the house had completely turned the tables. and linda spoke true; they offered the best of targets. again the girl's eyes were lurid slits between the lids. her lips were drawn, and her breathing was strange. he looked at her calmly. "no, linda. i can't--" "you can't," she cried. "you coward--you traitor! kill--kill--kill them while there's time." she saw the resolve in his face, and she snatched the rifle from his hands. she hurled it to her shoulder and three times fired blindly toward the retreating turners. at that instant bruce seemed to come to life. his thoughts had been clear ever since the tree had been struck; his vision was straighter and more far-reaching than ever in his life before, but now his muscles wakened too. he sprang toward the girl and snatched the rifle from her hand. she fought for it, and he held her with a strong arm. "wait--wait, linda," he said gently. "you've wasted three cartridges now. there are only two left. and we may need them some other time." he held her from him with his arm; and it was as if his strength flowed into her. her blazing eyes sought his, and for a long second their wills battled. and then a deep wonder seemed to come over her. "what is it?" she breathed. "what have you found out?" she spoke in a strange and distant voice. slowly the fire died in her eyes, the drawn features relaxed, her hands fell at her side. he drew her away from he lighted doorway, out of the range of any of the turners that should turn to answer the rifle fire. the wind roared over the house and swept by in clamoring fury, the electric storm dimmed and lessened as it journeyed on. these two knew that if death spared them in all the long passage of their years, they could never forget that moment. the girl watched him breathlessly, oblivious to all things else. he seemed wholly unaware of her now. there was something aloof, impassive, infinitely calm about him, and a great, far-reaching understanding was in his eyes. her own eyes suddenly filled with tears. "linda, there's something come to me--and i don't know that i can make you understand. i can only call it strength--a new strength and a greater strength than i ever had before. it's something that the pine--that great tree that we just saw split open--has been trying to tell me for a long time. oh, can't you see, linda? there it stood, hundreds of years--so great, so tall, so wise--in a moment broken like a reed. it takes away my arrogance, linda. it makes me see myself as i really am. and that means--_power_." his eyes blazed, and he caught her hands in his. "it was a symbol, linda, not only of the wilderness, but of powers higher and greater than the wilderness. powers that can look down, and not be swept away by passion, and not try to tear to pieces those who in their folly harm them. there's no room for such things as vengeance in this new strength. there's no room for murder, and malice, and hatred, and bloodshed." linda understood. she knew that this new-found strength did not mean renunciation of her cause. it did not mean that he would give over his attempt to reinstate her as the owner of her father's estates. it only meant that the impulse of personal vengeance was dead within him. he knew now--the same as ever--that the duty of the men that dwell upon the earth is to do their allotted tasks, and without hatred and without passion to overcome the difficulties that stand in the way. she realized that if one of the turners should leap through the door and attack her, bruce would kill him without mercy or regret. she knew that he would make every effort to bring the offenders to the law. but the ability to shoot a fleeing enemy in the back, because of wrongs done long ago, was past. bruce's vision had come to him. he knew that if vengeance had been the creed of the powers that ruled the world, the sphere would have been destroyed with fire long since. to stand firm and straight and unflinching; not to judge, not to condemn, not to resent; this was true strength. he began to see the whole race of men as so many leaves, buffeted by the winds of chance and circumstance; and was it for the oak leaf that the wind carried swift and high to hold in scorn the shrub leaf that the storm had already hurled to the dust? "i know," the girl said, her thoughts wandering afar. "perhaps the name for it all is--tolerance." "perhaps," he nodded. "and possibly it is only--worship!" * * * * * the turners had gone. the dimming lightning revealed the entire attacking party half a mile distant and out of rifle range on the ridge; and bruce and linda stole together out into the storm. the green foliage of the tree had already burned away, but some of the upper branches still glowed against the dark sky. a fallen branch smoldered on the ground, hissing in the rain, and it lighted their way. awed and mystified, bruce halted before the ruin of the great tree. he had almost forgotten the stress of the moment just passed. it did not even occur to him that some of his enemies, unseen before, might still be lurking in the shadow, watching for a chance to harm. they stood a moment in silence. then bruce uttered one little gasp and stretched his arm into the hollow that the cleft in the trunk had revealed. the light from the burning branch behind him had shown him a small, dark object that had evidently been inserted in the hollow tree trunk through some little aperture that had either since been closed up or they had never observed. it was a leathern wallet, and bruce opened it under linda's startled gaze. he drew out a single white paper. he held it in the light, and his glance swept down its lines of faded ink. then he looked up with brightening eyes. "what is it?" she asked. "the secret agreement between your father and mine," he told her simply. "and we've won." he watched her eyes brighten. it seemed to him that nothing life had ever offered had given him the same pleasure. it was a moment of triumph. but before half of its long seconds were gone, it became a moment of despair. a rifle spoke from the coverts beyond,--one sharp, angry note that rose distinct and penetrating above the noise of the distant thunder. a little tongue of fire darted, like a snake's head, in the darkness. and the triumph on bruce's face changed to a singular look of wonder. xxx to simon, the night had seemingly ended in triumph after all. it had looked dark for a while. the bolt of lightning, setting fire to the pine, had deranged all of his plans. his men had been thrown from their horses, the blazing pine tree had left them exposed to fire from the house, and they had not yet caught their mounts and rallied. young bill and himself, however, had tied their horses before the lightning had struck and had lingered in the thickets in front of the house for just such a chance as had been given them. he hadn't understood why bruce had not opened fire on the fleeing turners. he wondered if his enemy were out of ammunition. the tragedy of the sentinel pine had had no meaning for him; and he had held his rifle cocked and ready for the instant that bruce had shown himself. young bill had heard his little exultant gasp when linda and bruce had come out into the firelight. plainly they had kept track of all the attacking party that had been visible, and supposed that all their enemies had gone. he felt the movement of simon's strong arms as he raised the rifle. those arms were never steadier. in the darkness the younger man could not see his face, but his own fancy pictured it with entire clearness. the eyes were narrowed and red, the lines cut deep about the bloodhound lips, and mercy was as far from him as from the killer who hunted on the distant ridge. but simon didn't fire at once. the two were coming steadily toward him, and the nearer they were the better his chance of success in the unsteady light. he sat as breathless, as wholly free from telltale motion as a puma who waits in ambush for an approaching deer. he meant to take careful aim. it was his big chance, and he intended to make the most of it. the two had halted beside the ruined pine, but for a moment he held his fire. they stood rather close together; he wanted to wait until bruce offered a clear target. and at that instant bruce had drawn the leather wallet from the tree. curiosity alone stayed simon's finger as bruce had opened it. he saw the gleam of the white paper in the dim light; and then he understood. simon was a man of rigid, unwavering self-control; and his usual way was to look a long time between the sights before he fired. yet the sight of that document--the missing folger-ross agreement on which had hung victory or defeat--sent a violent impulse through all his nervous system. for the first time in his memory his reflexes got away from him. it had meant too much; and his finger pressed back involuntarily against the trigger. he hadn't taken his usual deliberate aim, although he had seen brace's figure clearly between the sights the instant before he had fired. simon was a rifle-man, bred in the bone, and he had no reason to think that the hasty aim meant a complete miss. he did realize, however, the difficulties of night shooting--a realization that all men who have lingered after dusk in the duck blind experience sooner or later--and he looked up over his sights to see the result of his shot. his self-control had completely returned to him; and he was perfectly cold about the whole matter. from the first second he knew he hadn't completely missed. he raised his rifle to shoot again. but bruce's body was no longer revealed. linda stood in the way. it looked as if she had deliberately thrown her own body as a shield between. simon spoke then,--a single, terrible oath of hatred and jealousy. but in a second more he saw his triumph. bruce swayed, reeled, and fell in linda's arms, and he saw her half-drag him into the house. he stood shivering, but not from the cold that the storm had brought. "come on," he ordered young bill. "i think we've downed him for good, but we've got to get that paper." * * * * * but simon did not see all things clearly. he had little real knowledge of the little drama that had followed his shot from ambush. human nature is full of odd quirks and twists, and among other things, symptoms are misleading. there is an accepted way for men to act when they are struck with a rifle bullet. they are expected to reel, to throw their arms wide, and usually to cry out. the only trouble with these actions, as most men who have been in french battle-fields know very well, is that they do not usually happen in real life. bruce, with linda's eyes upon him, took one rather long, troubled breath. and he did look somewhat puzzled. then he looked down at his shoulder. "i'm hit, linda," he said in a quiet way. "i think just a scratch." the tremendous shock of any kind of wound from a thirty-forty caliber bullet had not seemingly affected him outwardly at all. linda's response was rather curious. some hours were to pass before he completely understood. the truth was that the shock of that rifle bullet, ordinarily striking a blow of a half-ton, had cost him for the moment an ability to make any logical interpretation of events. the girl moved swiftly, yet without giving an impression of leaping, and stood very close and in front of him. in one lightning movement she had made of her own body a shield for his, in case the assassin in the covert should shoot again. she was trained to mountain ways, and instantly she regained a perfect mastery of herself. her arms went about and seized his shoulders. "stagger," she whispered quickly. "pretend to fall. it's the one chance to save you." he dispelled the mists in his own brain and obeyed her. he swayed, and her arms went about him. then he fell forward. her strong arms encircled his waist and with all her magnificent young strength she dragged him to the door. it was noticeable, however--to all eyes except bruce's--that she kept her own body as much as she could between him and the ambush. in an instant they were in the darkened room. bruce stood up, once more wholly master of himself. "you're not hurt bad?" she asked quickly. "no. just a deep scratch in the arm muscle near the shoulder. bullet just must have grazed me. but it's bleeding pretty bad." "then there's no time to be lost." her hands in her eagerness went again to his shoulder. "don't you see--he'll be here in a minute. we'll steal out the back door and try to ride down to the courts before they can overtake us--" in one instant he had grasped the idea; and he laughed softly in the gloom. "i know. i'll snatch two blankets and the food. you get the horse." she sprang out the kitchen door and he hurried into the bedrooms. he snatched two of the warmest blankets from the beds and hurled them over his shoulder. he hooked the camp ax on his belt, then hastened into the little kitchen. he took up the little sack containing a few pounds of jerked venison, spilled out a few pieces for elmira, and carried it--with a few pounds of flour--out to meet linda. the horse still stood saddled, and with deft hands they tied on their supplies and fastened the blankets in a long roll in front of the saddle. "get on," she whispered. "i'll get up behind you." she spoke in the utter darkness; he felt her breath against his cheek. then the lightning came dimly and showed him her face. "no, linda," he replied quietly. "you are going alone--" she cut him off with a despairing cry. "oh, please, bruce--i won't. i'll stay here then--" "don't you see?" he demanded. "you can make it out without me. i'm wounded and bleeding, and can't tell how long i can keep up. we've only got one horse, and without me to weigh him down you can get down to the courts--" "and leave you here to be murdered? oh, don't waste the precious seconds any more. i won't go without you. i mean it. if you stay here, i do too. believe me if you ever believed anything." once more the lightning revealed her face, and on it was the determination of a zealot. he knew that she spoke the truth. he climbed with some difficulty into the saddle. a moment more and she swung up behind him. the entire operation had taken an astonishingly short period of time. bruce had worked like mad, wholly disregarding his injured arm. the rain had already changed to snow, and the wet flakes beat in his face, but he did not heed them. just beyond, simon with ready rifle was creeping toward the house. "which way?" bruce asked. "the out-trail--around the mountain," she whispered. "simon will overtake us on the other--he's got a magnificent horse. on the mountain trail we'll have a better chance to keep out of his sight." she spoke hurriedly, yet conveyed her message with entire clearness. they knew what they had to face, these two. simon and whoever of the clan was with him would lose no time in springing in pursuit. they each had a strong horse, they knew the trails, they carried long-range rifles and would open fire at the first glimpse of the fugitives. bruce was wounded; slight as the injury was it would seriously handicap them in such a test as this. their one chance was to keep to the remote trails, to lurk unseen in the thickets, and try to break through to safety. and they knew that only by the doubtful mercy of the forest gods could they ever succeed. she took the reins and pulled out of the trail, then encircled a heavy wall of brush. she didn't wish to take the risk of simon seeing their forms in the dimming lightning and opening fire so soon. then she turned back into the trail and headed into the storm. * * * * * simon had clear enough memory of the rifle fire that linda had opened upon the clan to wish to approach the house with care. it would be wholly typical of the girl to lay her lover on his bed, then go back to the window to wait for a sight of his assassin. she could look straight along a rifle barrel! a few moments were lost as young bill and himself encircled the thickets, keeping out of the gleam of the smoldering tree. its light was almost gone; it hissed and glowed in the wet snow. they crept up from the shadow, and holding their rifles ready, opened the door. they were somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. the truth was it had been left thus by design; linda did not wish them to encircle the house to the rear door and discover bruce and herself in the act of departure. the room was in darkness, and the two intruders rather expected to find bruce's body on the threshold. these were mountain men; and they had been in rifle duels before. they had the sure instincts of the beasts of prey in the hills without, and among other things they knew it wasn't wise to stand long in an open doorway with the firelight of the ruined pine behind them. they slipped quickly into the darkness. then they stopped and listened. the room was deeply silent. they couldn't hear the sound that both of them had so confidently expected,--the faint breathing of a dying man. simon struck a match. the room was quite deserted. "what's up?" bill demanded. simon turned toward him with a scowl, and the match flickered and burned out in his fingers. "keep your rifle ready. he may be hiding somewhere--still able to shoot." they stole to the door of linda's room and listened. then they threw it wide. one of their foes was in this room--an implacable foe whose eyes were glittering and strange in the matchlight. but it was neither bruce nor linda. it was old elmira, cold and sinister as a rattler in its lair. simon cursed her and hurried on. at that instant both men began to move swiftly. holding his rifle like a club, simon swung through into, bruce's room, lighted another match, then darted into the kitchen. in the dim matchlight the truth went home to him. he turned, eyes glittering. "they've gone--on dave's horse," he said. "thank god they've only got one horse between 'em and can't go fast. you ride like hell up the trail toward the store--they might have gone that way. keep close watch and shoot when you can make 'em out." "you mean--" bill's eyes widened. "mean! i mean do as i say. shoot by sound, if you can't see them, and don't lose another second or i'll shoot you too. aim for the man if a chance offers--but shoot, anyway. don't stop hunting till you find them--they'll duck off in the brush sure. if they get through, everything is lost. i'll take the trail around the mountain." they raced to their horses, untied them, and mounted swiftly. the darkness swallowed them at once. xxxi in the depth of gloom even the wild folk--usually keeping so close a watch on those that move on the shadowed trails--did not see linda and bruce ride past. the darkness is usually their time of dominance, but to-night most of them had yielded to the storm and the snow. they hovered in their coverts. what movement there was among them was mostly toward the foothills; for the message had gone forth over the wilderness that the cold had come to stay. the little gnawing folk, emerging for another night's work at filling their larders with food, crept down into the scarcely less impenetrable darkness of their underground burrows. even the bears, whose furry coats were impervious to any ordinary cold, felt the beginnings of the cold-trance creeping over them. they were remembering the security and warmth of their last winter's dens, and they began to long for them again. the horse walked slowly, head close to the ground. the girl made no effort to guide him. the lightning had all but ceased; and in an instant it had become apparent that only by trusting to the animal's instinct could the trail be kept at all; almost at once all sense of direction was lost to them. the snow and the darkness obscured the outline of the ridges against the sky; the trail was wholly invisible beneath them. after the first hundred yards, they had no way of knowing that the horse was actually on the trail. while animals in the light of day cannot see nearly so far or interpret nearly so clearly as human beings, they usually seem to make their way much better at night. many a frontiersman has been saved from death by realization of this fact; and, bewildered by the ridges, has permitted his dog to lead him into camp. but nature has never devised a creature that can see in the utter darkness, and the gloom that enfolded them now seemed simply unfathomable. bruce found it increasingly hard to believe that the horse's eyes could make out any kind of dim pathway in the pine needles. the feeling grew on him and on linda as well that they were lost and aimlessly wandering in the storm. of all the sensations that the wilderness can afford, there are few more dreadful to the spirit than this. it is never pleasant to lose one's bearings,--and in the night and the cold and miles from any friendly habitation it is particularly hard to bear. bruce felt the age-old menace of the wilderness as never before. it always seemed to be crouching, waiting to take a man at a disadvantage; and like the gods that first make mad those whom they would destroy, it doesn't quite play fair. he understood now certain wilderness tragedies of which he had heard: how tenderfeet--lost among the ridges--had broken into a wild run that had ended nowhere except in exhaustion and death. bruce himself felt a wild desire to lash his horse into a gallop, but he forced it back with all his powers of will. his calmer, saner self explained that folly with entire clearness. it would mean panic for the horse, and then a quick and certain death either at the foot of a precipice or from a blow from a low-hanging limb. the horse seemed to be feeling its way, rather than seeing. they were strange, lonely figures in the darkness; and for a long time they rode almost in silence. then bruce felt the girl's breath as she whispered. "bruce," she said. "let's be brave and look this matter in the face. do you think we've got a chance?" he rode a long time before he answered. he groped desperately for a word that might bring her cheer, but it was hard to find. the cold seemed to deepen about them, the remorseless snow beat into his face. "linda," he replied, "it is one of the mercies of this world for men always to think that they've got a chance. maybe it's only a cruelty in our case." "i think i ought to tell you something else. i haven't the least way of knowing whether we are on the right trail." "i knew that long ago. whether we are on any trail at all." "i've just been thinking. i don't know how many forks it has. we might have already got on a wrong one. perhaps the horse is turned about and is heading back home--toward simon's stables." she spoke dully, and he thrust his arm back to her. "linda, try to be brave," he urged. "we can only take a chance." the horse plodded a few more steps. "brave! to think that it is _you_ that has to encourage _me_--instead of my trying to keep up your spirits. i will try to be brave, bruce. and if we don't live through the night, my last remembrance will be of your bravery--how you, injured and weak from loss of blood, still remembered to give a cheery word to me." "i'm not badly injured," he told her gently. "and there are certain things that have come clear to me lately. one of them is that except for you--throwing your own precious body between--i wouldn't be here at all." the feeling that they had lost the trail grew upon them. more than once the stirrup struck the bark of a tree and often the thickets gave way beneath them. once they halted to adjust the blankets on the saddle, and they listened for any sounds that might indicate that simon was overtaking them. but all they heard was the soft rustle of the leaves under the wind-blown snow. "linda," he asked suddenly. "does it seem to you to be awfully cold?" she waited a long time before she spoke. this was not the hour to make quick answers. on any decision might rest their success or failure. "i believe i can stand it--awhile longer," she answered at last. "but i don't think we'd better try to. it's getting cold. every hour it's colder, and i seem to be getting weaker. it isn't a real wound, linda--but it seems to have knocked some of my vitality out of me, and i'm dreadfully in need of rest. i think we'd better try to make a camp." "and go on by morning light?" "yes." "but simon might overtake us then." "we must stay out of sight of the trail. but somehow--i can't help but hope he won't try to follow us on such a night as this." he drew up the horse, and they sat in the beat of the snow. "don't make any mistake about that, bruce," she told him. "remember, that unless he overtakes us before we come into the protection of the courts, his whole fight is lost. it doesn't alone mean loss of the estate--for which he would risk his life just as he has a dozen times. it means defeat--a thing that would come hard to simon. besides, he's got a fire within him that will keep him warm." "you mean--hatred?" "hatred. nothing else." "but in spite of it we must make camp. we'll get off the trail--if we're still on it--and try to slip through to-morrow. you see what's going to happen if we keep on going this way?" "i know that i feel a queer dread--and hopelessness--" "and that dread and hopelessness are just as much danger signals as the sound of simon's horse behind us. it means that the cold and the snow and the fear are getting the better of us. linda, it's a race with death. don't misunderstand me or disbelieve me. it isn't simon alone now. it's the cold and the snow and the fear. the thing to do is to make camp, keep as warm as we can in our blankets, and push on in the morning. it's two full days' ride, going fast, the best we can go--and god knows what will happen before the end." "then turn off the trail, bruce," the girl told him. "i don't know that we're even on the trail." "turn off, anyway. as long as we stay together--it doesn't matter." she spoke very quietly. then he felt a strange thing. a warmth which even that growing, terrible cold could not transcend swept over him. for her arms had crept out under his arms and encircled his great breast, then pressed with all her gentle strength. no word of encouragement, no cheery expression of hope could have meant so much. not defeat, not even the long darkness of death itself could appall him now. all that he had given and suffered and endured, all the mighty effort that he had made had in an instant been shown in its true light, a thing worth while, a sacrifice atoned for and redeemed. they headed off into the thickets, blindly, letting the horse choose the way. they felt him turn to avoid some object in his path--evidently a fallen tree--and they mounted a slight ridge or rise. then they felt the wet touch of fir branches against their cheeks. bruce stopped the horse and both dismounted. both of them knew that under the drooping limbs of the tree they would find, at least until the snows deepened, comparative shelter from the storm. here, rolled in their blankets, they might pass the remainder of the night hours. bruce tied the horse, and the girl unrolled the blankets. but she did not lay them together to make a rude bed,--and the dictates of conventionality had nothing whatever to do with it. if one jot more warmth could have been achieved by it, these two would have lain side by side through the night hours between the same blankets. she knew, however, that more warmth could be achieved if each of them took a blanket and rolled up in it; thus they would get two thicknesses instead of one and no openings to admit the freezing air. when this was done they lay side by side, economizing the last atom of warmth. the night hours were dreary and long. the rain beat into the limbs above them, and sometimes it sifted through. at the first gray of dawn bruce opened his eyes. his dreams had been troubled and strange, but the reality to which he wakened gave him no sense of relief. the first knowledge that he had was that the snow had continued to sift down throughout the night, that it had already laid a white mantle over the wilderness, and the whirling flakes still cut off all view of the familiar landmarks by which he might get his bearings. he had this knowledge before he was actually cognizant of the cold. and then its first realization came to him in a strange heaviness and dullness in his body, and an almost irresistible desire to sleep. he fought a little battle, lying there under the snow-covered limbs of the fir tree. because it was one in which no blows were exchanged, no shots fired, and no muscles called into action, it was no less a battle, trying and stern. it was a fight waged in his own spirit, and it seemed to rend him in twain. the whole issue was clear in his mind at once. the cold had deepened in these hours of dawn, and he was slowly, steadily freezing to death. even now the blood flowed less swiftly in his veins. death itself, in the moment, had lost all horror for him; rather it was a thing of peace, of ease. all he had to do was to lie still. just close his eyes,--and soft shadows would drop over him. they would drop over linda too. she lay still beside him; perhaps they had already fallen. the war he had waged so long and so relentlessly would end in blissful calm. outside there was only snow and cold and wracking limbs and pain, only further conflict with tireless enemies, only struggle to tear his agonized body to pieces; and the bitterness of defeat in the end. he saw his chances plain as he lay beneath that gray sky. even now, perhaps, simon was upon them. only two little rifle shells remained with which to combat him, and he doubted that his wounded arm would hold the rifle steady. there were weary, innumerable miles between them and any shelter, and only the terrible, trackless forest lay between. why not lie still and let the curtains fall? this was an easy, tranquil passing, and heaven alone knew what dreadful mode of egress would be his if he rose to battle further. all the argument seemed on one side. but high and bright above all this burned the indomitable flame of his spirit. even as the thoughts came to him it mounted higher, it propelled its essence of strength through his veins, it brought new steel to his muscles. to rise, to fight, to struggle on! never to yield until the power above decreed! to stand firm, even as the pines themselves. the dominant greatness that linda had found in this man rose in him, and he set his muscles like iron. he struggled to rise. he shook off the mists of the frost in his brain. he seemed to come to life. quickly he knelt by linda and shook her shoulders in his hands. she opened her eyes. "get up, linda," he said gently. "we have to go on." she started to object, but a message in his eyes kept her from it. his own spirit went into her. he helped her to her feet. "help me roll the blankets," he commanded, "and take out enough food for breakfast. we can't stop to eat it here. i think we're in sight of the main trail; whether we can find it--in the snow--i don't know." she understood; usually the absence of vegetation on a well-worn trail makes a shallow covering of snow appear more level and smooth and thus possible to follow. "i'm afraid the snow's already too deep," he continued, "but we can go on in a general direction for a while at least--unless the snow gets worse so i can't even guess the position of the sun. we must get farther into the thickets before we stop to eat." they were strange figures in the snow flurries as they went to work to roll the blankets into a compact bundle. the food she had taken from their stores for breakfast he thrust into the pocket of his coat; the rest, with the blankets, she tied swiftly on the horse. they unfastened the animal and for a moment she stood holding the reins while bruce crept back on the hillside to look for the trail. the snow swept round them, and they felt the lowering menace of the cold. and at that instant those dread spirits that rule the wilderness, jealous then and jealous still of the intrusion of man, dealt them a final, deadly blow. its weapon was just a sound--a loud crash in a distant thicket--and a pungent message on the wind that their human senses were too blunt to receive. bruce saw the full dreadfulness of the blow and was powerless to save. the horse suddenly snorted loudly, then reared up. he saw as in a tragic, dream the girl struggle to hold him; he saw her pulled down into the snow and the rein jerked from her hand. then the animal plunged, wheeled, and raced at top speed away into the snow flurries. some terror that as yet they could not name had broken their control of him and in an instant taken from them this one last hope of safety. xxxii bruce walked over to linda, waiting in the snow on her knees. it was not an intentional posture. she had been jerked down by the plunging horse, and she had not yet completely risen. but the sight of her slight figure, her raised white face, her clasped hands, and the remorseless snow of the wilderness about her moved bruce to his depths. he saw her but dimly in the snow flurries, and she looked as if she were in an attitude of prayer. he came rather slowly, and he even smiled a little. and she gave him a wan, strange, little smile in return. "we're down to cases at last," he said, with a rather startling quietness of tone. "you see what it means?" she nodded, then got to her feet. "we can walk out, if we are let alone and given time; it isn't that we are obliged to have the horse. but our blankets are on its back, and this storm is steadily becoming a blizzard. and you see--_time_ is one thing that we don't have. no human being can stand this cold for long unprotected." "and we can't keep going--keep warm by walking?" his answer was to take out his knife and put the point of the steel to his thumb nail. his eyes strained, then looked up. "a little way," he answered, "but we can't keep our main directions. the sun doesn't even cast a shadow on my nail to show us which is west. we could keep up a while, perhaps, but there is no end to this wilderness and at noon or to-night--the result would be the same." "and it means--the end?" "if i can't catch the horse. i'm going now. if we can regain the blankets--by getting in rifle range of the horse--we might make some sort of shelter in the snow and last out until we can see our way and get our bearings. you don't know of any shelter--any cave or cabin where we might build a fire?" "no. there are some in the hills, but we can't see our way to find them." "i know. i should have thought of that. and you see, we can't build a fire here--everything is wet, and the snow is beginning to whirl so we couldn't keep it going. if we should stagger on all day in this storm and this snow, we couldn't endure the night." he smiled again. "and i want you to climb a tree--and stay there--until i come back." she looked at him dully. "what's the use, bruce? you won't come back. you'll chase the thing until you die--i know you. you don't know when to give up. and if you want to come back--you couldn't find the way. i'm going with you." "no." once more she started to disobey, but the grave displeasure in his eyes restrained her. "it's going to take all my strength to fight through that snow--i must go fast--and maybe life and death will have to depend on your strength at the end of the trail. you must save it--the little you have left. i can find my way back to you by following my own tracks--the snow won't fill them up so soon. and since i must take the rifle--to shoot the horse if i can't catch him--you must climb a tree. you know why." "partly to hide from simon if he comes this way. and partly--" "because there's some danger in that thicket beyond!" he interrupted her. "the horse's terror was real--besides, you heard the sound. it might be only a puma. but it might be--the killer. swing your arms and struggle all you can to keep the blood flowing. i won't be gone long." he started to go, and she ran after him with outstretched arms. "oh, bruce," she cried, "come back soon--soon. don't leave me to die alone. i'm not strong enough for that--" he whirled, took two paces back, and his arms went about her. he had forgotten his injury long since. he kissed her cool lips and smiled into her eyes. then at once the flurries hid him. the girl climbed up into the branches of a fir tree. in the thicket beyond a great gray form tacked back and forth, trying to locate a scent that a second before he had caught but dimly and had lost. it was the killer, and his temper was lost long ago in the whirling snow. his anger was upon him, partly from the discomfort of the storm, partly from the constant, gnawing pain of three bullet wounds in his powerful body. besides, he realized the presence of his old and greatest enemy,--those tall, slight forms that had crossed him so many times, that had stung him with their bullets, and whose weakness he had learned. the wind was variable, and all at once he caught the scent plain. he lurched forward, crashed again through the brush, and walked out into the snow-swept open. linda saw his vague outline, and at first she hung perfectly motionless, hoping to escape his gaze. she had been told many times that grizzlies cannot climb, yet she had no desire to see him raging below her, reaching, possibly trying to shake her from the limbs. her muscles were stiff and inactive from the cold, and she doubted her ability to hold on. besides, in that dread moment she found it hard to believe that the killer would not be able to swing into the lower limbs, high enough to strike her down. he didn't seem to see her. his eyes were lowered; besides, it was never the grizzly way to search the branches of a tree. the wind blew the message that he might have read clearly in the opposite direction. she saw him walk slowly across the snow, head lowered, a huge gray ghost in the snow flurries not one hundred feet distant. then she saw him pause, with lowered head. in the little second before the truth came to her, the bear had already turned. bruce's tracks were somewhat dimmed by the snow, but the killer interpreted them truly. she saw too late that he had crossed them, read their message, and now had turned into the clouds of snow to trace them down. for an instant she gazed at him in speechless horror; and already the flurries had almost obscured his gray figure. desperately she tried to call his attention from the tracks. she called, then she rustled the branches as loudly as she could. but the noise of the wind obscured what sound she made, and the bear was already too absorbed in the hunt to turn and see her. as always, in the nearing presence of a foe, his rage grew upon him. sobbing, linda swung down from the tree. she had no conscious plan of aid to her lover. she only had a blind instinct to seek him, to try to warn him of his danger, and at least to be with him at the death. the great tracks of the killer, seemingly almost as long as her own arm, made a plain trail for her to follow. she too struck off into the storm-swept canyon. and the forest gods who dwell somewhere in the region where the pine tops taper into the sky, and who pull the strings that drop and raise the curtain and work the puppets that are the players of the wilderness dramas, saw a chance for a great and tragic jest in this strange chase over the snow. the destinies of bruce, linda, and the killer were already converging on this trail that all three followed,--the path that the runaway horse made in the snow. only one of the great forces of the war that had been waged at trail's end was lacking, and now he came also. simon turner had ridden late into the night and from before dawn; with remorseless fury he had goaded on his exhausted horse, he had driven him with unpitying strength through coverts, over great rocks, down into rocky canyons in search of bruce and linda, and now, as the dawn broke, he thought that he had found them. he had suddenly come upon the tracks of bruce's horse in the snow. if he had encountered them farther back, when the animal had been running wildly, he might have guessed the truth and rejoiced. no man would attempt to ride a horse at a gallop through that trailless stretch. but at the point he found the tracks most of the horse's terror had been spent, and it was walking leisurely, sometimes lowering its head to crop the shrubbery. the trail was comparatively fresh too; or else the fast-falling snow would have already obscured it. he thought that his hour of triumph was near. but it had come none too soon. and simon--out of passion-filled eyes--looked and saw that it would likely bring death with it. he realized his position fully. the storm was steadily developing into one of those terrible mountain blizzards in which, without shelter, no human being might live. he was far from his home, he had no blankets, and he could not find his way. yet he would not have turned back if he could. in all the manifold mysteries of the wilderness there was no stranger thing than this: that in the face of his passion simon had forgotten and ignored even that deepest instinct, self-preservation. nothing mattered any more except his hatred. no desire was left except its expression. the securing of the document by which bruce could take the great estates from him was only a trifle now. he believed wholly within his own soul that the wilderness--without his aid--would do his work of hatred for him; and that by no conceivable circumstances could bruce and linda find shelter from the blizzard and live through the day. he could find their bodies in the spring if he by any chance escaped himself, and take the ross-folger agreement from them. but it was not enough. he wanted also to do the work of destruction. even his own death--if it were only delayed until his vengeance was wreaked--could not matter now. in all the ancient strife and fury and ceaseless war of the wild through which he had come, there was no passion to equal this. the killer was content to let the wolf kill the fawn for him. the cougar will turn from its warm, newly slain prey, in which its white fangs have already dipped, at the sight of some great danger in the thickets. but simon could not turn. death lowered its wings upon him as well as upon his enemy, yet the fire in his heart and the fury in his brain shut out all thought of it. he sprang off his horse better to examine the tracks, and then stood, half bent over, in the snow. * * * * * bruce folger headed swiftly up the trail that his runaway horse had made. it was, he thought, his last effort, and he gave his full strength to it. weakened as he was by the cold and the wound, he could not have made headway at all except for the fact that the wind was behind him. the snow ever fell faster, in larger flakes, and the track dimmed before his eyes. it was a losing game. terrified not only by the beast that had stirred in the thicket but by the ever-increasing wind as well, the animal would not linger to be overtaken. bruce had not ridden it enough to have tamed it, and his plan was to attempt to shoot the creature on sight, rather than try to catch it. they could not go forward, anyway, as long as the blizzard lasted. which way was east and which was west he could no longer guess. and with the blankets they might make some sort of shelter and keep life in their bodies until the snow ceased and they could find their way. the cold was deepening, the storm was increasing in fury. bruce's bones ached, his wounded arm felt numb and strange, the frost was getting into his lungs. the wind's breath was ever keener, its whistle was louder in the pines. there was no hope of the storm decreasing, rather it was steadily growing worse. and bruce had some pre-knowledge--an inheritance, perhaps, from frontier ancestors--of the real nature of the mountain blizzard such as was descending on him now. it was a losing fight. all the optimism of youth and the spirit of the angels could not deny this fact. the tracks grew more dim, and he began to be afraid that the falling flakes would obscure his own footprints so that he could not find his way back to linda. and he knew, beyond all other knowledge, that he wanted her with him when the shadows dropped down for good and all. he couldn't face them bravely alone. he wanted her arms about him; the flight would be easier then. "oh, what's the use?" he suddenly said to the wind. "why not give up and go back?" he halted in the trail and started to turn. but at that instant a banner of wind swept down into his face, and the eddy of snow in front of him was brushed from his gaze. just for the space of a breath the canyon for a hundred feet distant was partially cleared of the blinding streamers of snow. and he uttered a long gasp when he saw, thirty yards distant and at the farthest reaches of his sight, the figure of a saddled horse. his gun leaped to his shoulder, yet his eagerness did not cost him his self-control. he gazed quietly along the sights until he saw the animal's shoulder between them. his finger pressed back against the trigger. the horse rocked down, seemingly instantly killed, and the snow swept in between. bruce cried out in triumph. then he broke into a run and sped through the flurries toward his dead. but it came about that there was other business for bruce than the recovery of his blankets that he had supposed would be tied to the saddle. the snow was thick between, and he was within twenty feet of the animal's body before he glimpsed it clearly again. and he felt the first wave of wonder, the first promptings of the thought that the horse he had shot down was not his, but one that he had never seen before. but there was no time for the thought to go fully home. some one cried out--a strange, half-snarl of hatred and triumph that was almost lacking in all human quality--and a man's body leaped toward him from the thicket before which the horse had fallen. it was simon, and bruce had mistaken his horse for the one he had ridden. xxxiii even in that instant crisis bruce did not forget that he had as yet neglected to expel the empty cartridge from the barrel of his rifle and to throw in the other from the magazine. he tried to get the gun to his shoulder, working the lever at the same time. but simon's leap was too fast for him. his strong hand seized the barrel of the gun and snatched it from his hands. then the assailant threw it back, over his shoulder, and it fell softly in the snow. he waited, crouched. the two men stood face to face at last. all things else were forgotten. the world they had known before--a world of sorrow and pleasures, of mountains and woods and homes--faded out and left no realities except each other's presence. all about them were the snow flurries that their eyes could not penetrate, and it was as if they were two lone contestants on an otherwise uninhabited sphere who had come to grips at last. the falling snow gave the whole picture a curious tone of unreality and dimness. bruce straightened, and his face was of iron. "well, simon," he said. "you've come." the man's eyes burned red through the snow. "of course i would. did you think you could escape me?" "it didn't much matter whether i escaped you or not," bruce answered rather quietly. "neither one of us is going to escape the storm and the cold. i suppose you know that." "i know that _one_ of us is. because one of us is going out--a more direct way--first. which one that is doesn't much matter." his great hands clasped. "bruce, when i snatched your gun right now i could have done more. i could have sprung a few feet farther and had you around the waist--taken by surprise. the fight would have been already over. i think i could have done more than that even--with my own rifle as you came up. it's laying there, just beside the horse." but bruce didn't turn his eyes to look at it. he was waiting for the attack. "i could have snatched your life just as well, but i wanted to wait," simon went on. "i wanted to say a few words first, and wanted to master you--not by surprise--but by superior strength alone." it came into brace's mind that he could tell simon of the wound near his shoulder, how because of it no fight between them would be a fair test of superiority, yet the words didn't come to his lips. he could not ask mercy of this man, either directly or indirectly, any more than the pines asked mercy of the snows that covered them. "you were right when you said there is no escaping from this storm," simon went on. "but it doesn't much matter. it's the end of a long war, and what happens to the victor is neither here nor there. it seems all the more fitting that we should meet just as we have--at the very brink of death--and death should be waiting at the end for the one of us who survives. it's so like this damned, terrible wilderness in which we live." bruce gazed in amazement. the dark and dreadful poetry of this man's nature was coming to the fore. the wind made a strange echo to his words,--a long, wild shriek as it swept over the heads of the pines. "then why are you waiting?" bruce asked. "so you can understand everything. but i guess that time is here. there is to be no mercy at the end of this fight, bruce; i ask none and will give none. you have waged a war against me, you have escaped me many times, you have won the love of the woman i love--and this is to be my answer." his voice dropped a note and he spoke more quietly. "i'm going to kill you, bruce." "then try it," bruce answered steadily. "i'm in a hurry to go back to linda." simon's smoldering wrath blazed up at the words. both men seemed to spring at the same time. their arms flailed, then interlocked; and they rocked a long time--back and forth in the snow. they fought in silence. the flurries dropped over them, and the wind swept by in its frantic wandering. bruce called upon his last ounce of reserve strength,--that mysterious force that always sweeps to a man's aid in a moment of crisis. for the first time he had full realization of simon's mighty strength. with all the power of his body he tried to wrench him off his feet, but it was like trying to tear a tree from the ground. but surprise at the other's power was not confined to bruce alone. simon knew that he had an opponent worthy of the iron of his own muscles, and he put all his terrible might into the battle. he tried to reach bruce's throat, but the man's strong shoulder held the arm against his side. simon's great hand reached to pin bruce's arm, and for the first time he discovered the location of his weakness. he saw the color sweep from bruce's face and water drops that were not melted snow come upon it. it was all the advantage needed between such evenly matched contestants. and simon forgot his spoken word that he wished this fight to be a test of superiority alone. his fury swept over him like a flood and effaced all things else; and he centered his whole attack upon bruce's wound. in a moment he had him down, and he struck once into bruce's white face with his terrible knuckles. the blow sent a strange sickness through the younger man's frame; and he tried vainly to struggle to his feet. "fight! fight on!" was the message his mind dispatched along his nerves to his tortured muscles, but for an instant they wholly refused to respond. they had endured too much. total unconsciousness hovered above him, ready to descend. strangely, he seemed to know that simon had crept from his body and was even now reaching some dreadful weapon that lay beside the dead form of the horse. in an instant he had it, and bruce's eyes opened in time to see him swinging it aloft. it was his rifle, and simon was aiming a murderous blow at him with its stock. there was no chance to ward it off. no human skull could withstand its shattering impact. bruce saw the man's dark face with the murder madness upon it, the blazing eyes, the lips drawn back. the muscles contracted to deal the blow. but that war of life and death in the far reaches of trail's end was not to end so soon. at that instant there was an amazing intervention. a great gray form came lunging out of the snow flurries. their vision was limited to a few feet, and so fast the creature came, with such incredible, smashing power, that he was upon them in a breath. it was the killer in the full glory of the charge; and he had caught up with them at last. bruce saw only his great figure looming just over him. simon, with amazing agility, leaped to one side just in time, then battered down the rifle stock with all his strength. but the blow was not meant for bruce. it struck where aimed,--the great gray shoulder of the grizzly. then, dimmed and half-obscured by the snow flurries, there began as strange a battle as the great pines above them had ever beheld. the killer's rage was upon him, and the blow at the shoulder had arrested his charge for a moment only. then he wheeled, a snarling, fighting monster with death for any living creature in the blow of his forearm, and lunged toward simon again. it was the killer at his grandest. the little eyes blazed, the neck hair bristled, he struck with forearms and jaws--lashing, lunging, recoiling--all the terrible might and fury of the wilderness centered and personified in his mighty form. simon had no chance to shoot his rifle. in the instant that he would raise it those great claws and fangs would be upon him. he swung it as a club, striking again and again, dodging the sledge-hammer blows and springing aside in the second of the killer's lunges. he was fighting for his life, and no eye could bemean that effort. simon himself seemed exalted, and for once it appeared that the grizzly had found an opponent worthy of his might. it was all so fitting: that these two mighty powers, typifying all that is remorseless and terrible in the wild, should clash at last in the gathering fury of the storm. they were of one kind, and they seemed to understand each other. the lust and passion and fury of battle were upon them both. the scene harked back to the young days of the world, when man and beast battled for dominance. nothing had changed. the forest stood grave and silent, just the same. the elements warred against them from the clouds,--that ancient persecution of which the wolf pack sings on the ridge at night, that endless strife that has made of existence a travail and a scourge. man and beast and storm--those three great foes were arrayed the same as ever. time swung backward a thousand-thousand years. the storm gathered in force. the full strength of the blizzard was upon them. the snow seemed to come from all directions in great clouds and flurries and streamers, and time after time it wholly hid the contestants from bruce's eyes. at such times he could tell how the fight was going by sound alone,--the snarls of the killer, the wild oaths of simon, the impact of the descending rifle-butt. bruce gave no thought to taking part. both were enemies; his own strength seemed gone. the cold deepened; bruce could feel it creeping into his blood, halting its flow, threatening the spark of life within him. the full light of day had come out upon the land. bruce knew the wilderness now. all its primitive passions were in play, all its mighty forces at grips. the storm seemed to be trying to extinguish these mortal lives; jealous of their intrusion, longing for the world it knew before living things came to dwell upon it, when its winds swept endlessly over an uninhabited earth, and its winter snows lay trackless and its rule was supreme. and beneath it, blind to the knowledge that in union alone lay strength to oppose its might--to oppose all those cruel forces that make a battleground of life--man and beast fought their battle to the death. it seemed to go on forever. linda came stealing out of the snow--following the grizzly's trail--and crept beside bruce. she crouched beside him, and his arm went about her as if to shield her. she had heard the sounds of the battle from afar; she had thought that bruce was the contestant, and her terror had left a deep pallor upon her face; yet now she gazed upon that frightful conflict with a strange and enduring calm. both she and bruce knew that there was but one sure conqueror, and that was death. if the killer survived the fight and through the mercy of the forest gods spared their lives, there remained the blizzard. they could conceive of no circumstances whereby further effort would be of the least avail. the horse on which was tied their scanty blankets was miles away by now; its tracks were obscured in the snow, and they could not find their way to any shelter that might be concealed among the ridges. the scene grew in fury. the last burst of strength was upon simon; in another moment he would be exhausted. the bear had suffered terrible punishment from the blows of the rifle stock. he recoiled once more, then lunged with unbelievable speed. his huge paw, with all his might behind it, struck the weapon from simon's hand. it shot through the air seemingly almost as fast as the bullets it had often propelled from its muzzle and struck the trunk of a tree. so hard it came that the lock was shattered; they heard the ring of metal. the bear rocked forward once more and struck again. and then all the sound that was left was the eerie complaint of the wind. simon lay still. the brave fight was over. his trial had ended fittingly,--in the grip of such powers as were typical of himself. but the bear did not leap upon him to tear his flesh. for an instant he stood like a statue in gray stone, head lowered, as if in a strange attitude of thought. the snow swept over him. linda and bruce gazed at him in silent awe. some way, they felt no fear. no room in their hearts was left for it after the tumult of that battle. the great grizzly uttered one deep note and half-turned about. his eyes rested upon the twain, but he did not seem to see them. the fury was dead within him; this much was plain. the hair began to lie down at his shoulders. the terrible eyes lost their fire. then he turned again and headed off slowly, deliberately, directly into the face of the storm. xxxiv the flurries almost immediately obscured the killer's form, and bruce turned his attention back to linda. "it's the end," he said quietly. "why not here--as well as anywhere else?" but before the question was finished, a strange note had come into his voice. it was as if his attention had been called from his words by something much more momentous. the truth was that it had been caught and held by a curious expression on the girl's face. some great idea, partaking of the nature of inspiration, had come to her. he saw it in the growing light in her eyes, the deepening of the soft lines of her face. all at once she sprang to her feet. "bruce!" she cried. "perhaps there's a way yet. a long, long chance, but maybe a way yet. get your rifle--simon's is broken--and come with me." without waiting for him to rise she struck off into the storm, following the huge footprints of the bear. the man struggled with himself, summoned all that was left of his reserve supply of strength, and leaped up. he snatched his rifle from the ground where simon had thrown it, and in an instant was beside her. her cheeks were blazing. "maybe it just means further torture," she confessed to him, "but don't you want to make every effort we can to save ourselves? don't you want to fight till the last breath?" she glanced up and saw her answer in the growing strength of his face. then his words spoke too. "as long as the slightest chance remains," he replied. "and you'll forgive me if it comes to nothing?" he smiled, dimly. she took fresh heart when she saw he still had strength enough to smile. "you don't have to ask me that." "a moment ago an idea came to me--it came so straight and sure it was as if a voice told me," she explained hurriedly. she didn't look at him again. she kept her eyes intent upon the great footprints in the snow. to miss them for a second meant, in that world of whirling snow, to lose them forever. "it was after the bear had killed simon and had gone away. he acted exactly as if he thought of something and went out to do it--exactly as if he had a destination in view. didn't you see--his anger seemed to die in him and he started off in the _face of the storm_. i've watched the ways of animals too long not to know that he had something in view. it wasn't food; he would have attacked the body of the horse, or even simon's body. if he had just been running away or wandering, he would have gone with the wind, not against it. he was weakened from the fight, perhaps dying--and i think--" he finished the sentence for her, breathlessly. "that he's going toward shelter." "yes. you know, bruce--the bears hibernate every year. they always seem to have places all chosen--usually caverns in the hillsides or under uprooted trees--and when the winter cuts off their supplies of food they go straight toward them. that's my one hope now--that the killer has gone to some cave he knows about to hibernate until this storm is over. i think from the way he started off, so sure and so straight, that it's near. it would be dry and out of the storm, and if we could take it away from him we could make a fire that the snow wouldn't put out. it would mean life--and we could go on when the storm is over." "you remember--we have only one cartridge." "yes, i know--i heard you fire. and it's only a thirty-thirty at that. it's a risk--as terrible a risk as we've yet run. but it's a chance." they talked no more. instead, they walked as fast as they could into the face of the storm. it was a moment of respite. this new hope returned some measure of their strength to them. they walked much more swiftly than the bear, and they could tell by the appearance of the tracks that they were but a few yards behind him. "he won't smell us, the wind blowing as it does," linda encouraged. "and he won't hear us either." now the tracks were practically unspotted with the flakes. they strained into the flurries. now they walked almost in silence, their footfall muffled in the snow. they soon became aware that they were mounting a low ridge. they left the underbrush and emerged into the open timber. and all at once bruce, who now walked in front, paused with lifted hand, and pointed. dim through the flurries they made out the outline of the bear. and linda's inspiration had come true. there was a ledge of rocks just in front--a place such as the rattlesnakes had loved in the blasting sun of summer--and a black hole yawned in its side. the aperture had been almost covered with the snow, and they saw that the great creature was scooping away the remainder of the white drift with his paw. as they waited, the opening grew steadily wider, revealing the mouth of a little cavern in the face of the rock. "shoot!" linda whispered. "if he gets inside we won't be able to get him out." but bruce shook his head, then stole nearer. she understood; he had only one cartridge, and he must not take the risk of wounding the animal. the fire had to be centered on a vital place. he walked steadily nearer until it seemed to linda he would advance straight into reach of the terrible claws. he held the rifle firmly; his jaw was set, his face white, his eyes straight and strong with the strength of the pines themselves. he went as softly as he could--nearer, ever nearer--the rifle cocked and ready in his hands. the killer turned his head and saw bruce. rage flamed again in his eyes. he half-turned about; then poised to charge. the gun moved swiftly, easily, to the man's shoulder, his chin dropped down, his straight eyes gazed along the barrel. in spite of his wound never had human arms held more steady than his did then. and he marked the little space of gray squarely between the two reddening eyes. the finger pressed back steadily against the trigger. the rifle cracked in the silence. and then there was a curious effect of tableau, a long second in which all three figures seemed to stand deathly still. the bear leaped forward, and it seemed wholly impossible to linda that bruce could swerve aside in time to avoid the blow. she cried out in horror as the great paws whipped down in the place where bruce had stood. but the man had been prepared for this very recoil, and he had sprung aside just as the claws raked past. and the killer would hunt no more in trail's end. at the end of that leap he fell, his great body quivering strangely in the snow. the lead had gone straight home where it had been aimed, and the charge itself had been mostly muscular reflex. he lay still at last, a gray, mammoth figure that was majestic even in death. no more would the deer shudder with terror at the sound of his heavy step in the thicket. no more would the herds fly into stampede at the sight of his great shadow on the moonlit grass. the last of the oregon grizzlies had gone the way of all his breed. * * * * * to bruce and linda, standing breathless and awed in the snow-flurries, his death imaged the passing of an old order--the last stand that the forces of the wild had made against conquering man. but there was pathos in it too. there was the symbol of mighty breeds humbled and destroyed. but the pines were left. those eternal symbols of the wilderness--and of powers beyond the wilderness--still stood straight and grand and impassive above them. while these two lived, at least, they would still keep their watch over the wilderness, they would still stand erect and brave to the buffeting of the storm and snow, and in their shade dwelt strength and peace. the cavern that was revealed to them had a rock floor and had been hollowed out by running water in ages past. bruce built a fire at its mouth of some of the long tree roots that extended down into it, and the life-giving warmth was a benediction. already the drifting snow had begun to cover the aperture. "we can wait here until the blizzard is done," bruce told linda, as she sat beside him in the soft glow of the fire. "we have a little food, and we can cut more from the body of the grizzly when we need it. there's dead wood under the snow. and when the storm is over, we can get our bearings and walk out." she sat a long time without answering. "and after that?" she asked. he smiled. "no one knows. it's ten days before the thirtieth--the blizzards up here never last over three or four days. we've got plenty of time to get the document down to the courts. the law will deal with the rest of the turners. we've won, linda." his hands groped for hers, and he laid it against his lips. with her other hand she stroked his snow-wet hair. her eyes were lustrous in the firelight. "and after that--after all that is settled? you will come back to the mountains?" "could i ever leave them!" he exclaimed. "of course, linda. but i don't know what i can do up here--except maybe to establish my claim to my father's old farm. there's a hundred or so acres. i believe i'd like to feel the handles of a plow in my palms." "it was what you were made for, bruce," she told him. "it's born in you. there's a hundred acres there--and three thousand--somewhere else. you've got new strength, bruce. you could take hold and make them yield up their hay--and their crops--and fill all these hills with the herds." she stretched out her arms. then all at once she dropped them almost as if in supplication. but her voice had regained the old merry tone he had learned to love when she spoke again. "bruce, have i got to do all the asking?" his answer was to stretch his great arms and draw her into them. his laugh rang in the cavern. "oh, my dearest!" he cried. the eyes lighted in his bronzed face. "i ask for everything--everything--bold that i am! and what i want worst--this minute--" "yes?" "--is just--a kiss." she gave it to him with all the tenderness of her soft lips. the snow sifted down outside. again the pines spoke to one another, but the sadness seemed mostly gone from their soft voices. the end by edison marshall the voice of the pack with frontispiece by w. herbert dunton _love story, adventure story, nature story--all three qualities combine in this tale of modern man and woman arrayed against the forces of age-old savagery._ "'the voice of the pack' is clean, fine, raw, bold, primitive; and has a wonderfully haunting quality in the repeated wolf-note"--_zane grey._ "taken all around 'the voice of the pack' is the best of the stories about wild life that has come out in many, many moons."--_the chicago daily news._ "as a story that mingles adventure, nature study and romance, 'the voice of the pack' is undeniably of the front rank. mr. marshall knows the wild places and the ways of the wild creatures that range them--and he knows how to write. the study of dan failing's development against a background of the wild life of the mountains, is an exceedingly clever piece of literary work."--_the boston herald._ "an unusually good tale of the west, evidently written by a man who knows about the habits of the wolf-packs and cougars."--_the new york times._ ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (# ) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ ******************************************************************* available by google and the bodleian library. the corsican brothers a novel by alexandre dumas translated by henry frith london george routledge and sons broadway, ludgate hill new york: , broome street london: printed by woodfall and kinder, milford lane, strand, w.c. to henry irving the latest representative of the twin brothers this book is dedicated by the translator the corsican brothers. chapter i. in the beginning of march, , i was travelling in corsica. nothing is more picturesque and more easy to accomplish than a journey in corsica. you can embark at toulon, in twenty hours you will be in ajaccio, and then in twenty-four hours more you are at bastia. once there you can hire or purchase a horse. if you wish to hire a horse you can do so for five francs a-day; if you purchase one you can have a good animal for one hundred and fifty francs. and don't sneer at the moderate price, for the horse hired or purchased will perform as great feats as the famous gascon horse which leaped over the pont neuf, which neither prospero nor nautilus, the heroes of chantilly and the champ de mars could do. he will traverse roads which balmat himself could not cross without _crampons,_ and will go over bridges upon which auriol would need a balancing pole. as for the traveller, all he has to do is to give the horse his head and let him go as he pleases; he does not mind the danger. we may add that with this horse, which can go anywhere, the traveller can accomplish his fifteen leagues a day without stopping to bait. from time to time, while the tourist may be halting to examine some ancient castle, built by some old baron or legendary hero, or to sketch a tower built ages ago by the genoese, the horse will be contented to graze by the road side, or to pluck the mosses from the rocks in the vicinity. as to lodging for the night, it is still more simple in corsica. the traveller having arrived at a village, passes down through the principal street, and making his own choice of the house wherein he will rest, he knocks at the door. an instant after, the master or mistress will appear upon the threshold, invite the traveller to dismount; offer him a share of the family supper and the whole of his own bed, and next morning, when seeing him safely resume his journey, will thank him for the preference he has accorded to his house. as for remuneration, such a thing is never hinted at. the master would regard it as an insult if the subject were broached. if, however, the servant happen to be a young girl, one may fitly offer her a coloured handkerchief, with which she can make up a picturesque coiffure for a fête day. if the domestic be a male he will gladly accept a poignard, with which he can kill his enemy, should he meet him. there is one thing more to remark, and that is, as sometimes happens, the servants of the house are relatives of the owner, and the former being in reduced circumstances, offer their services to the latter in consideration of board and lodging and a few piastres per month. and it must not be supposed that the masters are not well served by their cousins to the fifteenth and sixteenth degree, because the contrary is the case, and the custom is not thought anything of. corsica is a french department certainly, but corsica is very far from being france. as for robbers, one never hears of them, yet there are bandits in abundance; but these gentlemen must in no wise be confounded one with another. so go without fear to ajaccio, to bastia, with a purse full of money hanging to your saddle-bow, and you may traverse the whole island without a shadow of danger, but do not go from oceana to levaco, if you happen to have an enemy who has declared the vendetta against you, for i would not answer for your safety during that short journey of six miles. well, then, i was in corsica, as i have said, at the beginning of the month of march, and i was alone; jadin having remained at rome. i had come across from elba, had disembarked at bastia, and there had purchased a horse at the above-mentioned price. i had visited corte and ajaccio, and just then i was traversing the province of sartène. on the particular day of which i am about to speak i was riding from sartène to sullacaro. the day's journey was short, perhaps a dozen leagues, in consequence of detours, and on account of my being obliged to climb the slopes of the mountain chain, which, like a backbone, runs through the island. i had a guide with me, for fear i should lose my way in the maquis. it was about five o'clock in the afternoon when we arrived at the summit of the hill, which at the same time overlooks olmeto and sullacaro. there we stopped a moment to look about us. "where would your excellency wish to stay the night?" asked the guide. i looked down upon the village, the streets of which appeared almost deserted. only a few women were visible, and they walked quickly along, and frequently looked cautiously around them. as in virtue of the rules of corsican hospitality, to which i have already referred, it was open to me to choose for my resting place any one of the hundred or hundred and twenty houses of which the village was composed, i therefore carried my eyes from house to house till they lighted upon one which promised comfortable quarters. it was a square mansion, built in a fortified sort of style and machicolated in front of the windows and above the door. this was the first time i had seen these domestic fortifications; but i may mention that the province of sartène is the classic ground of the vendetta. "ah, good!" said my guide, as he followed the direction of my hand--"that is the house of madame savilia de franchi. go on, go on, signor, you have not made a bad choice, and i can see you do not want for experience in these matters." i should note here that in this th department of france italian is universally spoken. "but," i said, "may it not be inconvenient if i demand hospitality from a lady, for if i understand you rightly, this house belongs to a lady." "no doubt," he replied, with an air of astonishment; "but what inconvenience does your lordship think you will cause?" "if the lady be young," i replied, moved by a feeling of propriety--or, perhaps, let us say, of parisian self-respect--"a night passed under her roof might compromise her." "compromise her!" repeated the guide, endeavouring to probe the meaning of the word i had rendered in italian with all the emphasis which one would hazard a word in a strange tongue. "yes, of course," i replied, beginning to feel impatient; "the lady is a widow, i suppose?" "yes, excellency." "well, then, will she receive a young man into her house?" in i was thirty-six years old, or thereabouts, and was entitled to call myself young. "will she receive a young man!" exclaimed the guide; "why, what difference can it make whether you are young or old?" i saw that i should get no information out of him by this mode of interrogation, so i resumed-- "how old is madame savilia?" "forty, or nearly so." "ah," i said, replying more to my thoughts than to my guide, "all the better. she has children, no doubt?" "yes, two sons--fine young men both." "shall i see them?" "you will see one of them--he lives at home." "where is the other, then?" "he lives in paris." "how old are these sons?" "twenty-one." "what, both?" "yes, they are twins." "what professions do they follow?" "the one in paris is studying law." "and the other?" "the other is a corsican." "indeed!" was my reply to this characteristic answer, made in the most matter-of-fact tone. "well, now, let us push on for the house of madame savilia de franchi." we accordingly resumed our journey, and entered the village about ten minutes afterwards. i now remarked what i had not noticed from the hill, namely, that every house was fortified similarly to madame savilia's. not so completely, perhaps, for that the poverty of the inhabitants could not attain to, but purely and simply with oaken planks, by which the windows were protected, loop-holes only being left for rifle barrels; some apertures were simply bricked up. i asked my guide what he called these loop-holes, and he said they were known as _archères_--a reply which convinced me that they were used anterior to the invention of firearms. as we advanced through the streets we were able the more fully to comprehend the profound character of the solitude and sadness of the place. many houses appeared to have sustained a siege, and the marks of the bullets dotted the walls. from time to time as we proceeded we caught sight of a curious eye flashing upon us from an embrasure; but it was impossible to distinguish whether the spectator were a man or a woman. we at length reached the house which i had indicated to my guide, and which was evidently the most considerable in the village. as we approached it more nearly, one thing struck me, and that was, fortified to all outward appearance as it was, it was not so in reality, for there were neither oaken planks, bricks, nor loop-holes, but simple squares of glass, protected at night by wooden shutters. it is true that the shutters showed holes which could only have been made by the passage of a bullet; but they were of old date, and could not have been made within the previous ten years. scarcely had my guide knocked, when the door was opened, not hesitatingly, nor in a timid manner, but widely, and a valet, or rather i should say a man appeared. it is the livery that makes the valet, and the individual who then opened the door to us wore a velvet waistcoat, trowsers of the same material, and leather gaiters. the breeches were fastened at the waist by a parti-coloured silk sash, from the folds of which protruded the handle of a spanish knife. "my friend," i said, "is it indiscreet of me, who knows nobody in sullacaro, to ask hospitality of your mistress?" "certainly not, your excellency," he replied; "the stranger does honour to the house before which he stops." "maria," he continued, turning to a servant, who was standing behind him, "will you inform madame savilia that a french traveller seeks hospitality?" as he finished speaking he came down the eight rough ladder-like steps which led to the entrance door, and took the bridle of my horse. i dismounted. "your excellency need have no further concern," he said; "all your luggage will be taken to your room." i profited by this gracious invitation to idleness--one of the most agreeable which can be extended to a traveller. chapter ii. i slowly ascended the steps and entered the house, and at a corner of the corridor i found myself face to face with a tall lady dressed in black. i understood at once that this lady of thirty-eight or forty years of age, and still beautiful, was the mistress of the house. "madame," said i, bowing deeply, "i am afraid you will think me intrusive, but the custom of the country may be my excuse, and your servant's invitation my authority to enter." "you are welcome to the mother," replied madame de franchi, "and you will almost immediately be welcomed by the son. from this moment, sir, the house belongs to you; use it as if it were your own." "i come but to beg hospitality for one night, madame," i answered; "to-morrow morning, at daybreak, i will take my departure." "you are free to do as you please, sir; but i hope that you will change your mind, and that we shall have the honour of your company for a longer period." i bowed again, and madame continued-- "maria, show this gentleman to my son louis' chamber; light the fire at once, and carry up some hot water. you will excuse me," she said, turning again to me as the servant departed, "but i always fancy that the first wants of a tired traveller are warm water and a fire. will you please to follow my maid, sir; and you need have no hesitation in asking her for anything you may require. we shall sup in an hour, and my son, who will be home by that time, will have the honour to wait upon you." "i trust you will excuse my travelling dress, madame." "yes, sir," she replied smiling; "but on condition that you, on your part, will excuse the rusticity of your reception." i bowed my thanks, and followed the servant upstairs. the room was situated on the first floor, and looked out towards the rear of the house, upon a pretty and extensive garden, well planted with various trees, and watered by a charming little stream, which fell into the tavaro. at the further end the prospect was bounded by a hedge, so thick as to appear like a wall. as is the case in almost all italian houses, the walls of the rooms were white-washed and frescoed. i understood immediately that madame de franchi had given me this, her absent son's chamber, because it was the most comfortable one in the house. while maria was lighting the fire and fetching the hot water, i took it into my head to make an inventory of the room, and try to arrive at an estimation of the character of its usual occupant by those means. i immediately put this idea into execution, and beginning with the left hand, i took mental notes of the various objects by which i was surrounded. the furniture all appeared to be modern, a circumstance which in that part of the island, where civilization had not then taken deep root, appeared to indicate no inconsiderable degree of luxury. it was composed of an iron bedstead and bedding, a sofa, four arm-chairs, six other occasional chairs, a wardrobe, half book case and half bureau, all of mahogany, from the first cabinet maker in ajaccio. the sofas and chairs were covered with chintz, and curtains of similar material fell before the windows, and hung round the bed. i had got so far with my inventory when maria left the room, and i was enabled to push my investigation a little closer. i opened the book-case, and found within a collection of the works of our greatest poets. i noticed corneille, racine, molière, la fontaine, ronsard, victor hugo, and lamartine. our moralists--montaigne, pascal, labruyère. our historians--mezeray, chateaubriand, augustin thierry. our philosophers--cuvier, beudant, elie de beaumont. besides these there were several volumes of romances and other books, amongst which i recognized, with a certain pride, my own "impression of travel." the keys were in the drawer of the bureau. i opened one of them. here i found fragments of a history of corsica, a work upon the best means of abolishing the vendetta, some french verses, and some italian sonnets, all in manuscript. this was more than i expected, and i had the presumption to conclude that i need not seek much farther to form my opinion of the character of monsieur louis de franchi. he appeared to be a quiet, studious young man, a partizan of the french reformers, and then i understood why he had gone to paris to become an advocate. there was, without doubt, a great future for him in this course. i made all these reflections as i was dressing. my toilette, as i had hinted to madame de franchi, although not wanting in a certain picturesqueness, demanded that some allowance should be made for it. it was composed of a vest of black velvet, open at seams of the sleeves, so as to keep me cooler during the heat of the day, and slashed _à l'espagnole,_ permitting a silken chemise to appear underneath. my legs were encased in velvet breeches to the knee, and thence protected by spanish gaiters, embroidered in spanish silk. a felt hat, warranted to take any shape, but particularly that of a sombrero, completed my costume. i recommend this dress to all travellers as being the most convenient i am acquainted with, and i was in the act of dressing, when the same man who had introduced me appeared at the door. he came to announce that his young master, monsieur lucien de franchi, had that instant arrived, and who desired to pay his respects to me if i were ready to receive him. i replied that i was at the disposal of monsieur lucien de franchi if he would do me the honour to come up. an instant afterwards i heard a rapid step approaching my room, and almost immediately afterwards i was face to face with my host. chapter iii. he was, as my guide had told me, a young man of about twenty-one years of age, with black hair and eyes, his face browned by the sun, rather under than over the average height, but remarkably well-proportioned. in his haste to welcome me he had come up, just as he was, in his riding-costume, which was composed of a redingote of green cloth, to which a cartridge-pouch gave a somewhat military air, grey pantaloons with leather let in on the inner side of the legs, boots and spurs. his head-dress was a cap similar to those worn by our chasseurs d'afrique. from either side of his pouch there hung a gourd and a pistol, and he carried an english carbine in addition. notwithstanding the youthful appearance of my host, whose upper lip was as yet scarcely shaded by a moustache, he wore an air of independence and resolution, which struck me very forcibly. here was a man fitted for strife, and accustomed to live in the midst of danger, but without despising it, grave because he was solitary, calm because he was strong. with a single glance he took me all in, my luggage, my arms, the dress i had just taken off, and that which i had just donned. his glance was as rapid and as sure as that of a man whose very life may depend upon a hasty survey of his surroundings. "i trust you will excuse me if i disturb you," he said; "but i come with good intentions. i wish to see if you require anything. i am always somewhat uneasy when any of you gentlemen from the continent pay us a visit, for we are still so uncivilized, we corsicans, that it is really with fear and trembling that we exercise, particularly to frenchmen, our own hospitality, which will, i fear, soon be the only thing that will remain to us." "you have no reason to fear," i replied; "it would be difficult to say what more a traveller can require beyond what madame de franchi has supplied. besides," i continued, glancing round the apartment, "i must confess i do not perceive any of the want of civilization you speak of so frankly, and were it not for the charming prospect from those windows, i should fancy myself in an apartment in the chaussee d'antin." "yes," returned the young man, "it is rather a mania with my poor brother louis; he is so fond of living _à la française;_ but i very much doubt whether, when he leaves paris, the poor attempt at civilization here will appear to him sufficient on his return home as it formerly did." "has your brother been long away from corsica?" i inquired. "for the last ten months." "you expect him back soon?" "oh, not for three or four years." "that is a very long separation for two brothers, who probably were never parted before." "yes, and particularly if they love each other as we do." "no doubt he will come to see you before he finishes his studies?" "probably; he has promised us so much, at least." "in any case, nothing need prevent you from paying him a visit?" "no, i never leave corsica." there was in his tone, as he made this reply, that love of country which astonishes the rest of the universe. i smiled. "it appears strange to you," he said, smiling in his turn, "when i tell you that i do not wish to leave a miserable country like ours; but you must know that i am as much a growth of the island as the oak or the laurel; the air i breathe must be impregnated with the odours of the sea and of the mountains. i must have torrents to cross, rocks to scale, forests to explore. i must have space; liberty is necessary to me, and if you were to take me to live in a town i believe i should die." "but how is it there is such a great difference between you and your brother in this respect?" "and you would add with so great a physical resemblance, if you knew him." "are you, then, so very much alike?" "so much so, that when we were children our parents were obliged to sew a distinguishing mark upon our clothes." "and as you grew up?" i suggested. "as we grew up our habits caused a very slight change in our appearance, that is all. always in a study, poring over books and drawings, my brother grew somewhat pale, while i, being always in the open air, became bronzed, as you see." "i hope," i said, "that you will permit me to judge of this resemblance, and if you have any commission for monsieur louis, you will charge me with it." "yes, certainly, with great pleasure, if you will be so kind. now, will you excuse me? i see you are more advanced in your toilet than i, and supper will be ready in a quarter of an hour." "you surely need not trouble to change on my account." "you must not reproach me with this, for you have yourself set me the example; but, in any case, i am now in a riding dress, and must change it for a mountaineer's costume, as, after supper, i have to make an excursion in which boots and spurs would only serve to hinder me." "you are going out after supper, then?" i asked. "yes," he replied, "to a rendezvous." i smiled. "ah, not in the sense you understand it--this is a matter of business." "do you think me so presumptuous as to believe i have a right to your conscience?" "why not? one should live so as to be able to proclaim what one has done. i never had a mistress, and i never shall have one. if my brother should marry, and have children, it is probable that i shall never take a wife. if, on the contrary, he does not marry, perhaps i shall, so as to prevent our race from becoming extinct. did i not tell you," he added, laughing, "that i am a regular savage, and had come into the world a hundred years too late? but i continue to chatter here like a crow, and i shall not be ready by the time supper is on the table." "but cannot we continue the conversation?" i said. "your chamber, i believe, is opposite, and we can talk through the open doors." "we can do better than that; you can come into my room while i dress. you are a judge of arms, i fancy. well, then, you shall look at mine. there are some there which are valuable--from an historical point of view, i mean." chapter iv. the suggestion quite accorded with my inclination to compare the chambers of the brothers, and i did not hesitate to adopt it. i followed my host, who, opening the door, paused in front of me to show me the way. this time i found myself in a regular arsenal. all the furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century--the carved and canopied bedstead, supported by great posts, was draped with green damask _à fleur d'or;_ the window curtains were of the same material. the walls were covered with spanish leather, and in the open spaces were sustained trophies of gothic and modern arms. there was no mistaking the tastes of the occupant of this room: they were as warlike as those of his brother were peaceable. "look here," he said, passing into an inner room, "here you are in three centuries at once--see! i will dress while you amuse yourself, for i must make haste or supper will be announced." "which are the historic arms of which you spoke amongst all these swords, arquebuses, and poignards?" i asked. "there are three. let us take them in order. if you look by the head of my bed you will find a poignard with a very large hilt--the pommel forms a seal." "yes, i have it." "that is the dagger of sampietro." "the famous sampietro, the assassin of vanina?" "the assassin! no, the avenger." "it is the same thing, i fancy." "to the rest of the world, perhaps--not in corsica." "and is the dagger authentic?" "look for yourself. it carries the arms of sampietro--only the fleur-de-lis of france is missing. you know that sampietro was not authorized to wear the lily until after the siege of perpignan." "no, i was not aware of that fact. and how did you become possessed of this poignard?" "oh! it has been in our family for three hundred years. it was given to a napoleon de franchi by sampietro himself." "do you remember on what occasion?" "yes. sampietro and my ancestor fell into an ambuscade of genoese, and defended themselves like lions. sampietro's helmet was knocked off, and a genoese on horseback was about to kill sampietro with his mace when my ancestor plunged his dagger into a joint in his enemy's armour. the rider feeling himself wounded spurred his horse, carrying away in his flight the dagger so firmly embedded in his armour that he was unable to withdraw it, and as my ancestor very much regretted the loss of his favourite weapon sampietro gave him his own. napoleon took great care of it, for it is of spanish workmanship, as you see, and will penetrate two five-franc pieces one on top of another." "may i make the attempt?" "certainly." placing the coins upon the floor, i struck a sharp blow with the dagger. lucien had not deceived me. when i withdrew the poignard i found both pieces pierced through and through, fixed upon the point of the dagger. "this is indeed the dagger of sampietro," i said. "but what astonishes me is that being possessed of such a weapon he should have employed the cord to kill his wife." "he did not possess it at that time," replied lucien; "he had given it to my ancestor." "ah! true!" "sampietro was more than sixty years old when he hastened from constantinople to aix to teach that lesson to the world, viz., that women should not meddle in state affairs." i bowed in assent, and replaced the poignard. "now," said i to lucien, who all this time had been dressing, "let us pass on from sampietro to some one else." "you see those two portraits close together?" "yes, paoli and napoleon." "well, near the portrait of paoli is a sword." "precisely so." "that is his sword." "paoli's sword? and is it as authentic as the poignard of sampietro?" "yes, at least as authentic; though he did not give it to one of my male ancestors, but to one of the ladies." "to one of your female ancestors?" "yes. perhaps you have heard people speak of this woman, who in the war of independence presented herself at the tower of sullacaro, accompanied by a young man?" "no, tell me the story." "oh, it is a very short one." "so much the worse." "well, you see, we have not much time to talk now." "i am all attention." "well, this woman and this young man presented themselves before the tower of sullacaro and requested to speak with paoli; but as he was engaged writing, he declined to admit them; and then, as the woman insisted, the two sentinels repulsed her, when paoli, who had heard the noise, opened the door and inquired the cause." "'it is i,' said the woman; 'i wish to speak to you.' "'what have you to say to me?' "'i have come to tell you that i have two sons. i heard yesterday that one had been killed for defending his country, and i have come twenty leagues to bring you the other!!!'" "you are relating an incident of sparta," i said. "yes, it does appear very like it." "and who was this woman?" "she was my ancestress." "paoli took off his sword and gave it to her. "'take it,' he said, 'i like time to make my excuses to woman.'" "she was worthy of both--is it not so?" "and now this sabre?" "that is the one buonaparte carried at the battle of the pyramids." "no doubt it came into your family in the same manner as the poignard and the sword." "entirely. after the battle buonaparte gave the order to my grandfather, who was an officer in the guides, to charge with fifty men a number of mamelukes who were at bay around a wounded chieftain. my grandfather dispersed the mamelukes and took the chief back a prisoner to the first consul. but when he wished to sheath his sword he found the blade had been so bent in his encounter with the mamelukes that it would not go into the scabbard. my grandfather therefore threw sabre and sheath away as useless, and, seeing this, buonaparte gave him his own." "but," i said, "in your place i would rather have had my grandfather's sabre, all bent as it was, instead of that of the general's, which was in good condition." "look before you and you will find it. the first consul had it recovered, and caused that large diamond to be inserted in the hilt. he then sent it to my family with the inscription which you can read on the blade." i advanced between the windows, where, hanging half-drawn from its scabbard, which it could not fully enter, i perceived the sabre bent and hacked, bearing the simple inscription-- "battle of the pyramids, st of july, ." at that moment the servant came to announce that supper was served. "very well, griffo," replied the young man; "tell my mother that we are coming down." as he spoke he came forth from the inner room, dressed, as he said, like a mountaineer; that is to say, with a round velvet coat, trowsers, and gaiters; of his other costume he had only retained his pouch. he found me occupied in examing two carbines hanging opposite each other, and both inscribed-- " st september, : a.m." "are these carbines also historical?" i asked. "yes," he answered. "for us, at least, they bear a historical significance. one was my father's--" he hesitated. "and the other," i suggested. "and the other," he said, laughing, "is my mother's. but let us go downstairs; my mother will be awaiting us." then passing in front of me to show me the way he courteously signed to me to follow him. chapter v. i must confess that as i descended to the supper-room i could not help thinking of lucien's last remark, "the other is my mother's carbine;" and this circumstance compelled me to regard madame de franchi more closely than i had hitherto done. when her son entered the _salle à manger,_ he respectfully kissed her hand, and she received this homage with queenly dignity. "i am afraid that we have kept you waiting, mother," said lucien; "i must ask your pardon." "in any case, that would be my fault, madame," i said, bowing to her. "monsieur lucien has been telling me and pointing out many curious things, and by my reiterated questions i have delayed him." "rest assured," she said, "i have not been kept waiting; i have but this moment come downstairs. but," she continued, addressing lucien, "i was rather anxious to ask you what news there was of louis." "your son has been ill, madame?" i asked. "lucien is afraid so," she said. "have you received a letter from your brother?" i inquired. "no," he replied, "and that is the very thing that makes me uneasy." "but, then, how can you possibly tell that he is out of sorts?" "because during the last few days i have been suffering myself." "i hope you will excuse my continual questions; but, really, your answer does not make matters any clearer." "well, you know that we are twins, don't you?" "yes, my guide told me as much." "were you also informed that when we came into the world we were joined together?" "no; i was ignorant of that circumstance." "well, then, it was a fact, and we were obliged to be cut asunder. so that, you see, however distant we may be, we have ever the same body, so that any impression, physical or moral, which one may receive is immediately reflected in the other. during the last few days i felt _triste,_ morose, dull, and without any predisposing cause, so far as i am aware. i have experienced terrible pains in the region of the heart, and palpitations, so it is evident to me that my brother is suffering some great grief." i looked with astonishment at this young man, who affirmed such a strange thing without the slightest fear of contradiction, and his mother also appeared to entertain the same conviction as he did. madame de franchi smiled sadly, and said, "the absent are in the hands of god, the great point is that you are certain that he is alive." "yes," replied lucien, calmly, "for if he were dead i should have seen him." "and you would have told me, would you not, my son?" "oh, of course, mother, at once." "i am satisfied. excuse me, monsieur," she continued, turning to me, "i trust you will pardon my maternal anxiety. not only are louis and lucien my sons, but they are the last of their race. will you please take the chair at my right hand? lucien, sit here." she indicated to the young man the vacant place at her left hand. we seated ourselves at the extremity of a long table, at the opposite end of which were laid six other covers, destined for those who in corsica are called the family; that is to say, the people who in large establishments occupy a position between the master and the servants. the table was abundantly supplied with good cheer. but i confess that although at the moment blessed with a very good appetite, i contented myself with eating and drinking as it were mechanically, for my senses were not in any way attracted by the pleasures of the table. for, indeed, it appeared to me that i had entered into a strange world when i came into that house, and that i was now living in a dream. who could this woman be who was accustomed to carry a carbine like a soldier? what sort of person could this brother be, who felt the same grief that his brother experienced at a distance of three hundred leagues? what sort of mother could this be who made her son declare that if he saw the spirit of his dead brother he would tell her at once? these were the questions that perplexed me, and it will be readily understood they gave me ample food for thought. however, feeling that continual silence was not polite, i made an effort to collect my ideas. i looked up. the mother and son at the same instant perceived that i wished to enter into conversation. "so," said lucien to me, as if he were continuing his remarks, "so you made up your mind to come to corsica?" "yes, as you see, i had for a long time had a desire to do so, and at last i have accomplished it." "_ma foi!_ you have done well not to delay your visit; for with the successive encroachments of french tastes and manners those who come to look for corsica in a few years will not find it." "however," i replied, "if the ancient national spirit retires before civilization and takes refuge in any corner of the island, it certainly will be in the province of sartène, and in the valley of the tavaro." "do you think so, really?" said the young man, smiling. "yes, and it appears to me that here at the present moment there is a beautiful and noble tablet of ancient corsican manners." "yes, and nevertheless, even here, between my mother and myself, in the face of four hundred years of reminiscences of this old fortified mansion, the french spirit has come to seek out my brother--has carried him away to paris, when he will return to us a lawyer. he will live in ajaccio instead of dwelling in his ancestral home. he will plead--if he possess the talent--he may be nominated _procureur du roi_ perhaps; then he will pursue the poor devils who have 'taken a skin,' as they say here. he will confound the assassin with the avenger--as you yourself have done already. he will demand, in the name of the law, the heads of those who had done what their fathers would have considered themselves dishonoured _not_ to have done. he will substitute the judgment of men for the justice of god; and in the evening, when he shall have claimed a head for the scaffold, he will believe that he has performed his duty, and has brought his stone as a tribute to the temple of civilization, as our préfect says. oh! mon dieu! mon dieu!" the young man raised his eyes to heaven, as hannibal is reported to have done after the battle of zama. "but," i replied, "you must confess that it is the will of god to equalize these things, since in making your brother a proselyte of the new order he has kept you here as a representative of the old manners and customs." "yes; but what is there to prove that my brother will not follow the example of his uncle instead of following mine? and even i myself may be about to do something unworthy of a de franchi." "you!" i exclaimed, with astonishment. "yes, i. do you wish me to tell you why you have come into this province of sartène?" [see "transcriber's note."] "yes, tell me." "you have come here to satisfy your curiosity as a man of the world, an artist, or a poet. i do not know what you are, nor do i ask; you can tell us when you leave, if you wish; if not, you need not inform us; you are perfectly free to do as you like. well, you have come in the hope of seeing some village vendetta, of being introduced to some original bandit, such as mr. merimée has described in 'columba.'" "well, it appears to me that i have not made such a bad choice, for if my eyes do not deceive me, your house is the only one in the village that is not fortified." "that only proves i have degenerated, as i have said. my father, my grandfather, and my ancestors for many generations have always taken one side or the other in the disputes which in the last ten years have divided the village. and do you know what i have become in the midst of musket shots and stabs? well, i am the arbitrator. you have come into the province of sartène to see bandits; is not that the fact? so come with me this evening and i will show you one." "what! will you really allow me to go with you this evening?" "certainly, if it will amuse you. it entirely depends upon yourself." "i accept, then, with much pleasure." "our guest is fatigued," said madame de franchi, looking meaningly at her son, as if she felt ashamed corsica had so far degenerated. "no, mother, no, he had better come; and when in some parisian _salon_ people talk of the terrible vendettas, of the implacable corsican bandits who strike terror into the hearts of children in bastia and ajaccio, he will be able to tell them how things actually are." "but what is the great motive for this feud, which, as i understand, is now by your intercession to be for ever extinguished?" "oh," replied lucien, "in a quarrel it is not the motive that matters, it is the result. if a fly causes a man's death the man is none the less dead because a fly caused it." i saw that he hesitated to tell me the cause of this terrible war, which for the last ten years had desolated the village of sullacaro. but, as may be imagined, the more he attempted to conceal it the more anxious i was to discover it. "but," said i, "this quarrel must have a motive; is that motive a secret?" "good gracious, no! the mischief arose between the orlandi and the colona." "on what occasion?" "well, a fowl escaped from the farm yard of the orlandi and flew into that of the colona. "the orlandi attempted to get back the hen, the colona declared it belonged to them. the orlandi then threatened to bring the colona before the judge and make them declare on oath it was theirs. and then the old woman in whose house the hen had taken refuge wrung its neck, and threw the dead fowl into her neighbour's face, saying-- "'well, then, if it belongs to you, eat it.' "then one of the orlandi picked up the fowl by the feet, and attempted to beat the person who had thrown it in his sister's face; but just as he was about to do so, one of the colona appeared, who, unfortunately, carried a loaded gun, and he immediately sent a bullet through the orlandi's heart." "and how many lives have been sacrificed since?" "nine people have been killed altogether." "and all for a miserable hen not worth twelve sous?" "yes, but as i said just now, it is not the cause, but the effect that we have to look at." "since there were nine people killed, then, there might easily be a dozen." "yes, very likely there would be if they had not appointed me as arbitrator." "at the intercession of one of the two families no doubt?" "oh! dear no, at my brother's request, who heard of the matter at the chancellor's house. i asked him what on earth they had to do in paris with the affairs of an out-of-the-way little village in corsica; but it seems the préfect mentioned it when he wrote to paris, and said that if i were to say a word the whole thing would finish like a farce, by a marriage and a public recitation; so my brother took the hint, and replied he would answer for me. what could i do?" added the young man, throwing back his head proudly; "it shall never be said that a de franchi passed his word for his brother, and that his brother did not fulfil the engagement." "and so you have arranged everything?" "i am afraid so." "and we shall see the chief of one of these two parties this evening, no doubt?" "just so; last night i saw the other." "are we going to see an orlandi or a colona?" "an orlandi." "is it far from here?" "in the ruins of the castle of vicentello d'istria." "ah! yes--they told me those ruins were close by." "yes, they are about a league from here." "so in three-quarters of an hour we shall be there?" "yes, in about that time." "lucien," said madame de franchi, "remember you speak for yourself. for a mountaineer as you are it is scarcely three-quarters of an hour distance, but recollect that our guest may not be able to proceed so quickly." "that is true; we had better allow ourselves an hour and a half at least." "in that case you have no time to lose," said madame de franchi, as she glanced at the clock. "mother," said lucien as he rose, "you will excuse our leaving you, will you not?" she extended her hand to him, and the young man kissed it with the same respect as he had previously done. then turning to me, lucien said-- "if you prefer to finish your supper quietly, and to smoke your cigar afterwards----" "no, no!" i cried; "hang it, you have promised me a bandit, and i must have one." "well, then, let us take our guns and be off." i bowed respectfully to madame de franchi, and we left the room, preceded by griffo, who carried a light. our preparations did not occupy us very long. i clasped a travelling belt round my waist, from which was suspended a sort of hunting-knife, and in the folds of which i carried powder and ball. lucien soon re-appeared with his cartridge case, and carrying a double-barrelled manton, and a sort of peaked cap, woven for him by some penelope of sullacaro. "shall i go with your excellency?" asked griffo. "no, it will be useless," replied lucien; "but you may as well loose diamond, as we might put up a pheasant, and the moon is so clear we should be able to shoot as well as in daylight." an instant afterwards a great spaniel bounded out, and jumped joyously around its master. we had not gone many paces from the house when lucien turned round and said-- "by-the-by, griffo, tell them if they hear any shots on the mountain that it is we who have fired them." "very well, your excellency." "if we did not take some such precautions," said lucien, "they would think that hostilities had recommenced, and we should soon hear our shots echoing in the streets of sullacaro. a little farther on you will see a footpath to the right that will lead us directly up the mountain." chapter vi. although it was only the beginning of the month of march the weather was beautiful, and we should have said that it was hot, had it not been for a refreshing breeze which carried with it a savour of the sea. the moon was rising brilliantly behind mount cagna, and the cascades of light were falling upon the southern slope which separates corsica into two parts, and in a measure forms two different nations, which are always at war, or at least, detest one another heartily. as we mounted we could see the gorge in which the tavaro was buried in profound darkness, impossible to penetrate, but we could view the calm mediterranean, like a vast steel mirror extending into the horizon. there are certain noises one hears only at night, for during the day they are overcome by other sounds, or it may be they awake only with the darkness, and these produced not upon lucien, who was familiar with them, but upon me, who was a stranger to them, curious sensations of surprise, and awoke in me a powerful interest in all that i saw. when we reached the place where the path united with another--one going up the mountain direct, and the other to the right, lucien turned to me and said-- "are you anything of a mountaineer?" "yes, a little, as far as walking goes." "you are likely to get giddy, then." "i am afraid so. the precipice has an irresistible attraction for me." "then we had better take this foot-path where there are no precipices, but merely rough walking." "i am quite equal to that." "very well, then, we have three-quarters of an hour's walk before us." "let us take the path." lucien then went first, and crossed through a little oak wood, into which i followed him. diamond trotted fifty or sixty paces away, beating right and left, and occasionally coming back to us, wagging his tail as much as to inform us that we might trust to him and continue our route in safety. i saw that as some people like to possess a horse, equally for riding or driving, so diamond had apparently been trained to hunt the biped or the quadruped, the bandit or the boar. i did not wish to appear altogether strange to corsican manners, so i said as much to lucien. "you are mistaken," he replied; "diamond is very useful in hunting men or animals, but he never chases bandits. it is the triple red of the gendarmes, the voltigeur, and the volunteer that he hunts." "then i suppose diamond is a bandit's dog?" "he is. he belongs to an orlandi, to whom i sometimes used to send him into the country with bread, powder, bullets, or whatever he required. he was shot by a colona, and the next day the dog came to me, for being accustomed to come to the house, he looked upon me as a friend." "but," i said, "i fancied i saw another dog at your house." "yes, that is brucso, he possesses the same qualities as diamond, only he came to me from a colona who was killed by an orlandi, and so when i pay a visit to a colona i take brucso, but when i have business with an orlandi i take diamond. if i were to make a mistake and loose them both together they would kill each other. so," continued lucien, with a bitter smile, "men can make it up, and will receive the sacrament together; the dogs will never eat from the same platter." "well," i said, laughing; "here are two regular corsican dogs, but it seems to me that diamond, like all other modest creatures, has gone out of earshot while we are speaking of him. i am afraid he has missed us." "oh, do not be alarmed," said lucien, "i know where he is." "may i inquire where?" "he is at the mucchio." i was about to hazard another question, even at the risk of tiring my companion, when a long howl was heard, so lamentable, so sad, and so prolonged, that i shivered and stopped. "what can that be?" i said. "nothing, it is only diamond crying." "what is he crying for?" "his master. do you not know that dogs do not forget those they have loved?" "ah, i understand," i said, as another prolonged howl rose through the night. "yes," i continued, "his master was shot, you say, and i suppose we are approaching the place where he was killed?" "just so, and diamond has left us to go to mucchio." "that is where the man's tomb is?" "yes, that is to say, the monument which passers-by have raised to his memory, in the form of a cairn; so it follows that the tomb of the victim gradually grows larger, a symbol of the increasing vengeance of his relations." another long howl from diamond's throat made me shudder again, though i was perfectly well aware of the cause of the noise. at the next turn of the path we came upon the wayside tomb or cairn. a heap of stones formed a pyramid of four or five feet in height. at the foot of this strange monument diamond was lying with extended neck and open mouth. lucien picked up a stone, and taking off his cap approached the mucchio. i did the same, following his example closely. when he had come close to the pyramid he broke a branch from a young oak and threw, first, the stone and then the branch upon the heap. he rapidly made the sign of the cross. i imitated him exactly, and we resumed our route in silence, but diamond remained behind. about ten minutes afterwards we heard another dismal howling, and then almost immediately diamond passed us, head and tail drooping, to a point about a hundred paces in front, when he suddenly resumed his hunting. chapter vii. we still kept advancing steadily, but, as lucien had warned me, the path became rougher and more difficult. i slung my gun over my shoulder, for i perceived that i should soon need both hands to assist me. as for my friend, he continued to press forward with the same easy gait, and did not appear to be at all inconvenienced by the difficult nature of the ground. after some minutes' climbing over rocks, aided by bushes and roots, we reached a species of platform surmounted by some ruined walls. these ruins were those of the castle of vicentello d'istria, our destination. in about five minutes we had climbed up to the last terrace, lucien in advance, and as he extended his hand to assist me he said:-- "well done, well done; you have not climbed badly for a parisian." "supposing that the parisian you have assisted has already had some little experience in mountain scrambling?" "ah, true!" said lucien, laughing. "have you not a mountain near paris called montmartre?" "yes, but there are others beside montmartre which i have ascended. for instance, the rigi, the faulhorn, the gemmi, vesuvius, stromboli and etna." "indeed! now i suppose you will despise me because i have never done more than surmount monte rotundo! well, here we are! four centuries ago my ancestors would have opened the portal to you and bade you welcome to the castle. now their descendants can only show you the place where the door used to be, and say to you, 'welcome to the ruins!'" "i suppose the chateau has been in possession of your family since the death of vicentello d'istria?" i said, taking up the conversation at the point at which we had dropped it previously. "no, but before his birth. it was the last dwelling-place of our famous ancestress savilia, the widow of lucien de franchi." "is there not some terrible history connected with this woman?" "yes; were it daylight i could now show you from this spot the ruins of the castle of valle. there lived the lord of guidice, who was as much hated as she (savilia) was beloved, as ugly as she was beautiful. he became enamoured of her, and as she did not quickly respond to his desires, he gave her to understand that if she did not accept him in a given time he would come and carry her off by force. savilia made pretence of consenting, and invited guidice to come to dinner at the castle. guidice was overcome with joy at this, and forgetting that the invitation had only been extorted by menace, accepted it, and came attended only by a few body servants. the gate was closed behind them, and in a few minutes guidice was a prisoner, and cast into a dungeon, yonder." i passed on in the direction indicated, and found myself in a species of square court. the moonlight streamed through the apertures time had made in the once solid walls, and threw dark and well-defined shadows upon the ground. all other portions of the ruins remained in the deep shade of the overhanging walls round about. lucien looked at his watch. "ah! we are twenty minutes too soon," he exclaimed. "let us sit down; you are very likely tired." we sat down; indeed, we extended ourselves at full length upon the grassy sward, in a position facing the great breach in the wall. "but," said i to my companion, "it seems to me that you have not finished the story you began just now." "no," replied lucien. "every morning and every evening savilia came down to the dungeon in which giudice was confined, and then separated from him only by a grating, she would undress herself, and expose herself naked to him, a captive.' "'giudice,' she would say, 'how do you expect that such an ugly man as you are can ever hope to possess all this?' "this trial lasted for three months, and was repeated twice a day. but at the end of that period, thanks to a waiting woman whom he had bribed, guidice was enabled to escape. he soon returned with all his men, who were much more numerous than those savilia could assemble, and took the castle by assault, and having first possessed himself of savilia, he subsequently exposed her naked in an iron cage at the cross roads in the bocca di cilaccia, offering, himself, the key to any passer by who might be tempted to enter. after three days of this public prostitution savilia died." "well," i said, "it seems to me that your ancestors had a very pretty idea of revenging themselves, and that in finishing off their enemies with dagger or gunshot their descendants have in a manner degenerated!" "without mentioning that the day may come when we shall not kill them at all!" replied lucien. "but it has not come to that yet. the two sons of savilia," he continued, "who were at ajaccio with their uncle, were true corsicans, and continued to make war against the sons of guidice. this war lasted for four hundred years, and only finished, as you saw, by the dates upon the carbines of my parents, on the st september, , at eleven o'clock a.m." "oh, yes, i remember the inscription; but i had not time to inquire its meaning, as just then we were summoned to supper." "well, this is the explanation: of the family of guidice there remained, in , only two brothers. of the de franchi family there remained only my father, who had married his cousin. three months after that the guidice determined to exterminate us with one stroke. one of the brothers concealed himself on the road to olmedo to await my father's coming home to sartène--while the other, taking advantage of his absence, determined to attack our house. this plan was carried out, but with a different result to what had been anticipated. my father, being warned of the plot, was on his guard; my mother, who had also got a hint of the affair, assembled the shepherds, &c., so that when the attack was made the intended victims were prepared for it--my father on the mountains, my mother in the mansion. the consequence was that the two guidici fell, one shot by my father, the other by my mother. on seeing his foe fall, my father drew out his watch and saw it was eleven o'clock. when my mother shot her assailant she turned to the timepiece and noticed that it was also eleven o'clock. the whole thing had taken place exactly at the same moment. there were no more guidici left, the family was extinct, and our victorious family is now left in peace; and considering we carried on a war for four hundred years, we didn't want to meddle with it any more. my father had the dates engraved upon the carbines, and hung the pieces up on each side of the clock, as you saw. seven months later my mother gave birth to twins, of whom one is your very humble servant, the corsican lucien; the other, the philanthropist, louis, his brother." as he ceased speaking, i noticed a shadow of a man accompanied by a dog projected in the doorway. the shadows were those of the bandit orlandi and his friend diamond. at that moment the village clock of sullacaro was heard striking nine with measured strokes. evidently the orlandi was of louis xv.'s opinion, that punctuality is the politeness of kings! it would have been impossible to have been more exact than was that king of the mountain, with whom lucien had appointed a meeting at nine o'clock. we both rose from our reclining posture when we saw the bandit approaching. chapter viii. "you are not alone, monsieur lucien," said the bandit. "do not let that disturb you, orlandi. this gentleman is a friend of mine, who has heard me speak of you, and wished to pay you a visit. i could not think of refusing him that pleasure." "monsieur is welcome to the country," said the bandit, bowing as he advanced towards us. i returned his salute with the most punctilious politeness. "you must have been waiting here some time," continued orlandi. "yes, about twenty minutes." "quite so. i heard diamond howling at mucchio, and he has been with me quite a quarter of an hour since then; he is a good and faithful dog, is he not, monsieur lucien?" "yes, indeed he is, orlandi," replied lucien, as he patted the animal. "but," said i, "since you knew that monsieur lucien was here, why did you not come sooner?" "because our appointment was for nine o'clock," said the bandit, "and it is just as unpunctual to be a quarter of an hour too soon as to arrive a quarter of an hour too late." "that is meant for a hit at me, orlandi," said lucien, laughing. "no, sir; you no doubt have your reasons; besides you have a companion, and it is likely on his account you may have started earlier, for i know your punctual habits, monsieur lucien, and i know also that you have been good enough to put yourself to inconvenience on my account frequently." "oh, do not say anything about that, orlandi; this will probably be the last time." "have we not some few words to exchange upon that subject, monsieur lucien," said the bandit. "yes, if you will have the goodness to follow me." "i am at your orders." lucien turned towards me, and said: "will you excuse me a moment?" "of course;" i replied. the men then went away together, and ascending the breach through which orlandi had appeared halted at the top of it, their figures standing out in strong relief in the moonlight. then i was able to take more particular note of this orlandi. he was a tall man, who had fashioned his beard in exactly the same manner as young de franchi, and was clothed like him; but his dress showed traces of more frequent contact with the bushes through which he was obliged to fly, and of the earth upon which he was obliged to lie, than did those of lucien. i could not hear what the men were talking about, and had i heard it i could not have understood it, as they spoke in the corsican dialect. but i was enabled to perceive by their gestures that the bandit was refuting with some heat a series of arguments which the young man was setting forth with an impartiality that did him honour. at length the gestures of the orlandi became less frequent and more energetic. his voice became subdued, and he at last bowed his head and held out his hand to the young man. i concluded the conference was now over, and the men descended together towards me. "my dear, sir," said lucien, "orlandi wishes to shake you by the hand, and to thank you." "and for what?" i said. "for being so good as to be one of his sponsors. i have answered for you!" "if you have answered for me i will readily accept, without even asking what is in question." i extended my hand to the bandit, who did me the honour to touch it with the tips of his fingers. "you will now be able to tell my brother that all has been arranged according to his wishes," said lucien, "and that you have signed the contract." "is there, then, a marriage about to take place?" "no, not yet; but perhaps there may be shortly." a disdainful smile passed over the bandit's face as he replied, "we have made peace, monsieur lucien, because you wished it; but marriage is not included in the compact." "no," replied lucien, "it is only written in the future amongst the probabilities; but let us talk of something else. did you not hear anything while i was talking with orlandi?" he said, turning to me. "of what you were saying, do you mean?" "no, but what you might have thought was a pheasant close by?" "well, i fancied i did hear a bird crow, but i thought i must have been mistaken!" "no, you were not mistaken, there is a cock perched in the great chestnut tree you saw about a hundred paces from here. i heard him just now as i was passing." "well, then," said lucien, "we must eat him tomorrow." "he would have already been laid low," said orlandi, "if i had not thought that in the village they would believe i was shooting at something besides a pheasant." "i have provided against that," said lucien. "by-the-by," he added, turning to me and throwing on his shoulder the gun he had already unslung, "the shot by courtesy belongs to you." "one moment," i said. "i am not so sure of my aim as you, and i will be quite content to do my part in eating the bird. so do you fire." "i suppose you are not so used to shooting at night as we are," replied lucien, "and you would probably fire too low. but if you have nothing particular to do to-morrow you can come and take your revenge." chapter ix. we left the ruins on the side opposite to that on which we had entered, lucien going first. as soon as we had got into the brushwood a pheasant once more loudly announced his presence. he was about eighty paces from us, roosting in the branches of the chestnut tree, the approach to which was prevented on all sides by the undergrowth. "i do not quite see how you are going to get him," i said to lucien; "it does not appear a very easy shot." "no," he replied; "but if i could just see him, i would fire from here." "you do not mean to say that your gun will kill a pheasant at eighty yards?" "not with shot," he replied; "it will with a bullet." "ah! that is a different thing altogether. i did not know you were loaded with ball. you were right to undertake the shot." "would you like to see the pheasant?" asked orlandi. "yes," said lucien, "i confess that i should." "wait a moment, then;" and orlandi began to imitate the clucking of the hen pheasant. then, without our being able to see the bird, we perceived a movement in the leaves of the chestnut-tree. the pheasant was evidently mounting branch by branch as he replied to the call of the hen imitated by orlandi. at length he arrived at the end of a branch, and was quite visible in the moonlight. orlandi ceased, and the pheasant remained motionless. at the same moment lucien levelled his gun, and, with a quick aim, fired. the pheasant fell like a stone. "fetch it!" said lucien to diamond. the dog rushed into the brushwood, and soon returned with the bird, pierced by the bullet, in his mouth. "that is a good shot," i said. "i congratulate you upon it, particularly with a fowling-piece." "oh," said lucien, "i do not deserve your praise, for one barrel is rifled, and carries a ball like a carbine." "never mind, such a shot with a carbine deserves honourable mention." "bah!" said orlandi; "why, with a carbine, monsieur lucien could hit a five-franc piece at three hundred paces." "and can you shoot with a pistol as well as with a gun?" "yes," said lucien, "very nearly. at twenty-five paces i can always divide six balls out of twelve on the blade of a knife." i took off my hat and saluted the speaker, saying, "is your brother an equally good shot?" "my brother?" he replied. "poor louis! he has never handled gun nor pistol in his life. my great fear is that he will get mixed up in some affair in paris, and, brave as he undoubtedly is, he will be killed to sustain the honour of the country." lucien, as he spoke, thrust the pheasant into the great pocket of his velveteen coat. "now," he said, "my dear orlandi, till to-morrow farewell." "till to-morrow, monsieur lucien?" "i count upon your punctuality. at ten o'clock your friends and relatives will be at the end of the street. on the opposite side colona, with his friends, will be likewise present, and we shall be on the steps of the church." "that is agreed, monsieur lucien. many thanks for your trouble; and to you, monsieur," he added, turning to me, "i am obliged for the honour you have done me." after this exchange of compliments we separated, orlandi disappearing in the brushwood, while we took our way back to the village. as for diamond, he was puzzled which to follow, and he stood looking right and left at the orlandi and ourselves alternately. after hesitating for about five minutes, he did us the honour to accompany lucien and me. i must confess that while i had been scaling the ruined walls i had had my misgivings as to how i should descend, for the descent is usually more difficult, under such circumstances, than the ascent. but i was glad to see that lucien, apparently divining my thoughts, took another route home. this road, also, was advantageous in another respect, for it was not so rough, and conversation was easier. at length, finding the path quite smooth, i continued my questions to my companion, in accordance with my usual custom, and said-- "now peace is made, i suppose?" "yes, and as you see, it has not been concluded without some trouble. i have been obliged to represent all the advances as having been made by the colona; for, you see, they have had five men killed, while the orlandi have lost but four. the former consented to the arrangement yesterday, and the latter to-day. the upshot of it all is that the colona have agreed to hand over a live hen to the orlandi, a concession which will prove them in the wrong. this last consideration has settled the matter." "and to-morrow this touching reconciliation will be effected?" "yes, to-morrow, at ten o'clock. you are still unfortunate; you hoped to see a vendetta?" the young man smiled bitterly as he continued--"but this is a finer thing than a vendetta! isn't it? for four hundred years, in corsica, they have been talking of nothing else. now you will see a reconciliation. i assure you it is a much rarer sight than a vendetta!" i could not help laughing. "there, you see, you are laughing at us," he said. "and you are right, after all. we are really a very droll people." "no," i replied, "i was laughing at another strange thing, and that is, to see that you are annoyed with yourself because you have succeeded so well in bringing about a reconciliation." "ah!" he replied. "if you had understood what we said you would have admired my eloquence. but come back in ten years' time, and you will find us all speaking french." "you would make a first-rate pleader." "no, no--i am a referee--an arbitrator. what the deuce do you expect? must not an arbitrator reconcile opposing factions? they might nominate me the arbiter between heaven and hell, that i might teach them to be reconciled, although, in my own heart, i should feel that i was a fool for my pains." i perceived that this conversation was only irritating to my new acquaintance, so i let it drop, and as he did not attempt to resume it, we proceeded in silence, and did not speak again until we had reached his house. chapter x. griffo was in attendance when we arrived, and before his master said a word the servant had taken the pheasant from lucien's pocket. the valet had heard and had understood the object of the shot. madame de franchi had not yet retired to rest, although she had gone upstairs, and she had left a message with griffo to request her son to go into her room before she went to bed. the young man first inquiring whether i was in want of anything, and on my reply in the negative, begged to be excused, to wait upon his mother. of course i acknowledged the politeness, and leaving him, went up to my own room. i entered it with a certain feeling of self congratulation. i was pleased that i had divined the character of louis, as i had found out lucien's. i undressed deliberately, and having taken down a volume of victor hugo's works, i lay down and enjoyed myself thoroughly with _les orientales._ for the hundredth time i came upon _le feu du ciel,_ and re-read it once more. i was fully occupied thus, when i fancied i heard a step upon the staircase, which stopped at my door. i suspected that my host had paused outside, wishing to bid me good-night, but scarcely liking to venture in for fear i should be asleep; so i cried out "come in," and put my book upon the table. in fact, as i spoke the door opened, and lucien appeared. "i trust you will excuse me," he said; "but it seems to me that i have been somewhat rude this evening, and i did not like to retire without making my excuses to you. so i have come to make the _amende honorable_--and as i daresay you have a number of questions to ask i am quite at your disposal." "a thousand thanks," i replied; "but, thanks to your good nature, i am already well informed upon most topics concerning which i desired information, and there only remains one question, which i have made up my mind _not_ to ask." "why?" "because it would appear too impertinent. however, if you remain here i confess i cannot answer for myself. i give you fair warning!" "well, then, go on. curiosity unsatisfied is an uncomfortable companion, and awakens all kinds of suppositions; and two, at least, out of every three guesses concerning a fact are sure to be quite wide of the mark, and more likely to prejudice the object than to arrive at the truth concerning it." "well, you may rest easy. my worst suspicions concerning you lead me to regard you as a sorcerer!" the young man laughed loudly. "the devil! you have inoculated me with some of your curiosity: tell me why, i entreat you--speak out!" "well, then, you have had the kindness to clear up many things which were before obscure to me; but one thing you did not touch upon. you have shown me your beautiful weapons, which i should like to examine again before my departure." "granted. that's one reason." "you have explained to me the inscriptions upon the carbines." "that's another reason." "you have made it clear to me that, thanks to the phenomenon of your birth, you always experience--although far away from him, the same sensations that agitate your brother, and no doubt he feels equally your troubles." "that is a third reason for your belief in my sorcery!" "yes, but madame de franchi, when referring to the sadness you lately have experienced, and which leads you to think that some misfortune threatens your brother, asked you if you were sure he were not dead, and you replied 'no, for then i should have seen him.'" "yes, i remember i did say so." "well, then, if such an explanation may be entrusted to a stranger, will you explain to me how this could happen?" the young man's face had assumed a very grave expression as i was speaking, and i hesitated to pronounce the last words. he was silent for a moment after i ceased to speak, and i said-- "i am afraid that i have been too indiscreet; pray forget that i spoke on the subject at all." "no," he replied, quietly; "no, but you are a man of the world, and as such inclined to be somewhat incredulous. so, you see, i am rather afraid you will treat as a superstition an old family tradition which has been handed down for centuries." "listen," i said. "i can declare one thing, and that is that no one is more easily convinced than i am on all questions of legendary or traditionary lore--and i am always ready to give credence to things regarded as impossible!" "so you believe in ghosts?" "do you wish to hear me tell how i saw one?" "yes, that will encourage me." "my father died in , when i was three and a-half years old. when the doctor announced his speedy death i was sent away to the house of an old cousin in the country. "she had made up a bed for me opposite her own, to which i was sent at the usual time, and, notwithstanding the trouble hanging over me, i feel fast asleep. "i was suddenly awakened by three violent blows upon the door of the chamber; i got out of bed and walked across the floor to open it. "'where are you going?' asked my cousin. "she had herself been awakened by the noise, but could not overcome her terror, knowing very well that as the front door was fastened no one would be likely to come to the room in which we were sleeping. "'i am going to open the door to my father, who has come to bid me adieu,' i replied. "it was then she jumped out of bed and insisted upon my lying down again. i cried for a long time and very bitterly, saying, 'papa is at the door, and i want to see papa again before he goes away for ever.'" "and has the apparition ever returned since?" asked lucien. "no, although i have often called upon it; but, perhaps, providence permitted to the innocence and purity of the child what it declines to accord to the sinfulness of the man." "well, then," said lucien smiling, "in our family we are more fortunate than you." "then you are enabled to see your deceased parents?" "yes, always when any great event is about to happen or has been accomplished." "and to what do you attribute this privilege?" "i will tell you the tradition that has been handed down. you remember that i told you that savilia died leaving two sons." "yes, i recollect." "well, these children grew up concentrating on each other the affection they would have bestowed on other relatives had any been alive. they swore nothing should separate them, not even death, and after some incantation or other they wrote with their blood on two pieces of parchment, which they exchanged, the reciprocal oath that whichever died first should appear to the other at the moment of his own death, and, subsequently, at every important epoch of his brother's life. three months afterwards one of the two brothers was killed in an ambuscade at the moment when the survivor was sealing a letter addressed to him. just as he was pressing the signet upon the burning wax he heard a sigh behind him, and, turning round, perceived his brother standing behind him, and touching his shoulder, although he felt no pressure from the hand. then, by a mechanical movement, he held out the letter that was destined for his brother, the spirit took the letter and disappeared. on the night before the survivor's death, the ghost appeared again. "there is no doubt that the brothers not only made this engagement for themselves, but it applies also to their descendants, for spirits have appeared not only at the moment of the death of those who had passed away, but also on the eve of any great event in their lives." "and have you never seen any apparition?" "no; but like my father, who, during the night preceding his death, was warned by his father that he was about to die, so i presume my brother and i inherit the privilege of our ancestors, not having done anything to forfeit it." "and is this privilege accorded to the males of the family only?" "yes." "that is strange." "it is as i say." i looked at the young man as he was speaking to me. he was cool, calm, and grave, and i could not help repeating with hamlet-- "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." in paris i should have thought that this young man was hoaxing me; but here in corsica, in a little unknown village, one must look upon him either as a foolish person endeavouring to deceive one for his own purposes, or as a privileged being amongst other men. "and now," he said, after a long silence, "are you satisfied?" "yes, thank you," i answered. "i appreciate your confidence, and will promise to keep your secret." "oh, goodness," he said, laughing, "there is no secret in the matter--the first peasant you meet would tell you all i have told you; i only hope that in paris my brother has not boasted of this privilege, which would only cause men to laugh, and would frighten the ladies." so saying, he bade me good-night, and retired to his room. although fatigued, i was not able to sleep for some time, and when i did at last sleep i was restless. i appeared to see in a confused manner in my dreams all the people with whom i had come in contact that day. it was only when day broke that i fell into a sound sleep, and was awakened by the striking of a clock, close to my bed, apparently. i rang the bell, without rising, for my lazy predecessor had provided a bell-rope close at hand, the only one probably in the village. griffo immediately appeared, carrying some warm water; i saw that this valet had been well drilled. lucien, he said, had twice inquired whether i was awake, and had told him that if i did not ring before half-past nine he would call me. it was now twenty-five minutes past nine, so it would not be long before he came. he soon made his appearance, dressed very elegantly in french style, with a black frock coat and white trowsers. he noticed that i looked at him with some surprise. "i hope you are admiring my dress," he said; "another proof that i am becoming civilized." "yes, indeed," i replied, "and i confess i am considerably astonished to find that you possess such a tailor in ajaccio. i shall look quite the country bumpkin beside you." "i assure you my dress is quite parisian, my dear friend. you see my brother and i being exactly the same height, he for a joke sent me a regular outfit, which i only wear on grand occasions, to receive the prefect, for instance, or when the commandant makes his departmental inspection; or, better still, when i receive a guest like yourself, and when that pleasure is combined with such important business as we are about to accomplish to-day." there was in this young man's manner of speaking a polished irony, and good-nature withal, which at once set people at their ease, and never passed the bounds of perfect politeness. i simply bowed in reply, while he carefully inducted his hands into a pair of kid gloves of paris manufacture. as now attired, he looked a thorough parisian. all this time i was dressing rapidly. a quarter to ten struck. "come along," said lucien, "if you wish to see the play. i think it is time we took our seats, unless, indeed, you would rather have breakfast first, which appears to me only reasonable." "thank you, i seldom eat before eleven or twelve, so i am ready to face both operations." "come along, then." i took up my hat and followed him upstairs. chapter xi. from the top of the steps by which one reached the door of the chateau usually inhabited by madame de franchi and her son, one could look over the square. this square, so silent the night before, was now full of people, but curiously enough there was not a man to be seen, the crowd was composed of women and children under twelve. on the lowest step of the church door we could perceive a man girdled with a tri-coloured sash. this was the mayor. under the portico, another man clothed in black was seated at a table. this was the notary, and the written paper under his hand was the act of reconciliation. i took my place beside the table with the sponsors of the orlandi. on the other sida were the sponsors of the colona faction. lucien stood behind the notary so as to show that he acted for both. in the choir of the church one could perceive the priests ready to solemnize the mass. the clock struck ten. at that moment a shiver pervaded the crowd and all eyes were turned towards the end of the street, if one could so call the unequal interval between the houses. immediately on the mountain side appeared the orlandi, and in the direction of the river was the colona, each followed by his partisans, but as had been arranged neither party carried arms. the two chiefs presented a very vivid contrast. orlandi, as i said, was tall, brown, agile and thin. colona, on the other hand, was short, stoutish, and vigorous; he had red hair and beard, both of which wore short and curly. both men carried olive branches, the symbol of peace, which was the idea of the worthy mayor. but besides this olive branch, the colona held a white fowl by the feet; this bird was destined to replace that which had given rise to the quarrel, and the fowl was alive. this last was a point that had long been discussed, and had very nearly upset the whole arrangement. the colona looked upon it as a double humiliation to have to render back a living fowl for the one which his aunt had thrown dead in the face of the cousin of the orlandi. however, by force of reasoning, lucien had persuaded the colona to provide the fowl, as he had managed to induce the orlandi to accept it. when the two rivals appeared, the bells, which until now had been silent, broke forth into a merry peal. when they caught sight of each other both orlandi and his brother made a similar movement of repulsion, but, nevertheless, they both continued their way. just opposite the church door they stopped, a few paces only dividing them. if three days previously these men had caught sight of each other within a hundred paces, one of the two certainly would have remained on the field. for about five minutes there was a profound silence, a silence which, notwithstanding the peaceful nature of the ceremony, was anything but pacific. then at length the mayor spoke. "well, colona," he said, "do you not know that you have to speak first?" colona made an effort and muttered some words in the corsican patois. i fancied i understood him to say that he regretted having been in vendetta with his good neighbour orlandi, and that he offered in reparation the white hen which he held in his hand. orlandi waited until his adversary had finished speaking, and replied in some words which i took to be a promise that he would forget everything but the solemn reconciliation that had that day taken place in the presence of monsieur lucien and the notary. after that the rivals preserved a dogged silence. "now, gentlemen," said the mayor, "you have only got to shake hands." by a simultaneous movement the rivals clasped their hands behind their backs. the mayor descended from his elevated seat, and seizing the hand of colona sought for the hand of the orlandi, and having possessed himself of both he, with some effort, which he endeavoured to conceal with a smile, succeeded in joining the two hands. the notary seized the moment, while the mayor held the two hands together, to stand up and read the deed declaring the feud to be at an end. the document was as follows:-- "in the presence of us, giuseppe antonia sarrola, notary royal of sullacaro in the province of sartène. "in the grand place of the village opposite the church, in the presence of the mayor, the sponsors, and all the population. "between gaetano orso orlandi, called orlandini. "and marco vincenzio colona, called schioppone. "it is solemnly ratified as follows:-- "from this day, th of march, , the vendetta declared between the families shall cease. "from the same period they shall live together as good neighbours and friends, as their relatives did before the unhappy disunion which has so long alienated their families. "in witness whereof they have signed these presents under the portico of the village church, with monsieur polo arbori, mayor of the commune, monsieur lucien de franchi, arbitrator, the sponsors of the two contracting parties, and ourselves the notary. "sullacaro, th of march, ." i note with admiration that the mayor had very prudently omitted all mention of the hen which had put the colona in such a bad position with the orlandi. so the face of the colona got brighter in proportion as the figure of the orlandi clouded; the latter looked at the hen which he was holding in his hand as if he had a great idea to throw it in the face of the colona. but a glance from lucien de franchi checked this intention in the bud. the mayor saw that he had no time to lose; he stepped back, holding the hands of the rivals, and without loosing them for a moment. then, in order to anticipate any discussion at the moment of signature, in view of each considering it a concession to sign before the other, he took the pen and wrote his own name first, and thus converting the shame into an honour, passed the pen to orlandi, who took it, signed, and passed it to lucien, who in his turn handed it to colona, who made a cross. at that moment the te deum was chanted as if for a victory. we all signed afterwards, without distinction of rank or title, as the nobility of france a hundred years before had signed the protestation against monsieur le due du maine. then the heroes of the day entered the church, and knelt in the places appointed for them. i saw that from this moment lucien appeared perfectly at ease. all had been finished satisfactorily: the reconciliation had taken place not only before man but before heaven. the service terminated without any incident worth recording; and when it was over, orlandi and colona passed out with the same ceremony as before. at the church door, at the instance of the mayor, they once again shook hands; and then each one, attended by his friends and relatives, made his way to his house, which for three years he had not entered. lucien and myself went back to madame de franchi's house, where dinner awaited us. it is not difficult to perceive by the attentions i received that lucien had read my name over my shoulder when i was signing the paper, and the name was not altogether unknown to him. in the morning i had announced to lucien my intention to depart after dinner. i was urgently recalled to paris by the rehearsals of "un mariage sous louis xv.," and notwithstanding the importunities of mother and son, i persisted in adhering to my first determination. lucien then asked permission to take advantage of my offer, and to take a letter to his brother; and madame franchi made me promise that i would hand this letter myself to her son. there was really no trouble in the matter, for louis de franchi, like a true parisian as he was, lived at no. , rue du helder. i asked permission to see lucien's room once again, and he himself conducted me thither, explaining everything to me. "you know," he said, "if anything strikes you i hope you will take it, it is yours." i unhooked a small poignard hanging in an obscure corner, as if to show that it had no value attached to it; and as i had seen lucien notice with some curiosity my hunting-belt and its appurtenances, i begged him to accept it, and he had the good taste to take it without being pressed. at that moment griffo appeared to tell me that the horse was saddled and the guide waiting. i put aside the little present i had intended to give to griffo, which consisted of a hunting-knife and two pistols attached to it, the barrels of which were hidden in the hilt. i never saw anybody so delighted as he was at this present. i descended, and found madame de franchi at the bottom of the staircase, where she was waiting to bid me good-bye, in the same place where she had bade me welcome. i kissed her hand, feeling great respect for such a simple-minded and yet so dignified a woman. lucien accompanied me to the door. "on any other day," he said, "i would saddle my horse, and ride with you beyond the mountain, but to-day i dare not quit sullacaro for fear that one or other of the newly-made friends might commit some folly." "you are quite right," i said; "and for my own part, i am very glad to have assisted at a ceremony so new to corsica." "yes," he said, "you may well congratulate yourself, for you have to-day witnessed a thing which is enough to make our ancestors turn in their graves." "i understand--their word was sufficient; they did not need a notary to reconcile them, i suppose?" "they were never reconciled at all." he then shook me by the hand. "have you no message for your brother?" i said. "yes, certainly, if it will not incommode you to deliver it." "well, then, let us embrace. i can only deliver that which i am able to receive." [see "transcriber's note."] so we embraced each other. "we shall see you again some day?" i said. "yes, if you come to corsica." "no, but won't you come to paris?" "i shall never go there," replied lucien. "in any case, you will find my card on the mantelpiece in your brother's room--do not forget the address." "i will promise you that should any event call me to the continent you shall have my first visit." "very well, that is agreed." we shook hands once again and parted; but i noticed, so long as he could see me, he followed me with his eyes. all was quiet in the village, although, of course, there was the usual agitation which follows the completion of a great public act; and as i went along the street i sought my friend orlandi, who had never addressed a word to me, nor even thanked me; and so i passed the last house in the village, and entered the open country without having seen any one like him. i thought he had entirely forgotten me, and under the circumstances i quite excused him, but before i got very far out of the village i perceived a man stride from the underwood, and place himself in the middle of the road. i recognized him at once as the man who in my great regard for appearances, and in my impatience, i had accused of ingratitude. he was dressed in the same costume as he had appeared in the previous evening in the ruins of vicentello. when i was about twenty paces distant from him he took off his hat; while i spurred my horse so as not to keep orlandi waiting. "monsieur," he said, "i did not wish you to quit sullacaro without accepting my thanks for the kindness you have shown to a poor peasant like myself, and as in the village i had not the heart, and could not command the language, to thank you, i waited for you here." "i am obliged to you," i said; "but it was not necessary to take any trouble about it, and all the honour has been mine." "and after all, monsieur," continued the bandit, "the habit of four years is not easily overcome. the mountain air is strong at first, almost suffocating--but now when i go to sleep in a house i should be afraid the roof would fall upon me." "but surely," i said, "you will now resume your former habits. i understand you have a house, a field, and a vineyard." "yes, but my sister looks after the house; but the lucquois are there to work in the field, and to raise the grapes. we corsicans do not work." "what do you do, then?" "we overlook the labourers. we walk about with a gun upon our shoulders." "well, my dear monsieur orlandi," i said, extending my hand, "i wish you good luck; but recollect that my honour as well as your own will be compromised if you fire at anything but game or wild animals. you must never on any account draw a trigger on the colona family." "ah! your excellency," he replied, with an expression of countenance which i never remarked except amongst the natives of normandy, "that hen they gave us was a very thin one." and without another word he disappeared in the brushwood. i continued my journey thinking that it was very likely that the meagre fowl would be the cause of another rupture between the orlandi and the colona. that evening i slept at albitucia, next day i reached ajaccio. eight days afterwards i was in paris. chapter xii. the day i arrived in paris i called upon m. louis de franchi. he was not at home. i left my card, with an intimation that i had just returned from sullacaro, and that i was the bearer of a letter from m. lucien, his brother. i inquired when he would be at home, as i had undertaken to deliver the letter with my own hand. to conduct me to his master's study, where i wished to write a note, the valet led me through the dining-room and the _salon._ i looked around me as i proceeded with a curiosity which will be understood, and i recognized the influence of the same taste which i had already perceived at sullacaro; only the taste was here set off by true parisian elegance. m. louis de franchi certainly appeared to have a very charming lodging for a bachelor. next morning, about eleven o'clock, my servant announced m. louis de franchi. i told the man to offer my visitor the papers and to say that i would wait on him as soon as i was dressed. in five minutes i presented myself. m. louis do franchi who was, no doubt from a sense of courtesy, reading a tale i had contributed to _la presse,_ raised his head as the door opened, and i entered. i stood perfectly astounded at the resemblance between the two brothers. he rose. "monsieur," he said, "i could scarcely credit my good fortune when i read your note yesterday on my return home. i have pictured you twenty times so as to assure myself that it was in accord with your portraits, and at last i, this morning, determined to present myself at your house without considering the hour, and i fear i have been too early." "i hope you will excuse me if i do not at once acknowledge your kindness in suitable terms, but may i inquire whether i have the honour to address m. louis or m. lucien de franchi?" "are you serious? yes, the resemblance is certainly wonderful, and when i was last at sullacaro nearly every one mistook one of us for the other, yet, if he has not abjured the corsican dress, you have seen him in a costume, which would make a considerable difference in our appearance." "and justly so," i replied; "but as chance would have it, he was, when i left, dressed exactly as you are now, except that he wore white trowsers, so that i was not able to separate your presence from his memory with the difference in dress of which you speak, but," i continued, taking the letter from my pocket-book, "i can quite understand you are anxious to have news from home, so pray read this which i would have left at your house yesterday had i not promised madame de franchi to give it to you myself." "they were all quite well when you left, i hope?" "yes, but somewhat anxious." "on my account?" "yes; but read that letter, i beg of you." "if you will excuse me." so monsieur franchi read the letter while i made some cigarettes. i watched him as his eyes travelled rapidly over the paper, and i heard him murmur, "dear lucien, darling mother----yes----yes----i understand." i had not yet recovered from the surprise the strange resemblance between the brothers had caused me, but now i noticed what lucien had told me, that louis was paler, and spoke french better than he did. "well," i said when he had finished reading the letter, and had lighted the cigarette, "you see, as i told you, that they are anxious about you, and i am glad that their fears are unfounded." "well, no," he said gravely, "not altogether; i have not been ill, it is true, but i have been out of sorts, and my indisposition has been augmented by this feeling that my brother is suffering with me." "monsieur lucien has already told me as much, and had i been sceptical i should now have been quite sure that what he said was a fact. i should require no further proof than i now have. so you, yourself, are convinced, monsieur, that your brother's health depends to a certain extent on your own." "yes, perfectly so." "then," i continued, "as your answer will doubly interest me, may i ask, not from mere curiosity, if this indisposition of which you speak is likely soon to pass away?" "oh, you know, monsieur, that the greatest griefs give way to time, and that my heart, even if seared, will heal. meantime, however, pray accept my thanks once more, and permit me to call on you occasionally to have a chat about sullacaro." "with the greatest pleasure," i replied; "but why not now continue our conversation, which is equally agreeable to both of us. my servant is about to announce breakfast. will you do me the honour to join me, and we can talk at our ease?" "i regret that it is impossible; i have an appointment with the chancellor at twelve o'clock, and you will understand that such a young advocate as i am cannot afford to stay away." "ah, it is probably only about that orlandi and colona affair, as you, no doubt, are aware, and i can re-assure you on that point, for i myself signed the contract as sponsor for this orlandi." "yes, my brother said as much." "but," he added, looking at his watch, "it is nearly twelve o'clock; i must go and inform the chancellor that my brother has redeemed my word." "ah, yes, most religiously, i can answer for that." "dear lucien, i knew quite well, though our sentiments do not agree on this point, that he would do it for me." "yes, and i assure you it cost him something to comply." "we will speak of all this later, for you can well understand how pleasant it is for me to re-visit with your assistance my mother, my brother, and our home surroundings, so if you will tell me when you are disengaged----" "that will be somewhat difficult; for this next few days i shall be very busy, but will you tell me where i am likely to find you." "listen," he said, "to-morrow is mi-careme, is it not?" "to-morrow?" "yes." "well?" "are you going to the opera ball?" "yes and no. yes, if you will meet me there. no, if i have no object in going." "i must go, i am obliged to be there." "ah, yes," i said laughing, "i understand, as you said just now, time heals up the greatest griefs, and your seared heart must be healed." "you are under a misapprehension, for i shall probably sustain new tortures by going." "then do not go." "but what is one to do in this world? we cannot always do what we want; i am dragged thither by fate in spite of myself. i know i had better not go, and nevertheless i shall go." "well, then, to-morrow, at the opera." "yes, agreed." "at what time?" "half-past twelve midnight, if that will suit you." "and whereabouts?" "in the _foyer_--at one, i will be in front of the clock." "that is understood." we then shook hands and he left the house quickly. it was on the stroke of twelve. as for me, i occupied myself all the afternoon and all the next day in those employments as a man is obliged to undertake on his return from a lengthened tour. at half-past twelve o'clock at night i was at the rendezvous. louis had been waiting some time--he had been following a mask which he thought he recognized, but the lady had been lost in the crowd, and he had not been able to rejoin her. i wished to speak of corsica, but louis was too absent to follow out such a grave subject of conversation. his eyes were constantly fixed on the clock, and suddenly he rushed away from my side, exclaiming: "ah, there is my bouquet of violets." he pushed through the crowd to join a woman who, evidently with a purpose, was holding a large bouquet of violets in her hand. there were bouquets of every species in the foyer, and i myself was soon accosted by a bouquet of camellias, which congratulated me upon my safe return to paris. to the camellias succeeded a bouquet of rose-pompons. to these succeeded a bouquet of heliotrope. in fact i was engaged with my fifteenth bouquet when i encountered d----. "ah, is it you, _mon cher?_" he cried. "welcome back; you have returned just in time. i have a little supper party this evening--so-and-so and so-and-so--and we shall count upon you." "a thousand thanks, my dear fellow; but though i am strongly tempted to accept your invitation, i can't. i am engaged to somebody." "yes; but everyone else will bring somebody also," said d----. "it is quite understood that there are to be six water-bottles, whose destiny it is to refresh bouquets." "ah, you are mistaken. i shall have no bouquet to put in a water-bottle; i am with a friend." "well, you know the proverb, 'friends of our friends.'" "it is a young gentleman whom you do not know." "well, then, we will make his acquaintance." "i will tell him of his good fortune." "yes, and if he decline, bring him by force." "i will do what i can, i promise you. at what time?" "three o'clock; but as supper will remain on table till six you have ample margin." "very well." a bouquet of myosotis, which perhaps had heard the latter portion of our conversation, then took d----'s arm and walked on with him. shortly afterwards i met louis, who had by this time got rid of his violets. as the lady who honoured me with her attention just then was a trifle dull, i despatched her to one of my friends, and took louis' arm. "well," i said, "have you learnt what you wanted to know?" "oh, yes! you know that at a masked ball people talk of the very things they ought to leave you in ignorance of." "my poor friend," i said, "pardon me for thus addressing you; but it appears to me that i know you since i have known your brother. look here--you are unhappy, are not you? now what is it?" "oh, my goodness! nothing worth talking about." i saw that he did not wish to speak on the subject, so i said no more. we took two or three turns in silence.--i was quite indifferent, for i expected nobody, but he was anxiously examining every domino that passed. at length i said, "do you know what you might do to-night?" he started like a man suddenly aroused. "i! no. i beg your pardon; what did you say?" "i was about to propose a distraction which it seems to me you need." "what is it?" "come to supper with a friend of mine, with me." "oh, no--i am not in a festive humour." "bah! they will talk nothing but nonsense, and that will amuse you." "well--but i am not invited!" "you mistake--for you are." "it is very kind on your part--but 'pon my word i am not worthy of--" just then we crossed d----. he seemed very much engaged with his bouquet of myosotis. nevertheless he saw me. "well," he said, "is it settled? three o'clock." "less settled than ever," i replied--"i cannot join you." "go to the devil, then!" and with this pious ejaculation he continued his course. "who is that gentleman?" inquired louis. "that is d----, one of my friends; a very cheerful youth, though he is the manager of one of our most respectable papers." "monsieur d----!" exclaimed louis. "do you know _him?_" "certainly. i have known him for some years." "and is he the person with whom you are invited to sup this evening?" "yes, the same." "then it was to his house you intended to take me?" "yes." "then that alters the case. i accept, and with very great pleasure." "all right. that settles the question." "perhaps, after all, i ought not to go," muttered louis, smiling sadly. "but you remember what i said yesterday about my destiny. here is the proof. i should have done better not to have come here this evening." at this moment we again encountered d----. "my dear fellow," i said, "i have changed my mind!" "and you will join us?" "yes." "bravo! but i ought to mention one thing." "that is?" "that whoever sups with us to-night, sups with us again to-morrow evening." "by what law of society is that?" "by the laws of the wager made with chateau renaud." i felt louis' arm quiver as it rested on mine--i turned round; but though his face was deadly pale, it was impassable. "what is the wager?" i inquired. "oh, it would occupy too much time to repeat here, and, besides, some one interested might overhear, and it might thus be lost." "what wonderful discretion you possess! at three, then." "at three!" once more we separated, and as i glanced at the clock i saw it then was thirty-five minutes past two. "do you know this m. de chateau renaud?" asked louis, who vainly attempted to command his voice, and to conceal his emotion. "only by sight. i have met him occasionally in society." "then he is not a friend of yours?" "not even an acquaintance." "ah, so much the better," replied louis. "why so?" "for no particular reason." "but do you know him?" "indirectly." notwithstanding this evasive answer, it was easy to perceive that between louis and chateau renaud there existed one of those mysterious bonds which could only be forged by a woman. an instinctive feeling assured me that it would be best for all if he and i returned home quietly. "will you take my advice, monsieur de franchi," i said. "about what? tell me!" "do not go to supper at d----'s house." "why not? does he not expect us. have you not told him that you will bring a friend?" "yes, but that is not the point." "what is the point then?" "i am sure you had better not go, that is all!" "but surely you have some reason to give for your change of opinion; just now you were insisting on my presence at d----'s against my will." "i did not then know that we should meet chateau renaud." "but that is all the better. i believe he is a very pleasant companion, and i shall be glad to make his acquaintance." "very well," i replied--"so be it. shall we go now?" we accordingly went downstairs for our paletots. d---- lived within a short distance of the opera house, the morning was very fine, and i hoped that the open air would enliven my companion. so i proposed that we should walk, and this he agreed to. chapter xiii. we found many of my friends assembled--habitués of the opera lobbies and of the greenroom, and, as i had expected, a few unmasked "bouquets" anxious for the time to come when the water-bottles would be used--supper time! i introduced louis to several friends, and it is needless to say that he was politely received and welcomed. ten minutes after our arrival d---- entered, accompanied by his bouquet of myosotis, who unmasked herself with a freedom and precision which argued a long acquaintance with these sort of parties. i introduced louis to d----. "now," said b----, "if all the presentations have been made, i suggest that we present ourselves at table." "all the presentations are made, but all the guests have not arrived," replied d----. "who is expected then?" "chateau renaud is still wanting to complete the party." "ah, just so. by-the-by, was there not some bet?" "yes. we laid a wager of a supper for twelve, that he would not bring a certain lady here to-night." "and who is the lady," asked the bouquet of myosotis, "who is so very shy as to be made the subject of a bet?" i looked at louis de franchi. he was outwardly composed, but pale as a corpse. "faith, i don't know that there is any great harm in telling you her name, especially as none of you know her i think. she is madame----" louis placed his hand upon d----'s arm. "monsieur," he said; "will you grant me a favour? as a new acquaintance i venture to ask it!" "what is it, monsieur?" "do not name the lady who is expected with m. de chateau renaud, you know she is a married woman!" "oh yes, but her husband is at smyrna, in the east indies, in mexico, or some such place. when a husband lives so far away it is nearly the same as having no husband at all." "her husband will return in a few days. i know him. he is a gallant fellow. i would wish, if possible, to spare him the chagrin of learning on his return that his wife had made one at this supper-party." "excuse me, monsieur," said d----, "i was not aware that you are acquainted with the lady, and i did not think she was married. but since you know her and her husband----" "i do know them." "then we must exercise greater discretion. ladies and gentlemen, whether chateau renaud comes or not--whether he wins or loses his bet, i must beg of you all to keep this adventure secret." we all promised, not because our moral senses were offended, but because we were hungry and wished to begin our supper. "thank you, monsieur," said louis to d----, holding out his hand to him. "i assure you you are acting like a thorough gentleman in this matter." we then passed into the supper-room, and each one took his allotted place. two chairs were vacant, those reserved for chateau renaud and his expected companion. the servant was about to remove them. "no," said the master, "let them remain; chateau renaud has got until four o'clock to decide his wager. at four o'clock if he is not here he will have lost." i could not keep my eyes from louis de franchi; i saw him watching the timepiece anxiously. it was then . a.m. "is that clock right?" asked louis. "that is not my concern," said d----, laughing. "i set it by chateau renaud's watch, so that there may be no mistake." "well, gentlemen," said the bouquet of myosotis, "it seems we cannot talk of anything but chateau renaud and his unknown fair one. we are getting horribly 'slow,' i think." "you are quite right, my dear," replied v----. "there are so many women of whom we can speak, and who are only waiting to be spoken to----" "let us drink their health," cried d----. so we did, and then the champagne went round briskly; every guest had a bottle at his or her elbow. i noticed that louis scarcely tasted his wine; "drink, man!" i whispered: "don't you see that she will not come?" "it still wants a quarter to four," said he; "at four o'clock, even though i shall be late in commencing, i promise you i will overtake some of you." "oh, very well!" i replied. while we had been exchanging these few words in a low tone, the conversation had become general around the table. occasionally d---- and louis glanced at the clock, which ticked regularly on without any care for the impatience of the two men who were so intent upon its movements. at five minutes to four i looked at louis. "to your health," i said. he took his glass, smiled, and raised it to his lips. he had drunk about half its contents when a ring was heard at the front door. i did not think it possible that louis could become any paler than he was, but i saw my mistake then. "'tis he," he muttered. "yes, but perhaps he may have come alone," i replied. "we shall see in a moment." the sound of the bell had attracted everybody's attention, and the most profound silence suddenly succeeded the buzz of conversation which had till then prevailed. then the sound of talking was heard in the anteroom. d---- rose and opened the door. "i can recognize her voice," said louis, as he grasped my arm with a vice-like grip. "we shall see! wait! be a man!" i answered. "it must be evident that if she has thus come to supper with a man, of her own will, to the house of a stranger, she is not worthy your sympathy." "i beg, madam, that you will enter," said d----'s voice in the outer room. "we are all friends here i assure you." "yes, come in, my dear emily," said m. de chateau renaud, "you need not take off your mask if you do not wish to do so." "the wretch," muttered louis. at that moment a lady entered, dragged in rather than assisted by d----, who fancied he was doing the honours, and by chateau renaud. "three minutes to four," said chateau renaud to d----, in a low voice. "quite right, my dear fellow, you have won." "not yet, monsieur," said the young unknown addressing chateau renaud, and drawing herself up to her full height. "i can now understand your persistence. you laid a wager that i would sup here. is that so?" chateau renaud was silent. then addressing d----, she continued. "since this man cannot answer, will you, monsieur, reply. did not m. de chateau renaud wager that he would bring me here to supper to-night?" "i will not hide from you, madame, that he flattered us with that hope," replied d----. "well, then, m. de chateau renaud has lost, for i was quite unaware he was bringing me here. i believed we were to sup at the house of a friend of my own. so it appears to me that m. de chateau renaud has not won his wager." "but now you are here, my dear emily, you may as well remain; won't you? see, we have a good company and some pleasant young ladies too!" "now that i am here," replied the unknown, "i will thank the gentleman who appears to be the master of the house for the courtesy with which he has treated me. but as, unfortunately, i cannot accept his polite invitation i will beg m. louis de franchi to see me home." louis with a bound placed himself between the speaker and chateau renaud. "i beg to observe, madam," said the latter between his shut teeth, "that i brought you hither and consequently i am the proper person to conduct you home." "gentlemen," said the unknown, "you are five, i put myself into your honourable care. i trust you will defend me from the violence of m. de chateau renaud!" chateau renaud made a movement. we all rose at once. "very good, madame," he said. "you are at liberty. i know with whom i have to reckon." "if you refer to me, sir," replied louis de franchi with an air of hauteur impossible to describe, "you will find me all day to-morrow at the rue du helder, no. ." "very well, monsieur. perhaps i shall not have the pleasure to call upon you myself, but i hope that two friends of mine may be as cordially received in my place." "that was all that was necessary," said louis, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully. "a challenge before a lady! come, madame," he continued, offering his arm. "believe me, i thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honour you do me." and then they left the room, amidst the most profound silence. "well, gentlemen, so it seems i have lost," said chateau renaud, when the door closed. "that's all settled! to-morrow evening all of you sup with me at the frères provençaux." chapter xiv. the next day, or rather the same day, at ten o'clock, i called upon m. louis de franchi. as i was ascending the staircase, i met two young men coming down. one was evidently a civilian, the other wore the legion of honour, and though in _mufti_ i could see he was an officer. i had, no doubt, that these gentlemen had just been with m. de franchi, and i watched them downstairs. then i continued my way to louis' apartments and rang the bell. the servant opened the door. his master was in his study. when the man announced me, louis, who was writing, looked up and exclaimed-- "ah, welcome! i was just writing to you. i am very glad to see you. joseph, i am not at home to any one." the servant went out and left us alone. "didn't you meet two gentlemen upon the stairs?" asked louis, as he placed a chair. "yes, one of them was decorated." "the same." "i fancied they had called upon you." "you are quite right." "did they come on behalf of m. de chateau renaud?" "they are his seconds." "ah! so he has taken this matter seriously it seems." "he could scarcely do otherwise," replied louis. "so they came to----." "to request me to name two friends who would confer with them; i thought of you." "i am really honoured by your kindness. but i cannot go alone." "i have also written to ask an old friend, the baron giordano martelli, to breakfast here. he will come at eleven. we will breakfast together, and at twelve, perhaps, you will be kind enough to go and see these gentlemen who have promised to remain at home until three o'clock. here are their names and addresses." louis handed me two cards as he spoke. one card represented the baron rené de chateaugrand, the other m. adrien de boissy. the former lived in the rue de la paix, no. . the latter, who i now saw, belonged to the army, was a lieutenant of chasseurs d'afrique, and lived in the rue de lille, no. . i turned the cards over and over in my fingers. "well, what embarrasses you?" asked louis. "i should like to be told frankly if you look upon this as a serious matter. you know we must mould our conduct upon that." "indeed, i do consider it a very serious matter. you heard me place myself at m. de chateau renaud's disposal, he has sent to me. i must now go with the current." "yes, of course, but after all----" "go on," said louis, smilingly. "after all," i continued, "we must know what you are going to fight for. we cannot put two men up to cut and slash each other without having some ground for the encounter." "very well, let me tell you in as few words as possible, the head and front of the offending. "when i first arrived in paris i was introduced by a friend of mine, a captain in the navy, to his wife. she was young and beautiful. she made a deep impression upon me, and as i was really afraid i might end by falling in love with her, i very rarely went to my friend's house, although frequently pressed to do so. "my friend was rather piqued at my absence, and at last i frankly told him the truth, that his wife being so charming i was rather afraid to go to his house. he laughed, shook hands with me, and asked me, even pressed me, to dine with him that same evening. "'my dear louis,' said he, after dinner. 'in a few weeks i shall sail for mexico. i may be absent three months, perhaps six--or longer. we sailors sometimes know when we shall sail, but never when we may return. to you, i commend emily during my absence. emily, i beg of you to look upon m. louis de franchi as a brother.' "the lady gave me her hand in token of agreement. i was stupefied! i did not know what to say, and i daresay i appeared very stupid to my future sister. "three weeks after this my friend sailed. "during those three weeks he insisted that i should dine at least once a week with them _en famille._ "emily's mother then came to live with her. i need scarcely say that her husband's confidence was not abused, and though i loved her dearly i regarded her simply as a sister. "six months elapsed. "emily's mother still remained with her, but when he went away, her husband had entreated her to receive as usual. there was nothing my poor friend had a greater horror of than to appear as a jealous husband. he adored emily and had every confidence in her. "so emily continued to receive, and they were very friendly receptions. but her mother's presence silenced all scandal or cause for it, and no one could say a word against her reputation. "at the end of three months or so m. de chateau renaud appeared. "you believe in presentiments, i daresay. when i first saw that man i disliked him and would not speak to him. i hated him. "but why i disliked him i cannot tell you. i did! "most likely because i saw that even at his first appearance emily seemed inclined to like him, and he evidently admired her. perhaps i am mistaken, but, as at the bottom of my heart i had never ceased to love emily, i suspect i was jealous. "so on the next occasion i did not lose sight of m. de chateau renaud. perhaps he noticed my looks and it seemed to me that he was chatting in undertones to emily and holding me up to ridicule. "had i yielded to my feelings i would have challenged him that evening, but i reflected that such conduct would be absurd, and restrained myself. "every wednesday thenceforth was a greater trial than the last. "m. de chateau renaud is quite a man of the world, a dandy--a lion--i know how superior he is to me in many respects. but it seems to me that emily values him more highly than he deserves. "soon i found out that i was not the only one who remarked her preference for m. de chateau renaud, and this preference increased to such an extent and became so obvious that one day giordano, who like me was an habitué of the house, spoke to me about it. "from that moment my resolution was taken. i determined to speak to emily on the subject, convinced that she was only acting thoughtlessly and i had but to call her attention to the matter to have it remedied. "but to my great astonishment she took my remonstrances in joke, pretended that i was mad, and that those who agreed with me were as stupid as i was. "however, i insisted. "emily only replied, that she would leave to my own decision as to whether a man in love was not necessarily a prejudiced judge. "i remained perfectly stupefied; her husband must have told her everything. "now you will understand that under these circumstances, and being an unhappy and jealous lover, and only making myself objectionable to the lady, i ceased to visit at the house. "but although i did not go to her parties i did not the less hear the gossip that was afloat, nor was i the less unhappy, for these reports were assuming a tangible shape. "i resolved therefore to write to her, and beg her in the strongest language of which i was capable, for her own and her husband's sake, to be careful. she never answered my letter. "some time afterwards i heard it publicly stated that emily was actually the mistress of chateau renaud. what i suffered i cannot express. "it was then my poor brother became conscious of my grief. "then, after about a fortnight, you came back to paris. the very day you called upon me i received an anonymous letter from a lady unknown appointing a meeting at the opera ball. "this woman said that she had certain information to convey to me respecting a lady friend of mine, whose christian name only she would mention. "the name was emily. "my correspondent said i should recognize her by her carrying a bouquet of violets. "i told you at the time that i did not wish to go to the ball, but i repeat i was hurried thither by fate. "i went as you know. i found my domino at the place at the hour indicated. she confirmed what i had already heard respecting chateau renaud and emily, and if i wished proof, she would give it me, for chateau renaud had made a bet that he would take his new mistress to supper at m. d----'s house that evening. "chance revealed to me that you knew m. d----, you suggested that i should accompany you. i accepted, you know the rest." "now, what more could i do but await and accept the proposals that were made to me?" "but," i said, at length, as a sensation of fear crossed my mind, "i am afraid i heard your brother say that you had never handled a sword or a pistol." "that is quite true!" "then you are absolutely at the mercy of your adversary!" "i cannot help it. i am in the hands of providence." chapter xv. as louis was speaking, the servant announced the baron giordano martelli. he was a young corsican from sartène. he had served in the th regiment, in which his gallantry had secured him promotion at the age of twenty-three. "well," he said, after having bowed to me, "so things have come to a crisis, and no doubt you will soon have a visit from the seconds of monsieur de chateau renaud." "they have been here already." "i suppose they have left their names and addresses?" "here are their cards." "good." "well, your servant has just told me that breakfast is waiting. suppose we sit down, and after breakfast we can return their visit." we entered the _salle à manger,_ and put aside all business for the present. during the meal louis questioned me closely concerning my journey in corsica, and i told him all the incidents with which the reader is acquainted. he made me repeat, over and over again, all that his mother and brother had said. he was quite touched, knowing the true corsican instincts of lucien, with the care he had taken to reconcile the orlandi and the colona. the clock struck twelve. "i do not wish to hurry you, gentlemen," said louis, "but i think you should return the visit of those gentlemen. it will not do to put ourselves in the wrong." "oh, you may be quite easy on that point," i said, "we have plenty of time before us." "no matter," said the baron giordano, "louis is right." "now," said i, "we must know whether you prefer to fight with sword or pistol?" "ah," he replied, "it is all the same to me; i know as little about one as the other. besides, monsieur de chateau renaud will save me all trouble in choosing; he looks upon himself, no doubt, as the offended party, and as such will retain the choice of weapons." "however, the offence is doubtful, you only offered your arm, as you were asked to do." "my opinion is," said louis, "that all discussion should tend towards a peaceable arrangement of this matter. my tastes are not warlike, as you know. far from being a duellist, this is the first affair of the kind i have had, and just for this very reason i wish to come well out of it." "that is very easy to say, my friend, but you have to play for your life, and you leave to us and before your family the responsibility of the result." "ah, as to that you may make your mind quite easy, i know my mother and brother well enough; they would only ask whether i had conducted myself as a brave man, and if you replied in the affirmative they would be satisfied." "but, hang it, we must know which arm you prefer." "well, if they propose pistols, accept them at once." "that is my advice, also," said the baron. "very well, then, the pistol be it," i replied, "since that is the advice of both of you, but the pistol is a horrible weapon." "have i time to learn to fence between this and to-morrow?" "no, unless, perhaps, you studied grissier, and then you might learn enough to defend yourself." louis smiled. "believe me," said he, "that what will happen tomorrow is already written on high, and whatever we may do we cannot alter that." we then shook hands with him and went downstairs. our first visit was naturally to the nearer of the two gentlemen who had called on behalf of our adversary. we, therefore, visited monsieur rené de chateaugrand, who lived, as we have said, at , rue de la paix. any other visitors were forbidden while we were calling, and we were at once introduced to his presence. we found monsieur de chateaugrand a perfect man of the world--he would not for one moment give us the trouble of calling upon monsieur de boissy--he sent his own servant for him. while we were waiting his appearance, we spoke of everything but the subject which had brought us thither, and in about ten minutes monsieur de boissy arrived. the two gentlemen did not advance any pretensions to the choice of arms, the sword or pistol was equally familiar to m. de chateau renaud. they were quite willing to leave the selection to m. de franchi, or to toss up. a louis was thrown into the air, face for sword, reverse for pistols. the coin came down reverse. so it was decided. the combat was arranged to take place next morning at nine o'clock, in the wood of vincennes, where the adversaries would be placed at twenty paces, and after the third signal given by clapping the hands they were to fire. we returned to convey this decision to louis de franchi. on my return home the same evening, i found the cards of mm. de chateaugrand and de boissy. chapter xvi. at eight o'clock that evening i called upon m. louis de franchi, to inquire whether he had anything to confide to me. but he begged me to wait till next morning, saying: "the night will bring counsel with it." next morning, therefore, instead of calling at eight, which would have given us plenty of time to go to the meeting, i called at half-past seven. louis was already writing in his study. he looked up as i entered, and i noticed how very pale he was. "excuse me," he said, "i am writing to my mother. you will find the morning papers there; if you can amuse yourself with them you will see a charming feuilleton by m. mèry in the _presse._" i took the paper thus indicated, and contrasted the livid pallor of the speaker with his calm and sweet voice. i endeavoured to read, but i could not fix my attention, the letters brought no meaning with them. in about five minutes louis said, "there, i have finished." and he rang for his valet. "joseph," said he, "i am at home to no one, not even to the baron giordano. if he calls, ask him to wait in the _salon._ i wish to be alone with this gentlemen for ten minutes." the valet shut the door and disappeared. "now, my dear alexander, listen. giordano is a corsican, and has corsican ideas. i cannot, therefore, confide all i desire to him. i will ask him to keep the secret, that's all. but as regards yourself, i wish you, if you will permit me, to request that you will promise to observe my instructions." "certainly. is not that the duty of a second?" "a duty more real than you imagine, for you can save our family a second misfortune if you will." "a second misfortune!" i exclaimed. "wait. read this letter." i took the letter addressed to madame de franchi, and read as follows, with growing astonishment:-- "my dearest mother,-- "if i did not know that you possessed spartan fortitude allied with christian submission, i would have used means to prepare you for the blow in store for you--for when you receive this letter you will have but one son! "lucien, my dear brother, love our mother for _both_ in future. "for some time i have been suffering from brain fever. i paid no attention to the premonitory symptoms--the doctor came too late. darling mother, there is no hope for me now. i cannot be saved but by a miracle, and what right have i to suppose that providence will work a miracle on my behalf? "i am writing to you in a lucid interval. if i die, this letter will be posted immediately after my death; for in the selfishness of my love for you i wish that you should know that i am dead without regretting anything in the world except your tenderness and my brother's. "adieu, mother! "do not weep for me. it is the soul that lives, not the body, and when the latter perishes the former will still live and love you. "adieu, lucien! never leave our mother; and remember that she has you only to look to now. "your son, "your brother, "louis de franchi." when i had finished the letter i turned to the writer and said-- "well, and what does this mean?" "do you not understand?" he said. "no!" "i am going to be shot at ten minutes past nine." "you are going to be shot?" "yes." "you are mad! why, what has put such an idea into your head?" "i am not mad, my dear friend. i have been warned--that's all." "warned! by whom?" "my brother has already told you, i think, that the male members of our family enjoy a singular privilege?" "true," i replied, shuddering, in spite of myself. "he spoke to me about apparitions." "quite so. well, then, my father appeared to me last night. that is why you find me so pallid. the sight of the dead pales the living!" i gazed at him with astonishment, not unmixed with terror. "you saw your father last night, you say?" "yes." "and he spoke to you?" "he announced my death!" "oh, it was some terrible dream!" "it was a terrible _reality._" "you were asleep, my friend." "i was wide awake. do you not believe that a father can appear to his son?" i hung my head, for at the bottom of my heart i _did_ believe in the possibility. "what passed between you?" i asked. "it is a very simple and very natural story. i was reading, expecting my father--for i knew if any danger threatened that he would appear to me--and at midnight the lamp burnt low, the door opened slowly, and my father appeared." "in what form?" i asked. "just as if he were alive--dressed in his usual manner--only he was very pale, and his eyes were without expression." "good heavens!" i ejaculated. "he slowly approached my bed. i raised myself with my elbow, and said, 'you are welcome, father.' "he came close, and regarded me fixedly, and it then appeared to me as if some sort of paternal solicitude was expressed in his face." "go on," i said; "this is terrible!" "then his lips moved, and, though i could hear no sound, i seemed to hear his words distinctly, though distant as an echo." "what did he say?" "'think of god, my son!' "'i shall be killed in this duel, then?' i asked. "i saw the tears roll down the pallid visage of the spectre. "'and at what hour?' "he pointed towards the timepiece. i followed the direction of his finger. the clock showed ten minutes past nine. "'so be it, my father,' i said; 'god's will be done. i leave my mother, but i rejoin you.' "then a faint smile passed over his face, he waved me a sign of farewell and glided away. "the door opened as he advanced towards it, and when he had disappeared it shut of its own accord." this recital was so simply and so naturally told, that it was evident to me the event had occurred just as de franchi had related it, or he was the victim of an illusion, which he had believed to be real in consequence of the pre-occupation of his mind, and was therefore all the more terrible. i wiped the perspiration from my forehead. "now," continued louis; "you know my brother, don't you?" "yes." "what do you think he will do when he learns that i have been killed in a duel?" "he will leave sullacaro at once to challenge the man who has killed you." "just so, and if he is killed in his turn, my mother will be thrice a widow; widowed by the loss of her husband, widowed by the loss of her two sons." "ah! i understand. this is fearful!" "well, this must be avoided, and that is why i have written this letter. believing that i have died from brain fever my brother will not seek to avenge me, and my mother will be the more easily consoled, knowing it was the will of god, and that i did not fall by the hand of man. at least----" "at least what?" i repeated. "oh, nothing," replied louis. "i hope that will not come to pass." i saw that he was referring to some personal fear, and i did not insist farther. at this moment the door opened, and the baron de giordano entered. "my dear de franchi," he said, "i respect your privacy more than anything, but it is past eight, and the meeting is appointed for nine; we have quite a league and a half to drive, and we should start at once." "i am ready, my dear fellow," said louis. "i have told my friend here all i had to say to him." he put his finger on his lips as our eyes met. "for you, my friend," he continued, turning to the table and taking up a sealed letter, "there is this; if anything should happen to me read this letter, and i pray you to carry out my request contained in it." "to the very letter," replied the baron. "you were to provide the arms," said louis. "yes," i replied, "but just as i was coming away i found that one of the dogs did not bark properly, so we shall be obliged to get a case of pistols from devisme." louis looked at me, smiled, and held out his hand. he knew quite well that i did not wish to see him killed with my pistols. "have you a carriage?" he asked; "if not i will send joseph for one." "my coupé is here," said the baron, "and can carry three at a pinch; besides, my horses will take us more quickly than a _fiacre._" "let us go," said louis. we went downstairs. joseph was waiting at the door. "shall i accompany you, sir?" he said. "no, joseph," replied his master, "i shall not require your services to-day." then, stepping back a pace and pressing a roll of gold into the man's hand, he said, "take this, and if at any time i have appeared brusque to you, pardon my ill-humour." "oh, monsieur!" said joseph, with tears in his eyes, "what is the meaning of this?" "chut!" said louis, and he sprang into the carriage. "he is a good servant," he murmured, "and if either of you can ever be of use to him i shall be obliged." "is he about to leave you?" said the baron. "no," said louis, smiling; "i am leaving him, that is all!" we stopped at devismes just long enough to secure a case of pistols, powder and bullets, and then resumed our way at a brisk trot. chapter xvii. we reached vincennes at five minutes to nine. another carriage, that of chateau renaud, arrived at the same time. we proceeded into the wood by different paths. our carriages were to await us in the broad avenue. a few minutes later we met at the rendezvous. "gentlemen," said louis, "recollect that no arrangement is possible now." "nevertheless----," i said "oh, my dear sir," he replied, "after what i have told you, you should be the last person to think that any reconciliation is possible." i bowed before this absolute will, which for me was supreme. we left louis near the carriages, and advanced towards m. de boissy and m. de chateaugrand. the baron de giordano carried the case of pistols. the seconds exchanged salutes. "gentlemen," said the baron, "under these circumstances the shortest compliments are the best, for we may be interrupted any moment. we were requested to provide weapons--here they are. examine them if you please. we have just procured them from the gunsmith, and we give you our word of honour that m. louis de franchi has not even seen them." "such an assurance is unnecessary, gentlemen," replied chateaugrand, "we know with whom we have to deal," and taking one pistol, while m. de boissy took the other, the seconds examined the bore. "these are ordinary pistols, and have never been used," said the baron; "now the question is, how shall the principals fire." "my advice," said m. de boissy, "is that they should fire just as they are accustomed to do, together." "very well," said the baron giordano, "then all chances are equalized." "will you advise m. de franchi, then, and we will tell m. de chateau renaud, monsieur." "now that is settled, will you have the goodness to load the pistols?" each one took a pistol, measured carefully the charges of powder, took two bullets at hazard, and rammed them home. while the weapons were being loaded, i approached louis, who received me with a smile. "you won't forget what i asked you?" he said, "and you will obtain from giordano a promise that he will say nothing to my mother, or even to my brother. will you take care, also, that this affair does not get into the papers, or, if it does, that no names are mentioned." "you are still of opinion, then, this duel will prove fatal to you?" i said. "i am more than ever convinced of it," he replied, "but you will do me this justice at least, that i met death like a true corsican." "my dear de franchi, your calmness is so astounding that it gives me hopes that you yourself are not convinced on this point." louis took out his watch. "i have but seven minutes to live," he said; "here is my watch, keep it, i beg of you, in remembrance of me." i took the watch, and shook my friend's hand. "in eight minutes i hope to restore it to you," i said. "don't speak of that," he replied. "see, here are the others." "gentlemen," said the viscount de chateaugrand, "a little distance from here, on the right, is an open space where i had a little practice of my own last year; shall we proceed thither--we shall be less liable to interruption." "if you will lead the way," said the baron giordano, "we will follow." the viscount preceded us to the spot indicated. it was about thirty paces distant, at the bottom of a gentle slope surrounded on all sides by a screen of brushwood, and seemed fitted by nature as the theatre of such an event as was about to take place. "m. martelli," said the viscount, "will you measure the distance by me?" the baron assented, and thus side by side he and m. de chateaugrand measured twenty ordinary paces. i was then left for a few seconds alone with m. de franchi. "_apropos,_" he said, "you will find my will on the table where i was writing when you came in this morning." "good," i replied, "you may rest quite easy on that score." "when you are ready, gentlemen," said the viscount de chateaugrand. "i am here," replied louis. "adieu, dear friend! thank you for all the trouble you have taken for me, without counting all you will have to do for me later on." i pressed his hand. it was cold, but perfectly steady. "now," i said, "forget the apparition of last night, and aim your best." "you remember de freyschutz?" "yes." "well, you know, then, that every bullet has its billet. adieu!" he met the baron giordano, who handed him the pistol; he took it, and, without looking at it, went and placed himself at the spot marked by the handkerchief. m. de chateau renaud had already taken up his position. there was a moment of mournful silence, during which the young men saluted their seconds, then their adversary's seconds, and finally each other. m. de chateau renaud appeared perfectly accustomed to these affairs, and was smiling like a man sure of success; perhaps, also, he was aware that louis de franchi never had fired a pistol in his life. louis was calm and collected, his fine head looked almost like a marble bust. "well, gentlemen," said chateau renaud, "you see we are waiting." louis gave me one last glance, and smiling, raised his eyes to heaven. "now, gentlemen, make ready," said chateaugrand. then, striking his hands one against the other, he cried-- "one! two! three!" the two shots made but one detonation. an instant afterwards i saw louis de franchi turn round twice and then fall upon one knee. m. de chateau renaud remained upright. the lappel of his coat had been shot through. i rushed towards louis de franchi. "you are wounded?" i said. he attempted to reply, but in vain. a red froth appeared upon his lips. at the same moment he let fall his pistol, and pressed his hand against his right side. on looking closely, we perceived a tiny hole not large enough for the point of a little finger. i begged the baron to hasten to the barracks, and bring the surgeon of the regiment. but de franchi collected all his strength, and stopping giordano, signed that all assistance would be useless. this exertion caused him to fall on both knees. m. de chateau renaud kept at a distance, but his seconds now approached the wounded man. meanwhile, we had opened his coat and torn away his waistcoat and shirt. the ball had entered the right side, below the sixth rib, and had come out a little above the left hip. at each breath the wounded man drew, the blood welled out. it was evident he was mortally hurt. "m. de franchi," said the viscount de chateaugrand, "we regret extremely the issue of this sad affair. we trust you bear no malice against m. de chateau renaud." "yes, yes," murmured the wounded man, "i forgive him." then turning towards me with an effort he said, "remember your promise!" "i swear to you i will do all you wish." "and now," he said, smiling, "look at the watch!" he breathed a long sigh, and fell back. that sigh was his last. i looked at the watch, it was exactly ten minutes past nine. i turned to louis de franchi--he was dead. we took back the body to the rue de helder, and while the baron went to make the usual declaration to the commissary of police, i went upstairs with joseph. the poor lad was weeping bitterly. as i entered, my eyes unconsciously turned towards the timepiece; it marked ten minutes past nine. no doubt he had forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped at that hour. the baron giordano returned almost immediately with the officers, who put the seals on the property. the baron wished to advise the relatives and friends of the affair, but i begged him, before he did so, to read the letter that louis had handed to him before we set out that morning. the letter contained his request that the cause of his death should be concealed from his brother, and that his funeral should be as quiet as possible. the baron giordano charged himself with these details, and i sought mm. de boissy and de chateaugrand, to request their silence respecting the unhappy affair, and to induce chateau renaud to leave paris for a time, without mentioning my reason for this last suggestion. they promised me to do all they could to meet my views, and as i walked to chateau renaud's house i posted the letter to madame de franchi, informing her that her son had died of brain fever. chapter xviii. contrary to custom, the duel was very little talked about; even the papers were silent on the subject. a few intimate friends followed the body to père la chaise. chateau renaud refused to quit paris, although pressed to do so. at one time i thought of following louis' letter to corsica with one from myself, but although my intentions were good, the misleading statements i should have to make were so repugnant to me that i did not do so. besides, i was quite convinced that louis himself had fully weighed before he had decided upon his course of action. so at the risk of being thought indifferent, or even ungrateful, i kept silence, and i was sure that the baron giordano had done as much. five days after the duel, at about eleven o'clock in the evening, i was seated by my table in a rather melancholy frame of mind, when my servant entered and shutting the door quickly behind him said, in an agitated whisper, that m. de franchi desired to speak with me. i looked at him steadily; he was quite pale. "whom did you say, victor?" i asked. "oh, monsieur, in truth i hardly know myself." "what m. de franchi wishes to speak to me?" "monsieur's friend. the gentleman who was here two or three times." "you are mad, my good man. do you not know that i had the misfortune to lose my friend five days ago?" "yes, sir; and that is the reason i am so upset. he rang, i was in the ante-chamber, and opened the door, but recoiled at his appearance. however, he entered, and asked if you were at home. i replied that you were, and then he said, 'go and announce m. de franchi, who wishes to speak with your master,' and so i came." "you are stupid, victor, the ante-chamber is not properly lighted. you were asleep, no doubt, and did not hear correctly. go, and ask the gentleman his name." "it would be useless, sir. i swear to you i am not deceived. i heard him, and saw him, distinctly." "then go and show him in." victor turned tremblingly to the door, opened it, and then standing still in the room, said-- "will monsieur be kind enough to come in?" i immediately heard the footsteps of my visitor crossing the ante-chamber, and sure enough, at the door there appeared m. de franchi. i confess that i was terrified, and took a step backwards as he approached. "i trust you will excuse my appearance so late," said my visitor; "i only arrived ten minutes ago, and you will understand that i could not wait till tomorrow without seeing you." "oh, my dear lucien," i exclaimed, advancing quickly, and embracing him. "then it is really you." and, in spite of myself, tears really came into my eyes. "yes," he said, "it is i." i made a calculation of the time that had elapsed, and could scarcely imagine that he had received the letter--it could hardly have reached ajaccio yet. "good heavens! then you do not know what has happened?" i exclaimed. "i know all," was his reply. "victor," i said, turning towards my servant, who was still rather embarrassed, "leave us, and return in a quarter of an hour with some supper. you will have something to eat, and will sleep here of course." "with great pleasure," he replied. "i have eaten nothing since we left auxerre. then, as to lodgings, as nobody knew me in the rue de helder, or rather," he added, with a sad smile, "as everybody recognized me there, they declined to let me in, so i left the whole house in a state of alarm." "in fact, my dear lucien, your resemblance to louis is so very striking that even i myself was just now taken aback." "how," exclaimed victor, who had not yet ventured to leave us. "is monsieur the brother----" "yes," i replied, "go and get supper." victor went out, and we found ourselves alone. i took lucien by the hand, and leading him to an easy chair seated myself near him. "i suppose (i began) you were on your way to paris when the fatal news met you?" "no, i was at sullacaro!" "impossible! why your brother's letter could not have reached you." "you forget the ballad of _burger,_ my dear alexander--_the dead travel fast!_" i shuddered! "i do not understand," i said. "have you forgotten what i told you about the apparitions familiar to our family?" "do you mean to say that you have _seen_ your dead brother?"-- "yes."--"when?" "on the night of the th inst." "and he told you everything?"--"all!" "that he was dead?" "he told me that he had been killed. the dead never lie!" "and he said in what way?" "in a duel." "by whom?" "by m. de chateau renaud." "oh no, lucien, that cannot be," i exclaimed, "you have obtained your information in some other way." "do you think i am likely to joke at such a time?" "i beg your pardon. but truly what you tell me is so strange, and everything that relates to you and your brother so out of ordinary nature, that----" "that you hesitate to believe it. well, i can understand the feeling. but wait. my brother was hit here," he continued, as he opened his shirt and showed me the blue mark of the bullet on his flesh, "he was wounded above the sixth rib on the right side--do you believe that?" "as a matter of fact," i replied, "that is the very spot where he was hit." "and the bullet went out here," continued lucien, putting his finger just above his left hip. "it is miraculous," i exclaimed. "and now," he went on, "do you wish me to tell you the time he died?" "tell me!" "at ten minutes past nine." "that will do, lucien;" i said, "but i lose myself in questions. give me a connected narrative of the events. i should prefer it." chapter xix. lucien settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair and looking at me fixedly, resumed:-- "it is very simple. the day my brother was killed i was riding very early, and went out to visit the shepherds, when soon after i had looked at my watch and replaced it in my pocket, i received a blow in the side, so violent that i fainted. when i recovered i found myself lying on the ground in the arms of the orlandini, who was bathing my face with water. my horse was close by. "'well,' said orlandini, 'what has happened?' "'i know no more about it than you do. did you not hear a gun fired?' "'no.' "'it appears to me that i have received a ball in the side,' and i put my hand upon the place where i felt pain. "'in the first place,' replied he 'there has been no shot fired, and besides, there is no mark of a bullet on your clothes.' "'then,' i replied, 'it must be my brother who is killed.' "'ah, indeed,' he replied, 'that is a different thing.' i opened my coat and i found a mark, only at first it was quite red and not blue as i showed you just now. "for an instant i was tempted to return to sullacaro, feeling so upset both mentally and bodily, but i thought of my mother, who did not expect me before supper time, and i should be obliged to give her a reason for my return, and i had no reason to give. "on the other hand, i did not wish to announce my brother's death to her until i was absolutely certain of it. so i continued my way, and returned home about six o'clock in the evening. "my poor mother received me as usual. she evidently had no suspicion that anything was wrong. "immediately after supper, i went upstairs, and as i passed through the corridor the wind blew my candle out. "i was going downstairs to get a light when, passing my brother's room, i noticed a gleam within. "i thought that griffo had been there and left a lamp burning. "i pushed open the door; i saw a taper burning near my brother's bed, and on the bed my brother lay extended, naked and bleeding. "i remained for an instant, i confess, motionless with terror, then i approached. "i touched the body, he was already dead. "he had received a ball through the body, which had struck in the same place where i had felt the blow, and some drops of blood were still falling from the wound. "it was evident to me that my brother had been shot. "i fell on my knees, and leaning my head against the bed, i prayed fervently. "when i opened my eyes again the room was in total darkness, the taper had been extinguished, the vision had disappeared. "i felt all over the bed, it was empty. "now i believe i am as brave as most people, but when i tottered out of that room i declare to you my hair was standing on end and the perspiration pouring from my forehead. "i went downstairs for another candle. my mother noticed me, and uttered a cry of surprise. "'what is the matter with you,' she said, 'and why are you so pale?' "'there is nothing the matter,' i replied, as i returned upstairs. "this time the candle was not extinguished. i looked into my brother's room; it was empty. "the taper had completely disappeared, nor was there any trace of the body on the bed. "on the ground was my first candle, which i now relighted. "notwithstanding this absence of proof, i had seen enough to be convinced that at ten minutes past nine that morning my brother had been killed. i went to bed in a very agitated frame of mind. "as you may imagine, i did not sleep very well, but at length fatigue conquered my agitation and i got a little rest. "then all the circumstances came before me in the form of a dream. i saw the scene as it had passed. i saw the man who had killed him. i heard his name. he is called m. de chateau renaud." "alas! that is all too true," i replied; "but what have you come to paris for?" "i have come to kill the man who has killed my brother." "to kill him?" "oh, you may rest assured, not in the corsican fashion from behind a wall or through a hedge, but in the french manner, with white gloves on, a frilled shirt, and white cuffs." "and does madame de franchi know you have come to paris with this intention?" "she does." "and she has let you come?" "she kissed me, and said, 'go.' my mother is a true corsican." "and so you came." "here i am." "but your brother would not wish to be avenged were he alive." "well, then," replied lucien, smiling bitterly, "he must have changed his mind since he died." at this moment the valet entered, carrying the supper tray. lucien ate like a man without a care in the world. after supper i showed him to his room. he thanked me, shook me by the hand, and wished me good-night. next morning he came into my room as soon as the servant told him i was up. "will you accompany me to vincennes?" he said. "if you are engaged i will go alone." "alone!" i replied. "how will you be able to find the spot?" "oh, i shall easily recognize it. do you not remember that i saw it in my dream?" i was curious to know how far he was correct in this. "very well," i said, "i will go with you." "get ready, then, while i write to giordano. you will let victor take the note for me, will you not?" "he is at your disposal." "thank you." ten minutes afterwards the letter was despatched. i then sent for a cabriolet and we drove to vincennes. when we reached the cross-paths lucien said, "we are not far off now, i think." "no; twenty paces further on we shall be at the spot where we entered the forest." "here we are," said the young man, as he stopped the carriage. it was, indeed, the very spot! lucien entered the wood without the least hesitation, and as if he had known the place for years. he walked straight to the dell, and when there turned to the eastward, and then advancing he stopped at the place where his brother had fallen: stooping down he perceived the grass wore the red tinge of blood. "this is the place," he said. then he lightly kissed the spot where his brother had lain. rising with flashing eyes he paced the dell to the spot whence chateau renaud had fired. "this is where he stood," he said, stamping his foot, "and here he shall lie to-morrow." "how!" i exclaimed. "to-morrow!" "yes, unless he is a coward. for to-morrow he shall give me my revenge." "but, my dear lucien," i said, "the custom in france is, as you are aware, that a duel cannot take place without a certain reason. chateau renaud called out your brother who had provoked him, but he has had nothing to do with you." "ah, really! so chateau renaud had the right to quarrel with my brother because he offered his arm to a woman whom chateau renaud had scandalously deceived, and according to you he had the right to challenge my brother. m. de chateau renaud killed my brother, who had never handled a pistol: he shot him with the same sense of security that a man would shoot a hare; and yet you say i have no right to challenge chateau renaud. nonsense!" i bowed without speaking. "besides," he continued, "you have nothing to do with it. you may be quite easy. i wrote to giordano this morning, and when we return to paris all will have been arranged. do you think that m. de chateau renaud will refuse?" "m. de chateau renaud has unfortunately a reputation for courage which may serve to remove any doubt you may entertain on that score." "all the better," said lucien. "let us go to breakfast." we returned to the road, and entering the cabriolet, i told the man to drive to the rue rivoli. "no," said lucien, "you shall breakfast with me. coachman, the _café de paris;_ is not that the place where my brother usually dined?" "i believe so," i replied. "well, that is where i requested giordano to meet us." "to the café de paris, then." in half an hour we were set down at the restaurant. chapter xx. lucien's appearance created quite a sensation in consequence of his remarkable likeness to his brother. the news of louis' death had gone abroad--not, perhaps, in all its details, but it was known, and lucien's appearance astonished many. i requested a private room, saying that we were expecting the baron giordano, and we got a room at the end. lucien began to read the papers carelessly, as if he were oblivious of everything. while we were seated at breakfast giordano arrived. the two young men had not met for four or five years, nevertheless, a firm clasp of the hand was the only demonstration they permitted themselves. "well, everything is settled," he said. "then m. de chateau renaud has accepted?" "yes, on condition, however, that after he has fought you he shall be left in peace." "oh, he may be quite easy; i am the last of the de franchi. have you seen him, or his seconds?" "i saw him; he will notify mm. de boissy and de chateaugrand. the weapons, the hour and the place will be the same." "capital, sit down and have some breakfast." the baron seated himself, and we spoke on indifferent topics. after breakfast lucien begged us to introduce him to the commissioner of police, who had sealed up his brother's property, and to the proprietors of the house at which his brother had lived, for he wished to sleep that night, the last night that separated him from his vengeance, in louis' room. all these arrangements took up time, so it was not till five o'clock that lucien entered his brother's apartment. respecting his grief, we left him there alone. we had arranged to meet him again next morning at eight o'clock, and he begged me to bring the same pistols, and to buy them if they were for sale. i went to devismes and purchased the weapons. next morning, at eight o'clock i was with lucien. when i entered, he was seated writing at the same table, where his brother had sat writing. he smiled when he saw me, but he was very pale. "good morning," he said, "i am writing to my mother." "i hope you will be able to write her a less doleful letter than poor louis wrote eight days ago." "i have told her that she may rest happy, for her son is avenged." "how are you able to speak with such certainty?" "did not my brother announce to you his own approaching death? well, then, i announce to you the death of m. de chateau renaud." he rose as he spoke, and touching me on the temple, said-- "there, that's where i shall put my bullet." "and yourself?" "i shall not be touched." "but, at least, wait for the issue of the duel, before you send your letter." "it would be perfectly useless." he rang, the servant appeared. "joseph," said he, "take this letter to the post." "but have you seen your dead brother?" "yes," he answered. it is a very strange thing the occurrence of these two duels so close together, and in each of which one of the two combatants was doomed. while we were talking the baron giordano arrived. it was eight o'clock, so we started. lucien was very anxious to arrive first, so we were on the field ten minutes before the hour. our adversaries arrived at nine o'clock punctually. they came on horseback, followed by a groom also on horseback. m. de chateau renaud had his hand in the breast of his coat. i at first thought he was carrying his arm in a sling. the gentlemen dismounted twenty paces from us, and gave their bridles to the groom. monsieur de chateau renaud remained apart, but looked steadfastly at lucien, and i thought he became paler. he turned aside and amused himself knocking off the little flowers with his riding whip. "well, gentlemen, here we are!" said mm. de chateaugrand and de boissy, "but you know our conditions. this duel is to be the last, and no matter what the issue may be, m. de chateau renaud shall not have to answer to any one for the double result." "that is understood," we replied. then lucien bowed assent. "you have the weapons, gentlemen?" said the viscount. "here are the same pistols." "and they are unknown to m. de franchi?" "less known to him than to m. de chateau renaud who has already used them once. m. de franchi has not even seen them." "that is sufficient, gentlemen. come, chateau renaud!" we immediately entered the wood, and each one felt, as he revisited the fatal spot, that a tragedy more terrible still was about to be enacted. we soon arrived in the little dell. m. de chateau renaud, thanks to his great self-command, appeared quite calm, but those who had seen both encounters could appreciate the difference. from time to time he glanced under his lids at lucien, and his furtive looks denoted a disquietude approaching to fear. perhaps it was the great resemblance between the brothers that struck him, and he thought he saw in lucien the avenging shade of louis. while they were loading the pistols i saw him draw his hand from the breast of his coat. the fingers were enveloped in a handkerchief as if to prevent their twitching. lucien waited calmly, like a man who was sure of his vengeance. without being told, lucien walked to the place his brother had occupied, which compelled chateau renaud to take up his position as before. lucien received his weapon with a joyous smile. when chateau renaud took his pistol he became deadly pale. then he passed his hand between his cravat and his neck as if he were suffocating. no one can conceive with what feelings of terror i regarded this young man, handsome, rich, and elegant, who but yesterday believed he had many years still before him, and who to-day, with the sweat on his brow and agony at his heart, felt he was condemned. "are you ready, gentlemen?" asked m. de chateaugrand. "yes," replied lucien. m. de chateau renaud made a sign in the affirmative. as for me i was obliged to turn away, not daring to look upon the scene. i heard the two successive clappings of the hands, and at the third the simultaneous reports of the pistols. i turned round. chateau renaud was lying on the ground, stark dead; he had not uttered a sound nor made a movement. i approached the body, impelled by that invincible curiosity which compels one to see the end of a catastrophe. the bullet had entered the dead man's temple, at the very spot that lucien had indicated to me previously. i ran to him, he was calm and motionless, but seeing me coming towards him he let fall the pistol, and threw himself into my arms. "ah, my brother, my poor brother!" he cried as he burst into a passion of sobs. these were the first tears that the young man had shed. __________ woodfall & kinder, printers, milford lane, strand, london, w.c. transcriber's note this transcription is based on images scanned by google from a copy in the bodleian library: dbooks.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/books/pdfs/ .pdf the scanned images (without the original cover image) are also available through google: books.google.com/books?id=g gnaaaaqaaj variant spellings such as "trowsers" and "examing" have been retained, and in general, inconsistencies of punctuation and italicization were also not changed. however, when the punctuation seemed problematic, a copy of the french text was consulted, and in a few cases the punctuation was changed as noted below. the copy consulted, which was printed in paris in by michel lévy frères, is posted by the internet archive: archive.org/details/lesfrrescorses dumagoog the following changes were noted: - p. : "yes," he repled, "to a rendezvous."--changed "repled" to "replied". - p. : "do you rembember on what occasion?"--changed "rembember" to "remember". - p. : two lines of dialogue ("yes, i." and "do you wish me to tell you why you have come into this province of sartène?") have been combined into one line. the french text, which does not have a line break, reads: "eh! mon dieu, oui, moi. voulez-vous que je vous dise ce que vous êtes venu chercher dans la province de sartène?" - p. : ...you can tell us when you leave, if you wish, if not, you need not inform us...--changed comma after "wish" to a semicolon in keeping with the french text. - p. : "...the mischief arose between the orlandi and the colona.--added a closing double quotation mark. - p. : ...and flew into that of the colona."--deleted closing quotation mark because character continues speaking in the next paragraph. - p. : "...one of these two parties this evening; no doubt?"--changed semicolon to a comma in keeping with french text. - p. : '"giudice,' she would say, 'how do you expect...--reversed order of quotation marks at beginning of sentence. - p. : "well, then," said he, "let us embrace. i can only deliver that which i am able to receive."--the quoted dialogue appears to be spoken by the narrator even though the translation ascribes it to lucien. the french text reads: "eh bien, alors, embrassons-nous; je ne puis rendre que ce que j'aurai reçu." the dialogue tag "said he" and the punctuation marks used to set off the dialogue tag have been deleted so that the translation more accurately reflects the french text. - p. : "then" i continued...--inserted a comma after "then". - p. : "well."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "at what time."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "what is the point then."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with the french text. - p. : "but surely you have some reason to give for your change of opinion? just now you were insisting..."--changed question mark to a semicolon in keeping with french text. - p. : "i did not then know that we should meet chateau renaud,"--changed comma to a period. - p. : ...replied v----. there are so...--inserted an opening double quotation mark before "there". - p. : "m. de cahteau renaud is quite a man of the world...--changed "cahteau" to "chateau". - p. : "...you had never handled a sword or a pistol.--added a closing quotation mark. - p. : we entered the _salle à manger,_ and put aside...--changed _salle_ to all lower case to be consistent with elsewhere in the text. - p. : "well, if they propose pistols, accept them at once?"--changed question mark to a period in keeping with french text. - p. : ...and said, 'you are welcome, father.'"--deleted closing quotation mark because character continues speaking in the next paragraph. - p. : "just so," and if he is killed in his turn...--deleted closing double quotation mark after "so,". - p. : ...so we shall be obliged to get a case of pistols from devisme.--added closing quotation mark to end of sentence. - p. : ...nor was there any trace of the body on the bed,--changed comma at end of sentence to a period. - p. : lucien eat like a man...--changed "eat" to "ate". - p. : the two young men had not met for four or five years, nevertheless, a firm clasp...--changed comma after "years" to a semicolon in keeping with french text. - p. : "and yourself."--changed period to a question mark in keeping with french text. the grandissimes by george w. cable with illustrations by albert herter mdcccxcix contents i. masked batteries. ii. the fate of the immigrant. iii. "and who is my neighbor?" iv. family trees. v. a maiden who will not marry. vi. lost opportunities. vii. was it honoré grandissime? viii. signed--honoré grandissime. ix. illustrating the tractive power of basil. x. "oo dad is, 'sieur frowenfel'?" xi. sudden flashes of light. xii. the philosophe. xiii. a call from the rent-spectre. xiv. before sunset. xv. rolled in the dust. xvi. starlight in the rue chartres. xvii. that night. xviii. new light upon dark places. xix. art and commerce. xx. a very natural mistake. xxi. doctor keene recovers his bullet. xxii. wars within the breast. xxiii. frowenfeld keeps his appointment. xxiv. frowenfeld makes an argument. xxv. aurora as a historian. xxvi. a ride and a rescue. xxvii. the fête de grandpère. xxviii. the story of bras-coupé. xxix. the story of bras-coupé, continued. xxx. paralysis. xxxi. another wound in a new place. xxxii. interrupted preliminaries. xxxiii. unkindest cut of all. xxxiv. clotilde as a surgeon. xxxv. "fo' wad you cryne?" xxxvi. aurora's last picayune. xxxvii. honoré makes some confessions. xxxviii. tests of friendship. xxxix. louisiana states her wants. xl. frowenfeld finds sylvestre. xli. to come to the point. xlii. an inheritance of wrong. xliii. the eagle visits the doves in their nest. xliv. bad for charlie keene. xlv. more reparation. xlvi. the pique-en-terre loses one of her crew. xlvii. the news. xlviii. an indignant family and a smashed shop. xlix. over the new store. l. a proposal of marriage. li. business changes. lii. love lies-a-bleeding. liii. frowenfeld at the grandissime mansion. liv. "cauldron bubble". lv. caught. lvi. blood for a blow. lvii. voudou cured. lviii. dying words. lix. where some creole money goes. lx. "all right". lxi. "no!". photogravures "they paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure themselves that everything _was_ 'all right'" _frontispiece_. "she looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly". "the daughter of the natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum". "aurora,--alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle's flame". "the young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting". "silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy chill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay palmyre philosophe". "on their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional 'yes-seh,' or 'ceddenly,' or 'of coze,' or,--prettier affirmation still,--a solemn drooping of the eyelids". "bras-coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost depths of the swamp". "'ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? iv you will tell me wad dad mague you cry, i will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_'--she rolled up her fist--'juz wad i thing about dad 'sieur frowenfel!'". "his head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently". "the tall figure of palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. she seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence". "they turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of clemence had placed glasses of lemonade". _in addition to the foregoing, the stories are illustrated with eight smaller photogravures from drawings by mr. herter_. chapter i masked batteries it was in the théatre st. philippe (they had laid a temporary floor over the parquette seats) in the city we now call new orleans, in the month of september, and in the year . under the twinkle of numberless candles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy of violins, the little creole capital's proudest and best were offering up the first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divine terpsichore. for summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when september rises to go. it was like hustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masqué_ at such a very early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting that something should be done for the sick and the destitute; and why not this? everybody knows the lord loveth a cheerful giver. and so, to repeat, it was in the théatre st. philippe (the oldest, the first one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which the first consul of france gave away louisiana. some might call it "sold." old agricola fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for he had an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it "gave away." not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, how could it be? the pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provision relative to the great family of brahmin mandarin fusilier de grandissime. it was evidently spurious. being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on to denounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four who had just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column of promenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation: "_comment to yé, citoyen agricola!_" "h-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with the teased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the back-turned face of an ideal indian queen. it was not merely the _tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity of using the slave dialect. his french was unprovincial. "h-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself; "get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and i will guess who you are!" but the queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted: "_ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres?_ don't you know your ancestors, my little son!" "h-the g-hods preserve us!" said agricola, with a pompous laugh muffled under his mask, "the queen of the tchoupitoulas i proudly acknowledge, and my great-grandfather, epaminondas fusilier, lieutenant of dragoons under bienville; but,"--he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed to the other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentler sex--"pardon me, ladies, neither monks nor _filles à la cassette_ grow on our family tree." the four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in the domino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burst into an agony of laughter. the floor was immediately filled with waltzers and the four figures disappeared. "i wonder," murmured agricola to himself, "if that dragoon can possibly be honoré grandissime." wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight: "ho, ho, ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists! one of iberville's dragoons! don't you remember great-great grandfather fusilier's portrait--the gilded casque and heron plumes? and that one behind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds' skins is an indian queen. as sure as sure can be, they are intended for epaminondas and his wife, lufki-humma!" all, of course, in louisiana french. "but why, then, does he not walk with her?" "why, because, simplicity, both of them are men, while the little monk on his arm is a lady, as you can see, and so is the masque that has the arm of the indian queen; look at their little hands." in another part of the room the four were greeted with, "ha, ha, ha! well, that is magnificent! but see that huguenotte girl on the indian queen's arm! isn't that fine! ha, ha! she carries a little trunk. she is a _fille à la cassette!_" two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an undertone, behind a fan. "and you think you know who it is?" asked one. "know?" replied the other. "do i know i have a head on my shoulders? if that dragoon is not our cousin honoré grandissime--well--" "honoré in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such a thing." "i tell you it is he! listen. yesterday i heard doctor charlie keene begging him to go, and telling him there were two ladies, strangers, newly arrived in the city, who would be there, and whom he wished him to meet. depend upon it the dragoon is honoré, lufki-humma is charlie keene, and the monk and the huguenotte are those two ladies." but all this is an outside view; let us draw nearer and see what chance may discover to us behind those four masks. an hour has passed by. the dance goes on; hearts are beating, wit is flashing, eyes encounter eyes with the leveled lances of their beams, merriment and joy and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voices are throwing off disguise, and beauty's coy ear is bending with a venturesome docility; here love is baffled, there deceived, yonder takes prisoners and here surrenders. the very air seems to breathe, to sigh, to laugh, while the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming brows and furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the anguished violins a never-ending rout of screaming harmonies. but the monk and the huguenotte are not on the floor. they are sitting where they have been left by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the theater, looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash of gauze and light and color. "oh, _chérie, chérie!_" murmured the little lady in the monk's disguise to her quieter companion, and speaking in the soft dialect of old louisiana, "now you get a good idea of heaven!" the _fille à la cassette_ replied with a sudden turn of her masked face and a murmur of surprise and protest against this impiety. a low, merry laugh came out of the monk's cowl, and the huguenotte let her form sink a little in her chair with a gentle sigh. "ah, for shame, tired!" softly laughed the other; then suddenly, with her eyes fixed across the room, she seized her companion's hand and pressed it tightly. "do you not see it?" she whispered eagerly, "just by the door--the casque with the heron feathers. ah, clotilde, i _cannot_ believe he is one of those grandissimes!" "well," replied the huguenotte, "doctor keene says he is not." doctor charlie keene, speaking from under the disguise of the indian queen, had indeed so said; but the recording angel, whom we understand to be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandum of it to the debit of doctor keene's account. "if i had believed that it was he," continued the whisperer, "i would have turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!" behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, "_bredouillé_," as they used to say of the wall-flowers, with that look of blissful repose which marks the married and established creole. the lady in monk's attire turned about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these. the passing maskers looked that way, with a certain instinct that there was beauty under those two costumes. as they did so, they saw the _fille à la cassette_ join in this over-shoulder conversation. a moment later, they saw the old gentleman protector and the _fille à la cassette_ rising to the dance. and when presently the distant passers took a final backward glance, that same lieutenant of dragoons had returned and he and the little monk were once more upon the floor, waiting for the music. "but your late companion?" said the voice in the cowl. "my indian queen?" asked the creole epaminondas. "say, rather, your medicine-man," archly replied the monk. "in these times," responded the cavalier, "a medicine-man cannot dance long without professional interruption, even when he dances for a charitable object. he has been called to two relapsed patients." the music struck up; the speaker addressed himself to the dance; but the lady did not respond. "do dragoons ever moralize?" she asked. "they do more," replied her partner; "sometimes, when beauty's enjoyment of the ball is drawing toward its twilight, they catch its pleasant melancholy, and confess; will the good father sit in the confessional?" the pair turned slowly about and moved toward the box from which they had come, the lady remaining silent; but just as they were entering she half withdrew her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich sparkle of the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, said: "why should the conscience of one poor little monk carry all the frivolity of this ball? i have a right to dance, if i wish. i give you my word, monsieur dragoon, i dance only for the benefit of the sick and the destitute. it is you men--you dragoons and others--who will not help them without a compensation in this sort of nonsense. why should we shrive you when you ought to burn?" "then lead us to the altar," said the dragoon. "pardon, sir," she retorted, her words entangled with a musical, open-hearted laugh, "i am not going in that direction." she cast her glance around the ball-room. "as you say, it is the twilight of the ball; i am looking for the evening star,--that is, my little huguenotte." "then you are well mated." "how?" "for you are aurora." the lady gave a displeased start. "sir!" "pardon," said the cavalier, "if by accident i have hit upon your real name--" she laughed again--a laugh which was as exultantly joyous as it was high-bred. "ah, my name? oh no, indeed!" (more work for the recording angel.) she turned to her protectress. "madame, i know you think we should be going home." the senior lady replied in amiable speech, but with sleepy eyes, and the monk began to lift and unfold a wrapping. as the cavalier' drew it into his own possession, and, agreeably to his gesture, the monk and he sat down side by side, he said, in a low tone: "one more laugh before we part." "a monk cannot laugh for nothing." "i will pay for it." "but with nothing to laugh at?" the thought of laughing at nothing made her laugh a little on the spot. "we will make something to laugh at," said the cavalier; "we will unmask to each other, and when we find each other first cousins, the laugh will come of itself." "ah! we will unmask?--no! i have no cousins. i am certain we are strangers." "then we will laugh to think that i paid for the disappointment." much more of this childlike badinage followed, and by and by they came around again to the same last statement. another little laugh escaped from the cowl. "you will pay? let us see; how much will you give to the sick and destitute?" "to see who it is i am laughing with, i will give whatever you ask." "two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands of the managers!" "a bargain!" the monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her eyes and smiled apologetically. the cavalier laughed, too, and said: "good! that was the laugh; now the unmasking." "and you positively will give the money to the managers not later than to-morrow evening?" "not later. it shall be done without fail." "well, wait till i put on my wrappings; i must be ready to run." this delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return of the _fille à la cassette_ and her aged, but sprightly, escort, from a circuit of the floor. madame again opened her eyes, and the four prepared to depart. the dragoon helped the monk to fortify herself against the outer air. she was ready before the others. there was a pause, a low laugh, a whispered "now!" she looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly down again upon a face whose beauty was more than even those fascinating graces had promised which honoré grandissime had fitly named the morning; but it was a face he had never seen before. "hush!" she said, "the enemies of religion are watching us; the huguenotte saw me. adieu"--and they were gone. m. honoré grandissime turned on his heel and very soon left the ball. "now, sir," thought he to himself, "we'll return to our senses." "now i'll put my feathers on again," says the plucked bird. chapter ii the fate of the immigrant it was just a fortnight after the ball, that one joseph frowenfeld opened his eyes upon louisiana. he was an american by birth, rearing and sentiment, yet german enough through his parents, and the only son in a family consisting of father, mother, self, and two sisters, new-blown flowers of womanhood. it was an october dawn, when, long wearied of the ocean, and with bright anticipations of verdure, and fragrance, and tropical gorgeousness, this simple-hearted family awoke to find the bark that had borne them from their far northern home already entering upon the ascent of the mississippi. we may easily imagine the grave group, as they came up one by one from below, that morning of first disappointment, and stood (with a whirligig of jubilant mosquitoes spinning about each head) looking out across the waste, seeing the sky and the marsh meet in the east, the north, and the west, and receiving with patient silence the father's suggestion that the hills would, no doubt, rise into view after a while. "my children, we may turn this disappointment into a lesson; if the good people of this country could speak to us now, they might well ask us not to judge them or their land upon one or two hasty glances, or by the experiences of a few short days or weeks." but no hills rose. however, by and by they found solace in the appearance of distant forest, and in the afternoon they entered a land--but such a land! a land hung in mourning, darkened by gigantic cypresses, submerged; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay. "the captain told father, when we went to engage passage, that new orleans was on high land," said the younger daughter, with a tremor in the voice, and ignoring the remonstrative touch of her sister. "on high land?" said the captain, turning from the pilot; "well, so it is--higher than the swamp, but not higher than the river," and he checked a broadening smile. but the frowenfelds were not a family to complain. it was characteristic of them to recognize the bright as well as the solemn virtues, and to keep each other reminded of the duty of cheerfulness. a smile, starting from the quiet elder sister, went around the group, directed against the abstracted and somewhat rueful countenance of joseph, whereat he turned with a better face and said that what the creator had pronounced very good they could hardly feel free to condemn. the old father was still more stout of heart. "these mosquitoes, children, are thought by some to keep the air pure," he said. "better keep out of it after sunset," put in the captain. after that day and night, the prospect grew less repellent. a gradually matured conviction that new orleans would not be found standing on stilts in the quagmire enabled the eye to become educated to a better appreciation of the solemn landscape. nor was the landscape always solemn. there were long openings, now and then, to right and left, of emerald-green savannah, with the dazzling blue of the gulf far beyond, waving a thousand white-handed good-byes as the funereal swamps slowly shut out again the horizon. how sweet the soft breezes off the moist prairies! how weird, how very near, the crimson and green and black and yellow sunsets! how dream-like the land and the great, whispering river! the profound stillness and breath reminded the old german, so he said, of that early time when the evenings and mornings were the first days of the half-built world. the barking of a dog in fort plaquemines seemed to come before its turn in the panorama of creation--before the earth was ready for the dog's master. but he was assured that to live in those swamps was not entirely impossible to man--"if one may call a negro a man." runaway slaves were not so rare in them as one--a lost hunter, for example--might wish. his informant was a new passenger, taken aboard at the fort. he spoke english. "yes, sir! didn' i had to run from bras-coupé in de haidge of de swamp be'ine de 'abitation of my cousin honoré, one time? you can hask 'oo you like!" (a creole always provides against incredulity.) at this point he digressed a moment: "you know my cousin, honoré grandissime, w'at give two hund' fifty dolla' to de 'ospill laz mont'? an' juz because my cousin honoré give it, somebody helse give de semm. fo' w'y don't he give his nemm?" the reason (which this person did not know) was that the second donor was the first one over again, resolved that the little unknown monk should not know whom she had baffled. "who was bras-coupé?" the good german asked in french. the stranger sat upon the capstan, and, in the shadow of the cypress forest, where the vessel lay moored for a change of wind, told in a _patois_ difficult, but not impossible, to understand, the story of a man who chose rather to be hunted like a wild beast among those awful labyrinths, than to be yoked and beaten like a tame one. joseph, drawing near as the story was coming to a close, overheard the following english: "friend, if you dislike heated discussion, do not tell that to my son." the nights were strangely beautiful. the immigrants almost consumed them on deck, the mother and daughters attending in silent delight while the father and son, facing south, rejoiced in learned recognition of stars and constellations hitherto known to them only on globes and charts. "yes, my dear son," said the father, in a moment of ecstatic admiration, "wherever man may go, around this globe--however uninviting his lateral surroundings may be, the heavens are ever over his head, and i am glad to find the stars your favorite objects of study." so passed the time as the vessel, hour by hour, now slowly pushed by the wind against the turbid current, now warping along the fragrant precincts of orange or magnolia groves or fields of sugar-cane, or moored by night in the deep shade of mighty willow-jungles, patiently crept toward the end of their pilgrimage; and in the length of time which would at present be consumed in making the whole journey from their northern home to their southern goal, accomplished the distance of ninety-eight miles, and found themselves before the little, hybrid city of "nouvelle orléans." there was the cathedral, and standing beside it, like sancho beside don quixote, the squat hall of the cabildo with the calabozo in the rear. there were the forts, the military bakery, the hospitals, the plaza, the almonaster stores, and the busy rue toulouse; and, for the rest of the town, a pleasant confusion of green tree-tops, red and gray roofs, and glimpses of white or yellow wall, spreading back a few hundred yards behind the cathedral, and tapering into a single rank of gardened and belvedered villas, that studded either horn of the river's crescent with a style of home than which there is probably nothing in the world more maternally homelike. "and now," said the "captain," bidding the immigrants good-by, "keep out of the sun and stay in after dark; you're not 'acclimated,' as they call it, you know, and the city is full of the fever." such were the frowenfelds. out of such a mold and into such a place came the young américain, whom even agricola fusilier, as we shall see, by and by thought worthy to be made an exception of, and honored with his recognition. the family rented a two-story brick house in the rue bienville, no. , it seems. the third day after, at daybreak, joseph called his father to his bedside to say that he had had a chill, and was suffering such pains in his head and back that he would like to lie quiet until they passed off. the gentle father replied that it was undoubtedly best to do so, and preserved an outward calm. he looked at his son's eyes; their pupils were contracted to tiny beads. he felt his pulse and his brow; there was no room for doubt; it was the dreaded scourge--the fever. we say, sometimes, of hearts that they sink like lead; it does not express the agony. on the second day, while the unsated fever was running through every vein and artery, like soldiery through the streets of a burning city, and far down in the caverns of the body the poison was ransacking every palpitating corner, the poor immigrant fell into a moment's sleep. but what of that? the enemy that moment had mounted to the brain. and then there happened to joseph an experience rare to the sufferer by this disease, but not entirely unknown,--a delirium of mingled pleasures and distresses. he seemed to awake somewhere between heaven and earth, reclining in a gorgeous barge, which was draped in curtains of interwoven silver and silk, cushioned with rich stuffs of every beautiful dye, and perfumed _ad nauseam_ with orange-leaf tea. the crew was a single old negress, whose head was wound about with a blue madras handkerchief, and who stood at the prow, and by a singular rotary motion, rowed the barge with a teaspoon. he could not get his head out of the hot sun; and the barge went continually round and round with a heavy, throbbing motion, in the regular beat of which certain spirits of the air--one of whom appeared to be a beautiful girl and another a small, red-haired man,--confronted each other with the continual call and response: "keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut tight, keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut tight,"--"an' don' give 'im some watta, an' don' give 'im some watta." during what lapse of time--whether moments or days--this lasted, joseph could not then know; but at last these things faded away, and there came to him a positive knowledge that he was on a sick-bed, where unless something could be done for him he should be dead in an hour. then a spoon touched his lips, and a taste of brandy and water went all through him; and when he fell into sweet slumber and awoke, and found the teaspoon ready at his lips again, he had to lift a little the two hands lying before him on the coverlet to know that they were his--they were so wasted and yellow. he turned his eyes, and through the white gauze of the mosquito-bar saw, for an instant, a strange and beautiful young face; but the lids fell over his eyes, and when he raised them again the blue-turbaned black nurse was tucking the covering about his feet. "sister!" no answer. "where is my mother?" the negress shook her head. he was too weak to speak again, but asked with his eyes so persistently, and so pleadingly, that by and by she gave him an audible answer. he tried hard to understand it, but could not, it being in these words: "_li pa' oulé vini 'ci--li pas capabe_." thrice a day, for three days more, came a little man with a large head surrounded by short, red curls and with small freckles in a fine skin, and sat down by the bed with a word of good cheer and the air of a commander. at length they had something like an extended conversation. "so you concluded not to die, eh? yes, i'm the doctor--doctor keene. a young lady? what young lady? no, sir, there has been no young lady here. you're mistaken. vagary of your fever. there has been no one here but this black girl and me. no, my dear fellow, your father and mother can't see you yet; you don't want them to catch the fever, do you? good-bye. do as your nurse tells you, and next week you may raise your head and shoulders a little; but if you don't mind her you'll have a backset, and the devil himself wouldn't engage to cure you." the patient had been sitting up a little at a time for several days, when at length the doctor came to pay a final call, "as a matter of form;" but, after a few pleasantries, he drew his chair up gravely, and, in a tender tone--need we say it? he had come to tell joseph that his father, mother, sisters, all, were gone on a second--a longer--voyage, to shores where there could be no disappointments and no fevers, forever. "and, frowenfeld," he said, at the end of their long and painful talk, "if there is any blame attached to not letting you go with them, i think i can take part of it; but if you ever want a friend,--one who is courteous to strangers and ill-mannered only to those he likes,--you can call for charlie keene. i'll drop in to see you, anyhow, from time to time, till you get stronger. i have taken a heap of trouble to keep you alive, and if you should relapse now and give us the slip, it would be a deal of good physic wasted; so keep in the house." the polite neighbors who lifted their cocked hats to joseph, as he spent a slow convalescence just within his open door, were not bound to know how or when he might have suffered. there were no "howards" or "y.m.c.a.'s" in those days; no "peabody reliefs." even had the neighbors chosen to take cognizance of those bereavements, they were not so unusual as to fix upon him any extraordinary interests an object of sight; and he was beginning most distressfully to realize that "great solitude" which the philosopher attributes to towns, when matters took a decided turn. chapter iii "and who is my neighbor?" we say matters took a turn; or, better, that frowenfeld's interest in affairs received a new life. this had its beginning in doctor keene's making himself specially entertaining in an old-family-history way, with a view to keeping his patient within doors for a safe period. he had conceived a great liking for frowenfeld, and often, of an afternoon, would drift in to challenge him to a game of chess--a game, by the way, for which neither of them cared a farthing. the immigrant had learned its moves to gratify his father, and the doctor--the truth is, the doctor had never quite learned them; but he was one of those men who cannot easily consent to acknowledge a mere affection for one, least of all one of their own sex. it may safely be supposed, then, that the board often displayed an arrangement of pieces that would have bewildered morphy himself. "by the by, frowenfeld," he said one evening, after the one preliminary move with which he invariably opened his game, "you haven't made the acquaintance of your pretty neighbors next door." frowenfeld knew of no specially pretty neighbors next door on either side--had noticed no ladies. "well, i will take you in to see them some time." the doctor laughed a little, rubbing his face and his thin, red curls with one hand, as he laughed. the convalescent wondered what there could be to laugh at. "who are they?" he inquired. "their name is de grapion--oh, de grapion, says i! their name is nancanou. they are, without exception, the finest women--the brightest, the best, and the bravest--that i know in new orleans." the doctor resumed a cigar which lay against the edge of the chess-board, found it extinguished, and proceeded to relight it. "best blood of the province; good as the grandissimes. blood is a great thing here, in certain odd ways," he went on. "very curious sometimes." he stooped to the floor where his coat had fallen, and took his handkerchief from a breast-pocket. "at a grand mask ball about two months ago, where i had a bewilderingly fine time with those ladies, the proudest old turkey in the theater was an old fellow whose indian blood shows in his very behavior, and yet--ha, ha! i saw that same old man, at a quadroon ball a few years ago, walk up to the handsomest, best dressed man in the house, a man with a skin whiter than his own,--a perfect gentleman as to looks and manners,--and without a word slap him in the face." "you laugh?" asked frowenfeld. "laugh? why shouldn't i? the fellow had no business there. those balls are not given to quadroon _males_, my friend. he was lucky to get out alive, and that was about all he did. "they are right!" the doctor persisted, in response to frowenfeld's puzzled look. "the people here have got to be particular. however, that is not what we were talking about. quadroon balls are not to be mentioned in connection. those ladies--" he addressed himself to the resuscitation of his cigar. "singular people in this country," he resumed; but his cigar would not revive. he was a poor story-teller. to frowenfeld--as it would have been to any one, except a creole or the most thoroughly creoleized américain--his narrative, when it was done, was little more than a thick mist of strange names, places and events; yet there shone a light of romance upon it that filled it with color and populated it with phantoms. frowenfeld's interest rose--was allured into this mist--and there was left befogged. as a physician, doctor keene thus accomplished his end,--the mental diversion of his late patient,--for in the midst of the mist frowenfeld encountered and grappled a problem of human life in creole type, the possible correlations of whose quantities we shall presently find him revolving in a studious and sympathetic mind, as the poet of to-day ponders the "flower in the crannied wall." the quantities in that problem were the ancestral--the maternal--roots of those two rival and hostile families whose descendants--some brave, others fair--we find unwittingly thrown together at the ball, and with whom we are shortly to have the honor of an unmasked acquaintance. chapter iv family trees in the year , and in the royal hovel of a tchoupitoulas village not far removed from that "buffalo's grazing-ground," now better known as new orleans, was born lufki-humma, otherwise red clay. the mother of red clay was a princess by birth as well as by marriage. for the father, with that devotion to his people's interests presumably common to rulers, had ten moons before ventured northward into the territory of the proud and exclusive natchez nation, and had so prevailed with--so outsmoked--their "great sun," as to find himself, as he finally knocked the ashes from his successful calumet, possessor of a wife whose pedigree included a long line of royal mothers--fathers being of little account in natchez heraldry--extending back beyond the mexican origin of her nation, and disappearing only in the effulgence of her great original, the orb of day himself. as to red clay's paternal ancestry, we must content ourselves with the fact that the father was not only the diplomate we have already found him, but a chief of considerable eminence; that is to say, of seven feet stature. it scarce need be said that when lufki-humma was born, the mother arose at once from her couch of skins, herself bore the infant to the neighboring bayou and bathed it--not for singularity, nor for independence, nor for vainglory, but only as one of the heart-curdling conventionalities which made up the experience of that most pitiful of holy things, an indian mother. outside the lodge door sat and continued to sit, as she passed out, her master or husband. his interest in the trivialities of the moment may be summed up in this, that he was as fully prepared as some men are in more civilized times and places to hold his queen to strict account for the sex of her offspring. girls for the natchez, if they preferred them, but the chief of the tchoupitoulas wanted a son. she returned from the water, came near, sank upon her knees, laid the infant at his feet, and lo! a daughter. then she fell forward heavily upon her face. it may have been muscular exhaustion, it may have been the mere wind of her hasty-tempered matrimonial master's stone hatchet as it whiffed by her skull; an inquest now would be too great an irony; but something blew out her "vile candle." among the squaws who came to offer the accustomed funeral howlings, and seize mementoes from the deceased lady's scant leavings, was one who had in her own palmetto hut an empty cradle scarcely cold, and therefore a necessity at her breast, if not a place in her heart, for the unfortunate lufki-humma; and thus it was that this little waif came to be tossed, a droll hypothesis of flesh, blood, nerve and brain, into the hands of wild nature with _carte blanche_ as to the disposal of it. and now, since this was agricola's most boasted ancestor--since it appears the darkness of her cheek had no effect to make him less white, or qualify his right to smite the fairest and most distant descendant of an african on the face, and since this proud station and right could not have sprung from the squalid surroundings of her birth, let us for a moment contemplate these crude materials. as for the flesh, it was indeed only some of that "one flesh" of which we all are made; but the blood--to go into finer distinctions--the blood, as distinguished from the milk of her alibamon foster-mother, was the blood of the royal caste of the great toltec mother-race, which, before it yielded its mexican splendors to the conquering aztec, throned the jeweled and gold-laden inca in the south, and sent the sacred fire of its temples into the north by the hand of the natchez. for it is a short way of expressing the truth concerning red clay's tissues to say she had the blood of her mother and the nerve of her father, the nerve of the true north american indian, and had it in its finest strength. as to her infantine bones, they were such as needed not to fail of straightness in the limbs, compactness in the body, smallness in hands and feet, and exceeding symmetry and comeliness throughout. possibly between the two sides of the occipital profile there may have been an incaean tendency to inequality; but if by any good fortune her impressible little cranium should escape the cradle-straps, the shapeliness that nature loves would soon appear. and this very fortune befell her. her father's detestation of an infant that had not consulted his wishes as to sex prompted a verbal decree which, among other prohibitions, forbade her skull the distortions that ambitious and fashionable indian mothers delighted to produce upon their offspring. and as to her brain: what can we say? the casket in which nature sealed that brain, and in which nature's great step-sister, death, finally laid it away, has never fallen into the delighted fingers--and the remarkable fineness of its texture will never kindle admiration in the triumphant eyes--of those whose scientific hunger drives them to dig for _crania americana_; nor yet will all their learned excavatings ever draw forth one of those pale souvenirs of mortality with walls of shapelier contour or more delicate fineness, or an interior of more admirable spaciousness, than the fair council-chamber under whose dome the mind of lufki-humma used, about two centuries ago, to sit in frequent conclave with high thoughts. "i have these facts," it was agricola fusilier's habit to say, "by family tradition; but you know, sir, h-tradition is much more authentic than history!" listening crane, the tribal medicine-man, one day stepped softly into the lodge of the giant chief, sat down opposite him on a mat of plaited rushes, accepted a lighted calumet, and, after the silence of a decent hour, broken at length by the warrior's intimation that "the ear of raging buffalo listened for the voice of his brother," said, in effect, that if that ear would turn toward the village play-ground, it would catch a murmur like the pleasing sound of bees among the blossoms of the catalpa, albeit the catalpa was now dropping her leaves, for it was the moon of turkeys. no, it was the repressed laughter of squaws, wallowing with their young ones about the village pole, wondering at the natchez-tchoupitoulas child, whose eye was the eye of the panther, and whose words were the words of an aged chief in council. there was more added; we record only enough to indicate the direction of listening crane's aim. the eye of raging buffalo was opened to see a vision: the daughter of the natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum, her feet in quilled and painted moccasins, her head under a glory of plumes, the carpet of buffalo-robes about her throne covered with the trophies of conquest, and the atmosphere of her lodge blue with the smoke of embassadors' calumets; and this extravagant dream the capricious chief at once resolved should eventually become reality. "let her be taken to the village temple," he said to his prime-minister, "and be fed by warriors on the flesh of wolves." the listening crane was a patient man; he was the "man that waits" of the old french proverb; all things came to him. he had waited for an opportunity to change his brother's mind, and it had come. again, he waited for him to die; and, like methuselah and others, he died. he had heard of a race more powerful than the natchez--a white race; he waited for them; and when the year saw a humble "black gown" dragging and splashing his way, with la salle and tonti, through the swamps of louisiana, holding forth the crucifix and backed by french carbines and mohican tomahawks, among the marvels of that wilderness was found this: a child of nine sitting, and--with some unostentatious aid from her medicine-man--ruling; queen of her tribe and high-priestess of their temple. fortified by the acumen and self-collected ambition of listening crane, confirmed in her regal title by the white man's manitou through the medium of the "black gown," and inheriting her father's fear-compelling frown, she ruled with majesty and wisdom, sometimes a decreer of bloody justice, sometimes an amazonian counselor of warriors, and at all times--year after year, until she had reached the perfect womanhood of twenty-six--a virgin queen. on the th of march, , two overbold young frenchmen of m. d'iberville's little exploring party tossed guns on shoulder, and ventured away from their canoes on the bank of the mississippi into the wilderness. two men they were whom an explorer would have been justified in hoarding up, rather than in letting out at such risks; a pair to lean on, noble and strong. they hunted, killed nothing, were overtaken by rain, then by night, hunger, alarm, despair. and when they had lain down to die, and had only succeeded in falling asleep, the diana of the tchoupitoulas, ranging the magnolia groves with bow and quiver, came upon them in all the poetry of their hope-forsaken strength and beauty, and fell sick of love. we say not whether with zephyr grandissime or epaminondas fusilier; that, for the time being, was her secret. the two captives were made guests. listening crane rejoiced in them as representatives of the great gift-making race, and indulged himself in a dream of pipe-smoking, orations, treaties, presents and alliances, finding its climax in the marriage of his virgin queen to the king of france, and unvaryingly tending to the swiftly increasing aggrandizement of listening crane. they sat down to bear's meat, sagamite and beans. the queen sat down with them, clothed in her entire wardrobe: vest of swan's skin, with facings of purple and green from the neck of the mallard; petticoat of plaited hair, with embroideries of quills; leggings of fawn-skin; garters of wampum; black and green serpent-skin moccasins, that rested on pelts of tiger-cat and buffalo; armlets of gars' scales, necklaces of bears' claws and alligators' teeth, plaited tresses, plumes of raven and flamingo, wing of the pink curlew, and odors of bay and sassafras. young men danced before them, blowing upon reeds, hooting, yelling, rattling beans in gourds and touching hands and feet. one day was like another, and the nights were made brilliant with flambeau dances and processions. some days later m. d'iberville's canoe fleet, returning down the river, found and took from the shore the two men, whom they had given up for dead, and with them, by her own request, the abdicating queen, who left behind her a crowd of weeping and howling squaws and warriors. three canoes that put off in their wake, at a word from her, turned back; but one old man leaped into the water, swam after them a little way, and then unexpectedly sank. it was that cautious wader but inexperienced swimmer, the listening crane. when the expedition reached biloxi, there were two suitors for the hand of agricola's great ancestress. neither of them was zephyr grandissime. (ah! the strong heads of those grandissimes.) they threw dice for her. demosthenes de grapion--he who, tradition says, first hoisted the flag of france over the little fort--seemed to think he ought to have a chance, and being accorded it, cast an astonishingly high number; but epaminondas cast a number higher by one (which demosthenes never could quite understand), and got a wife who had loved him from first sight. thus, while the pilgrim fathers of the mississippi delta with gallic recklessness were taking wives and moot-wives from the ill specimens of three races, arose, with the church's benediction, the royal house of the fusiliers in louisiana. but the true, main grandissime stock, on which the fusiliers did early, ever, and yet do, love to marry, has kept itself lily-white ever since france has loved lilies--as to marriage, that is; as to less responsible entanglements, why, of course-- after a little, the disappointed demosthenes, with due ecclesiastical sanction, also took a most excellent wife, from the first cargo of house of correction girls. her biography, too, is as short as methuselah's, or shorter; she died. zephyr grandissime married, still later, a lady of rank, a widow without children, sent from france to biloxi under a _lettre de cachet_. demosthenes de grapion, himself an only son, left but one son, who also left but one. yet they were prone to early marriages. so also were the grandissimes, or, as the name is signed in all the old notarial papers, the brahmin mandarin de grandissimes. that was one thing that kept their many-stranded family line so free from knots and kinks. once the leisurely zephyr gave them a start, generation followed generation with a rapidity that kept the competing de grapions incessantly exasperated, and new-made grandissime fathers continually throwing themselves into the fond arms and upon the proud necks of congratulatory grandsires. verily it seemed as though their family tree was a fig-tree; you could not look for blossoms on it, but there, instead, was the fruit full of seed. and with all their speed they were for the most part fine of stature, strong of limb and fair of face. the old nobility of their stock, including particularly the unnamed blood of her of the _lettre de cachet_, showed forth in a gracefulness of carriage, that almost identified a de grandissime wherever you saw him, and in a transparency of flesh and classic beauty of feature, that made their daughters extra-marriageable in a land and day which was bearing a wide reproach for a male celibacy not of the pious sort. in a flock of grandissimes might always be seen a fusilier or two; fierce-eyed, strong-beaked, dark, heavy-taloned birds, who, if they could not sing, were of rich plumage, and could talk, and bite, and strike, and keep up a ruffled crest and a self-exalting bad humor. they early learned one favorite cry, with which they greeted all strangers, crying the louder the more the endeavor was made to appease them: "invaders! invaders!" there was a real pathos in the contrast offered to this family line by that other which sprang up, as slenderly as a stalk of wild oats, from the loins of demosthenes de grapion. a lone son following a lone son, and he another--it was sad to contemplate, in that colonial beginning of days, three generations of good, gallic blood tripping jocundly along in attenuated indian file. it made it no less pathetic to see that they were brilliant, gallant, much-loved, early epauletted fellows, who did not let twenty-one catch them without wives sealed with the authentic wedding kiss, nor allow twenty-two to find them without an heir. but they had a sad aptness for dying young. it was altogether supposable that they would have spread out broadly in the land; but they were such inveterate duelists, such brave indian-fighters, such adventurous swamp-rangers, and such lively free-livers, that, however numerously their half-kin may have been scattered about in an unacknowledged way, the avowed name of de grapion had become less and less frequent in lists where leading citizens subscribed their signatures, and was not to be seen in the list of managers of the late ball. it is not at all certain that so hot a blood would not have boiled away entirely before the night of the _bal masqué_, but for an event which led to the union of that blood with a stream equally clear and ruddy, but of a milder vintage. this event fell out some fifty-two years after that cast of the dice which made the princess lufki-humma the mother of all the fusiliers and of none of the de grapions. clotilde, the casket-girl, the little maid who would not marry, was one of an heroic sort, worth--the de grapions maintained--whole swampfuls of indian queens. and yet the portrait of this great ancestress, which served as a pattern to one who, at the ball, personated the long-deceased heroine _en masque_, is hopelessly lost in some garret. those creoles have such a shocking way of filing their family relics and records in rat-holes. one fact alone remains to be stated: that the de grapions, try to spurn it as they would, never could quite suppress a hard feeling in the face of the record, that from the two young men, who, when lost in the horrors of louisiana's swamps, had been esteemed as good as dead, and particularly from him who married at his leisure,--from zephyr de grandissime,--sprang there so many as the sands of the mississippi innumerable. chapter v a maiden who will not marry midway between the times of lufki-humma and those of her proud descendant, agricola fusilier, fifty-two years lying on either side, were the days of pierre rigaut, the magnificent, the "grand marquis," the governor, de vaudreuil. he was the solomon of louisiana. for splendor, however, not for wisdom. those were the gala days of license, extravagance and pomp. he made paper money to be as the leaves of the forest for multitude; it was nothing accounted of in the days of the grand marquis. for louis quinze was king. clotilde, orphan of a murdered huguenot, was one of sixty, the last royal allotment to louisiana, of imported wives. the king's agents had inveigled her away from france with fair stories: "they will give you a quiet home with some lady of the colony. have to marry?--not unless it pleases you. the king himself pays your passage and gives you a casket of clothes. think of that these times, fillette; and passage free, withal, to--the garden of eden, as you may call it--what more, say you, can a poor girl want? without doubt, too, like a model colonist, you will accept a good husband and have a great many beautiful children, who will say with pride, 'me, i am no house-of-correction-girl stock; my mother'--or 'grandmother,' as the case may be--'was a _fille à la cassette!_'" the sixty were landed in new orleans and given into the care of the ursuline nuns; and, before many days had elapsed, fifty-nine soldiers of the king were well wived and ready to settle upon their riparian land-grants. the residuum in the nuns' hands was one stiff-necked little heretic, named, in part, clotilde. they bore with her for sixty days, and then complained to the grand marquis. but the grand marquis, with all his pomp, was gracious and kind-hearted, and loved his ease almost as much as his marchioness loved money. he bade them try her another month. they did so, and then returned with her; she would neither marry nor pray to mary. here is the way they talked in new orleans in those days. if you care to understand why louisiana has grown up so out of joint, note the tone of those who governed her in the middle of the last century: "what, my child," the grand marquis said, "you a _fille à la cassette?_ france, for shame! come here by my side. will you take a little advice from an old soldier? it is in one word--submit. whatever is inevitable, submit to it. if you want to live easy and sleep easy, do as other people do--submit. consider submission in the present case; how easy, how comfortable, and how little it amounts to! a little hearing of mass, a little telling of beads, a little crossing of one's self--what is that? one need not believe in them. don't shake your head. take my example; look at me; all these things go in at this ear and out at this. do king or clergy trouble me? not at all. for how does the king in these matters of religion? i shall not even tell you, he is such a bad boy. do you not know that all the _noblesse_, and all the _savants_, and especially all the archbishops and cardinals,--all, in a word, but such silly little chicks as yourself,--have found out that this religious business is a joke? actually a joke, every whit; except, to be sure, this heresy phase; that is a joke they cannot take. now, i wish you well, pretty child; so if you--eh?--truly, my pet, i fear we shall have to call you unreasonable. stop; they can spare me here a moment; i will take you to the marquise: she is in the next room.... behold," said he, as he entered the presence of his marchioness, "the little maid who will not marry!" the marquise was as cold and hard-hearted as the marquis was loose and kind; but we need not recount the slow tortures of the _fille à la cassette's_ second verbal temptation. the colony had to have soldiers, she was given to understand, and the soldiers must have wives. "why, i am a soldier's wife, myself!" said the gorgeously attired lady, laying her hand upon the governor-general's epaulet. she explained, further, that he was rather softhearted, while she was a business woman; also that the royal commissary's rolls did not comprehend such a thing as a spinster, and--incidentally--that living by principle was rather out of fashion in the province just then. after she had offered much torment of this sort, a definite notion seemed to take her; she turned her lord by a touch of the elbow, and exchanged two or three business-like whispers with him at a window overlooking the levee. "fillette," she said, returning, "you are going to live on the sea-coast. i am sending an aged lady there to gather the wax of the wild myrtle. this good soldier of mine buys it for our king at twelve livres the pound. do you not know that women can make money? the place is not safe; but there are no safe places in louisiana. there are no nuns to trouble you there; only a few indians and soldiers. you and madame will live together, quite to yourselves, and can pray as you like." "and not marry a soldier," said the grand marquis. "no," said the lady, "not if you can gather enough myrtle-berries to afford me a profit and you a living." it was some thirty leagues or more eastward to the country of the biloxis, a beautiful land of low, evergreen hills looking out across the pine-covered sand-keys of mississippi sound to the gulf of mexico. the northern shore of biloxi bay was rich in candleberry-myrtle. in clotilde's day, though biloxi was no longer the capital of the mississippi valley, the fort which d'iberville had built in , and the first timber of which is said to have been lifted by zephyr grandissime at one end and epaminondas fusilier at the other, was still there, making brave against the possible advent of corsairs, with a few old culverines and one wooden mortar. and did the orphan, in despite of indians and soldiers and wilderness, settle down here and make a moderate fortune? alas, she never gathered a berry! when she--with the aged lady, her appointed companion in exile, the young commandant of the fort, in whose pinnace they had come, and two or three french sailors and canadians--stepped out upon the white sand of biloxi beach, she was bound with invisible fetters hand and foot, by that olympian rogue of a boy, who likes no better prey than a little maiden who thinks she will never marry. the officer's name was de grapion--georges de grapion. the marquis gave him a choice grant of land on that part of the mississippi river "coast" known as the cannes brulées. "of course you know where cannes brulées is, don't you?" asked doctor keene of joseph frowenfeld. "yes," said joseph, with a twinge of reminiscence that recalled the study of louisiana on paper with his father and sisters. there georges de grapion settled, with the laudable determination to make a fresh start against the mortifyingly numerous grandissimes. "my father's policy was every way bad," he said to his spouse; "it is useless, and probably wrong, this trying to thin them out by duels; we will try another plan. thank you," he added, as she handed his coat back to him, with the shoulder-straps cut off. in pursuance of the new plan, madame de grapion,--the precious little heroine!--before the myrtles offered another crop of berries, bore him a boy not much smaller (saith tradition) than herself. only one thing qualified the father's elation. on that very day numa grandissime (brahmin-mandarin de grandissime), a mere child, received from governor de vaudreuil a cadetship. "never mind, messieurs grandissime, go on with your tricks; we shall see! ha! we shall see!" "we shall see what?" asked a remote relative of that family. "will monsieur be so good as to explain himself?" * * * * * bang! bang! alas, madame de grapion! it may be recorded that no affair of honor in louisiana ever left a braver little widow. when joseph and his doctor pretended to play chess together, but little more than a half-century had elapsed since the _fille à la cassette_ stood before the grand marquis and refused to wed. yet she had been long gone into the skies, leaving a worthy example behind her in twenty years of beautiful widowhood. her son, the heir and resident of the plantation at cannes brulées, at the age of--they do say--eighteen, had married a blithe and pretty lady of franco-spanish extraction, and, after a fair length of life divided between campaigning under the brilliant young galvez and raising unremunerative indigo crops, had lately lain down to sleep, leaving only two descendants--females--how shall we describe them?--a monk and a _fille à la cassette_. it was very hard to have to go leaving his family name snuffed out and certain grandissime-ward grievances burning. * * * * * "there are so many grandissimes," said the weary-eyed frowenfeld, "i cannot distinguish between--i can scarcely count them." "well, now," said the doctor, "let me tell you, don't try. they can't do it themselves. take them in the mass--as you would shrimps." chapter vi lost opportunities the little doctor tipped his chair back against the wall, drew up his knees, and laughed whimperingly in his freckled hands. "i had to do some prodigious lying at that ball. i didn't dare let the de grapion ladies know they were in company with a grandissime." "i thought you said their name was nancanou." "well, certainly--de grapion-nancanou. you see, that is one of their charms: one is a widow, the other is her daughter, and both as young and beautiful as hebe. ask honoré grandissime; he has seen the little widow; but then he don't know who she is. he will not ask me, and i will not tell him. oh, yes; it is about eighteen years now since old de grapion--elegant, high-stepping old fellow--married her, then only sixteen years of age, to young nancanou, an indigo-planter on the fausse rivière--the old bend, you know, behind pointe coupée. the young couple went there to live. i have been told they had one of the prettiest places in louisiana. he was a man of cultivated tastes, educated in paris, spoke english, was handsome (convivial, of course), and of perfectly pure blood. but there was one thing old de grapion overlooked: he and his son-in-law were the last of their names. in louisiana a man needs kinsfolk. he ought to have married his daughter into a strong house. they say that numa grandissime (honoré's father) and he had patched up a peace between the two families that included even old agricola, and that he could have married her to a grandissime. however, he is supposed to have known what he was about. "a matter of business called young nancanou to new orleans. he had no friends here; he was a creole, but what part of his life had not been spent on his plantation he had passed in europe. he could not leave his young girl of a wife alone in that exiled sort of plantation life, so he brought her and the child (a girl) down with him as far as to her father's place, left them there, and came on to the city alone. "now, what does the old man do but give him a letter of introduction to old agricole fusilier! (his name is agricola, but we shorten it to agricole.) it seems that old de grapion and agricole had had the indiscretion to scrape up a mutually complimentary correspondence. and to agricole the young man went. "they became intimate at once, drank together, danced with the quadroons together, and got into as much mischief in three days as i ever did in a fortnight. so affairs went on until by and by they were gambling together. one night they were at the piety club, playing hard, and the planter lost his last quarti. he became desperate, and did a thing i have known more than one planter to do: wrote his pledge for every arpent of his land and every slave on it, and staked that. agricole refused to play. 'you shall play,' said nancanou, and when the game was ended he said: 'monsieur agricola fusilier, you cheated.' you see? just as i have frequently been tempted to remark to my friend, mr. frowenfeld. "but, frowenfeld, you must know, withal the creoles are such gamblers, they never cheat; they play absolutely fair. so agricole had to challenge the planter. he could not be blamed for that; there was no choice--oh, now, frowenfeld, keep quiet! i tell you there was no choice. and the fellow was no coward. he sent agricole a clear title to the real estate and slaves,--lacking only the wife's signature,--accepted the challenge and fell dead at the first fire. "stop, now, and let me finish. agricole sat down and wrote to the widow that he did not wish to deprive her of her home, and that if she would state in writing her belief that the stakes had been won fairly, he would give back the whole estate, slaves and all; but that if she would not, he should feel compelled to retain it in vindication of his honor. now wasn't that drawing a fine point?" the doctor laughed according to his habit, with his face down in his hands. "you see, he wanted to stand before all creation--the creator did not make so much difference--in the most exquisitely proper light; so he puts the laws of humanity under his feet, and anoints himself from head to foot with creole punctilio." "did she sign the paper?" asked joseph. "she? wait till you know her! no, indeed; she had the true scorn. she and her father sent down another and a better title. creole-like, they managed to bestir themselves to that extent and there they stopped. "and the airs with which they did it! they kept all their rage to themselves, and sent the polite word, that they were not acquainted with the merits of the case, that they were not disposed to make the long and arduous trip to the city and back, and that if m. fusilier de grandissime thought he could find any pleasure or profit in owning the place, he was welcome; that the widow of _his late friend_ was not disposed to live on it, but would remain with her father at the paternal home at cannes brulées. "did you ever hear of a more perfect specimen of creole pride? that is the way with all of them. show me any creole, or any number of creoles, in any sort of contest, and right down at the foundation of it all, i will find you this same preposterous, apathetic, fantastic, suicidal pride. it is as lethargic and ferocious as an alligator. that is why the creole almost always is (or thinks he is) on the defensive. see these de grapions' haughty good manners to old agricole; yet there wasn't a grandissime in louisiana who could have set foot on the de grapion lands but at the risk of his life. "but i will finish the story: and here is the really sad part. not many months ago old de grapion--'old,' said i; they don't grow old; i call him old--a few months ago he died. he must have left everything smothered in debt; for, like his race, he had stuck to indigo because his father planted it, and it is a crop that has lost money steadily for years and years. his daughter and granddaughter were left like babes in the wood; and, to crown their disasters, have now made the grave mistake of coming to the city, where they find they haven't a friend--not one, sir! they called me in to prescribe for a trivial indisposition, shortly after their arrival; and i tell you, frowenfeld, it made me shiver to see two such beautiful women in such a town as this without a male protector, and even"--the doctor lowered his voice--"without adequate support. the mother says they are perfectly comfortable; tells the old couple so who took them to the ball, and whose little girl is their embroidery scholar; but you cannot believe a creole on that subject, and i don't believe her. would you like to make their acquaintance?" frowenfeld hesitated, disliking to say no to his friend, and then shook his head. "after a while--at least not now, sir, if you please." the doctor made a gesture of disappointment. "um-hum," he said grumly--"the only man in new orleans i would honor with an invitation!--but all right; i'll go alone." he laughed a little at himself, and left frowenfeld, if ever he should desire it, to make the acquaintance of his pretty neighbors as best he could. chapter vii was it honorÉ grandissime? a creole gentleman, on horseback one morning with some practical object in view,--drainage, possibly,--had got what he sought,--the evidence of his own eyes on certain points,--and now moved quietly across some old fields toward the town, where more absorbing interests awaited him in the rue toulouse; for this creole gentleman was a merchant, and because he would presently find himself among the appointments and restraints of the counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, for the moment, to the surrounding influences of nature. it was late in november; but the air was mild and the grass and foliage green and dewy. wild flowers bloomed plentifully and in all directions; the bushes were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly green, sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worthless berries, whose sparkling complacency the combined contempt of man, beast and bird could not dim. the call of the field-lark came continually out of the grass, where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; the orchard oriole was executing his fantasias in every tree; a covey of partridges ran across the path close under the horse's feet, and stopped to look back almost within reach of the riding-whip; clouds of starlings, in their odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and settled again, without discernible cause; little wandering companies of sparrows undulated from hedge to hedge; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the top of a lofty pecan-tree; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, dropped down into the path to offer fight to the horse, and, failing in that, flew up again and drove a crow into ignominious retirement beyond the plain; from a place of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, and then, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her wing, sped away until, against the tallest cypress of the distant forest, she became a tiny white speck on its black, and suddenly disappeared, like one flake of snow. the scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty soul with impulses of genial friendliness and gentle candor; such a scene as will sometimes prepare a man of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throw open the windows of his private thought with a freedom which the atmosphere of no counting-room or drawing-room tends to induce. the young merchant--he was young--felt this. moreover, the matter of business which had brought him out had responded to his inquiring eye with a somewhat golden radiance; and your true man of business--he who has reached that elevated pitch of serene, good-natured reserve which is of the high art of his calling--is never so generous with his pennyworths of thought as when newly in possession of some little secret worth many pounds. by and by the behavior of the horse indicated the near presence of a stranger; and the next moment the rider drew rein under an immense live-oak where there was a bit of paling about some graves, and raised his hat. "good-morning, sir." but for the silent r's, his pronunciation was exact, yet evidently an acquired one. while he spoke his salutation in english, he was thinking in french: "without doubt, this rather oversized, bareheaded, interrupted-looking convalescent who stands before me, wondering how i should know in what language to address him, is joseph frowenfeld, of whom doctor keene has had so much to say to me. a good face--unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and honest. he will make his mark; it will probably be a white one; i will subscribe to the adventure. "you will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, and noticing, as he did so, that frowenfeld's knees showed recent contact with the turf; "i have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, sir, as i suppose--you will pardon my freedom--you have in the other four." he approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled the tree's trunk as well as the six graves about it. there was in his face and manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated to engage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread of gratuitous benevolence or pity. "yes, sir," said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leaned against the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced to add: "i have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters,"--he had expected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respiration usurped the place of speech. he stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and, as he rose again and looked into his listener's face, the respectful, unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart. "victims of the fever," said the creole with great gravity. "how did that happen?" as frowenfeld, after a moment's hesitation, began to speak, the stranger let go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf. joseph appreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken. the immigrant told his story; he was young--often younger than his years--and his listener several years his senior; but the creole, true to his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be, and possessed the rare magic of drawing one's confidence without seeming to do more than merely pay attention. it followed that the story was told in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodness of an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on condition that he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him. so a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew with delightful rapidity. "what will you do now?" asked the stranger, when a short silence had followed the conclusion of the story. "i hardly know. i am taken somewhat by surprise. i have not chosen a definite course in life--as yet. i have been a general student, but have not prepared myself for any profession; i am not sure what i shall be." a certain energy in the immigrant's face half redeemed this childlike speech. yet the creole's lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayed amusement; so he hastened to say: "i appreciate your position, mr. frowenfeld,--excuse me, i believe you said that was your father's name. and yet,"--the shadow of an amused smile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth,--"if you would understand me kindly i would say, take care--" what little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, and the creole added: "i do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. i think i know what you want. you want to make up your mind _now_ what you will _do_, and at your leisure what you will _be_; eh? to be, it seems to me," he said in summing up,--"that to be is not so necessary as to do, eh? or am i wrong?" "no, sir," replied joseph, still red, "i was feeling that just now. i will do the first thing that offers; i can dig." the creole shrugged and pouted. "and be called a _dos brile_--a 'burnt-back.'" "but"--began the immigrant, with overmuch warmth. the other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly and smiling as he spoke. "mr. frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk; you may hold in contempt the creole scorn of toil--just as i do, myself, but in theory, my-de'-seh, not too much in practice. you cannot afford to be _entirely_ different from the community in which you live; is that not so?" "a friend of mine," said frowenfeld, "has told me i must 'compromise.'" "you must get acclimated," responded the creole; "not in body only, that you have done; but in mind--in taste--in conversation--and in convictions too, yes, ha, ha! they all do it--all who come. they hold out a little while--a very little; then they open their stores on sunday, they import cargoes of africans, they bribe the officials, they smuggle goods, they have colored housekeepers. my-de'-seh, the water must expect to take the shape of the bucket; eh?" "one need not be water!" said the immigrant. "ah!" said the creole, with another amiable shrug, and a wave of his hand; "certainly you do not suppose that is my advice--that those things have my approval." must we repeat already that frowenfeld was abnormally young? "why have they not your condemnation?" cried he with an earnestness that made the creole's horse drop the grass from his teeth and wheel half around. the answer came slowly and gently. "mr. frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell at a profit. my condemnation? my-de'-seh, there is no sa-a-ale for it! it spoils the sale of other goods my-de'-seh. it is not to condemn that you want; you want to suc-_ceed_. ha, ha, ha! you see i am a merchant, eh? my-de'-seh, can _you_ afford not to succeed?" the speaker had grown very much in earnest in the course of these few words, and as he asked the closing question, arose, arranged his horse's bridle and, with his elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head on his equally beautiful hand. his whole appearance was a dazzling contradiction of the notion that a creole is a person of mixed blood. "i think i can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising with more haste than was good, and staggering a moment. the horseman laughed outright. "your principle is the best, i cannot dispute that; but whether you can act it out--reformers do not make money, you know." he examined his saddle-girth and began to tighten it. "one can condemn--too cautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (i have that fault); but one can also condemn too rashly; i remember when i did so. one of the occupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--i think might have lived longer if i had not spoken so rashly for his rights. did you ever hear of bras-coupé, mr. frowenfeld?" "i have heard only the name." "ah! mr. frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrong and oppression! why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of my convictions." the speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness; he dropped it and smiled at himself. "do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned philadelphia '_negrophiles_'; i am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of his catholic majesty, a creole of the creoles, and so forth, and so forth. come!" he slapped the saddle. to have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward the city, the creole walking before the horse, and frowenfeld sitting in the saddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances. yet the immigrant was wondering who his companion might be. he had not introduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might know his name without asking. was it honoré grandissime? joseph was tempted to guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel of the fine old spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture. the stranger talked freely. the sun's rays seemed to set all the sweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed up and out like fermenting honey. by and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turned alternately to right and left among some wild acacias. the creole waved his hand toward one of them and said: "now, mr. frowenfeld, you see? one man walks where he sees another's track; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passing around this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands and pull it up by the roots." "but a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded," replied the convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at every step,--one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, the other in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people. they came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the creole, pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle. frowenfeld dismounted. "do we part here?" asked the creole. "well, mr. frowenfeld, i hope to meet you soon again." "indeed, i thank you, sir," said joseph, "and i hope we shall, although--" the creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and interrupted him with a playful gesture; then as the horse stirred, he mounted and drew in the rein. "i know; you want to say you cannot accept my philosophy and i cannot appreciate yours; but i appreciate it more than you think, my-de'-seh." the convalescent's smile showed much fatigue. the creole extended his hand; the immigrant seized it, wished to ask his name, but did not; and the next moment he was gone. the convalescent walked meditatively toward his quarters, with a faint feeling of having been found asleep on duty and awakened by a passing stranger. it was an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more than once shaking his head. he stopped, at length, and looked back; but the creole was long since out of sight. the mortified self-accuser little knew how very similar a feeling that vanished person was carrying away with him. he turned and resumed his walk, wondering who monsieur might be, and a little impatient with himself that he had not asked. "it is honoré grandissime; it must be he!" he said. yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind. chapter viii signed--honorÉ grandissime on the afternoon of the same day, having decided what he would "do," he started out in search of new quarters. he found nothing then, but next morning came upon a small, single-story building in the rue royale,--corner of conti,--which he thought would suit his plans. there were a door and show-window in the rue royale, two doors in the intersecting street, and a small apartment in the rear which would answer for sleeping, eating, and studying purposes, and which connected with the front apartment by a door in the left-hand corner. this connection he would partially conceal by a prescription-desk. a counter would run lengthwise toward the rue royale, along the wall opposite the side-doors. such was the spot that soon became known as "frowenfeld's corner." the notice "À louer" directed him to inquire at numero--rue condé. here he was ushered through the wicket of a _porte cochère_ into a broad, paved corridor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into the presence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the most remarkable figure he had yet seen in this little city of strange people. a strong, clear, olive complexion; features that were faultless (unless a woman-like delicacy, that was yet not effeminate, was a fault); hair _en queue_, the handsomer for its premature streakings of gray; a tall, well knit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather of the utmost fineness; manners castilian, with a gravity almost oriental,--made him one of those rare masculine figures which, on the public promenade, men look back at and ladies inquire about. now, who might _this_ be? the rent poster had given no name. even the incurious frowenfeld would fain guess a little. for a man to be just of this sort, it seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease upon the unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like receivables. such was the immigrant's first conjecture; and, as with slow, scant questions and answers they made their bargain, every new glance strengthened it; he was evidently a _rentier_. what, then, was his astonishment when monsieur bent down and made himself frowenfeld's landlord, by writing what the universal mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise and activity--the name of honoré grandissime. the landlord did not see, or ignored, his tenant's glance of surprise, and the tenant asked no questions. * * * * * we may add here an incident which seemed, when it took place, as unimportant as a single fact well could be. the little sum that frowenfeld had inherited from his father had been sadly depleted by the expenses of four funerals; yet he was still able to pay a month's rent in advance, to supply his shop with a scant stock of drugs, to purchase a celestial globe and some scientific apparatus, and to buy a dinner or two of sausages and crackers; but after this there was no necessity of hiding his purse. his landlord early contracted a fondness for dropping in upon him, and conversing with him, as best the few and labored english phrases at his command would allow. frowenfeld soon noticed that he never entered the shop unless its proprietor was alone, never sat down, and always, with the same perfection of dignity that characterized all his movements, departed immediately upon the arrival of any third person. one day, when the landlord was making one of these standing calls,--he always stood' beside a high glass case, on the side of the shop opposite the counter,--he noticed in joseph's hand a sprig of basil, and spoke of it. "you ligue?" the tenant did not understand. "you--find--dad--nize?" frowenfeld replied that it had been left by the oversight of a customer, and expressed a liking for its odor. "i sand you," said the landlord,--a speech whose meaning frowenfeld was not sure of until the next morning, when a small, nearly naked black boy, who could not speak a word of english, brought to the apothecary a luxuriant bunch of this basil, growing in a rough box. chapter ix illustrating the tractive power of basil on the twenty-fourth day of december, , at two o'clock, p.m., the thermometer standing at , hygrometer , barometer . , sky partly clouded, wind west, light, the apothecary of the rue royale, now something more than a month established in his calling, might have been seen standing behind his counter and beginning to show embarrassment in the presence of a lady, who, since she had got her prescription filled and had paid for it, ought in the conventional course of things to have hurried out, followed by the pathetically ugly black woman who tarried at the door as her attendant; for to be in an apothecary's shop at all was unconventional. she was heavily veiled; but the sparkle of her eyes, which no multiplication of veils could quite extinguish, her symmetrical and well-fitted figure, just escaping smallness, her grace of movement, and a soft, joyous voice, had several days before led frowenfeld to the confident conclusion that she was young and beautiful. for this was now the third time she had come to buy; and, though the purchases were unaccountably trivial, the purchaser seemed not so. on the two previous occasions she had been accompanied by a slender girl, somewhat taller than she, veiled also, of graver movement, a bearing that seemed to joseph almost too regal, and a discernible unwillingness to enter or tarry. there seemed a certain family resemblance between her voice and that of the other, which proclaimed them--he incautiously assumed--sisters. this time, as we see, the smaller, and probably elder, came alone. she still held in her hand the small silver which frowenfeld had given her in change, and sighed after the laugh they had just enjoyed together over a slip in her english. a very grateful sip of sweet the laugh was to the all but friendless apothecary, and the embarrassment that rushed in after it may have arisen in part from a conscious casting about in his mind for something--anything--that might prolong her stay an instant. he opened his lips to speak; but she was quicker than he, and said, in a stealthy way that seemed oddly unnecessary: "you 'ave some basilic?" she accompanied her words with a little peeping movement, directing his attention, through the open door, to his box of basil, on the floor in the rear room. frowenfeld stepped back to it, cut half the bunch and returned, with the bold intention of making her a present of it; but as he hastened back to the spot he had left, he was astonished to see the lady disappearing from his farthest front door, followed by her negress. "did she change her mind, or did she misunderstand me?" he asked himself; and, in the hope that she might return for the basil, he put it in water in his back room. the day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one, even for a louisiana december, and the finger of the clock drawing by and by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of frowenfeld's townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day. for it might have been anticipated that, in a city where so very little english was spoken and no newspaper published except that beneficiary of eighty subscribers, the "moniteur de la louisiane," the apothecary's shop in the rue royale would be the rendezvous for a select company of english-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of physicians. the cession had become an accomplished fact. with due drum-beatings and act-reading, flag-raising, cannonading and galloping of aides-de-camp, nouvelle orléans had become new orleans, and louisiane was louisiana. this afternoon, the first week of american jurisdiction was only something over half gone, and the main topic of public debate was still the cession. was it genuine? and, if so, would it stand? "mark my words," said one, "the british flag will be floating over this town within ninety days!" and he went on whittling the back of his chair. from this main question, the conversation branched out to the subject of land titles. would that great majority of spanish titles, derived from the concessions of post-commandants and others of minor authority, hold good? "i suppose you know what ---- thinks about it?" "no." "well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by carondelet to the marquis of ----, thirty thousand acres, and now says the grant is two hundred _and_ thirty thousand. that is one style of men governor claiborne is going to have on his hands. the town will presently be as full of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs,--every one of them with a spanish grant as long as clark's ropewalk and made up since the rumor of the cession." "i hear that some of honoré grandissime's titles are likely to turn out bad,--some of the old brahmin properties and some of the mandarin lands." "fudge!" said dr. keene. there was also the subject of rotation in office. would this provisional governor-general himself be able to stand fast? had not a man better temporize a while, and see what ex-governor-general casa calvo and trudeau were going to do? would not men who sacrificed old prejudices, braved the popular contumely, and came forward and gave in their allegiance to the president's appointee, have to take the chances of losing their official positions at last? men like camille brahmin, for instance, or charlie mandarin: suppose spain or france should get the province back, then where would they be? "one of the things i pity most in this vain world," drawled doctor keene, "is a hive of patriots who don't know where to swarm." the apothecary was drawn into the discussion--at least he thought he was. inexperience is apt to think that truth will be knocked down and murdered unless she comes to the rescue. somehow, frowenfeld's really excellent arguments seemed to give out more heat than light. they were merciless; their principles were not only lofty to dizziness, but precipitous, and their heights unoccupied, and--to the common sight--unattainable. in consequence, they provoked hostility and even resentment. with the kindest, the most honest, and even the most modest, intentions, he found himself--to his bewilderment and surprise--sniffed at by the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and smiled down by the good-natured in a manner that brought sudden blushes of exasperation to his face, and often made him ashamed to find himself going over these sham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when alone with his books; or, in moments of weakness, casting about for such unworthy weapons as irony and satire. in the present debate, he had just provoked a sneer that made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when doctor keene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, exclaimed: "oh! agricole! agricole! _venez ici_; we want you." a murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three. "he's coming," said the whittler, who had also beckoned. "good evening, citizen fusilier," said doctor keene. "citizen fusilier, allow me to present my friend, professor frowenfeld--yes, you are a professor--yes, you are. he is one of your sort, citizen fusilier, a man of thorough scientific education. i believe on my soul, sir, he knows nearly as much as you do!" the person who confronted the apothecary was a large, heavily built, but well-molded and vigorous man, of whom one might say that he was adorned with old age. his brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time and partly by a persistent, ostentatious frown. his eyes were large, black and bold, and the gray locks above them curled short and harsh like the front of a bull. his nose was fine and strong, and if there was any deficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard that swept down over his broad breast like the beard of a prophet. in his dress, which was noticeably soiled, the fashions of three decades were hinted at; he seemed to have donned whatever he thought his friends would most have liked him to leave off. "professor," said the old man, extending something like the paw of a lion, and giving frowenfeld plenty of time to become thoroughly awed, "this is a pleasure as magnificent as unexpected! a scientific man?--in louisiana?" he looked around upon the doctors as upon a graduating class. "professor, i am rejoiced!" he paused again, shaking the apothecary's hand with great ceremony. "i do assure you, sir, i dislike to relinquish your grasp. do me the honor to allow me to become your friend! i congratulate my downtrodden country on the acquisition of such a citizen! i hope, sir,--at least i might have hoped, had not louisiana just passed into the hands of the most clap-trap government in the universe, notwithstanding it pretends to be a republic,--i might have hoped that you had come among us to fasten the lie direct upon a late author, who writes of us that 'the air of this region is deadly to the muses.'" "he didn't say that?" asked one of the debaters, with pretended indignation. "he did, sir, after eating our bread!" "and sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt!" said the wag; but the old man took no notice. frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and was greatly relieved to be touched on the elbow by a child with a picayune in one hand and a tumbler in the other. he escaped behind the counter and gladly remained there. "citizen fusilier," asked one of the gossips, "what has the new government to do with the health of the muses?" "it introduces the english tongue," said the old man, scowling. "oh, well," replied the questioner, "the creoles will soon learn the language." "english is not a language, sir; it is a jargon! and when this young simpleton, claiborne, attempts to cram it down the public windpipe in the courts, as i understand he intends, he will fail! hah! sir, i know men in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak english! i speak it, but i also speak choctaw." "the new land titles will be in english." "they will spurn his rotten titles. and if he attempts to invalidate their old ones, why, let him do it! napoleon buonaparte" (italian pronounciation) "will make good every arpent within the next two years. _think so?_ i know it! _how?_ h-i perceive it! h-i hope the yellow fever may spare you to witness it." a sullen grunt from the circle showed the "citizen" that he had presumed too much upon the license commonly accorded his advanced age, and by way of a diversion he looked around for frowenfeld to pour new flatteries upon. but joseph, behind his counter, unaware of either the offense or the resentment, was blushing with pleasure before a visitor who had entered by the side door farthest from the company. "gentlemen," said agricola, "h-my dear friends, you must not expect an old creole to like anything in comparison with _la belle langue_." "which language do you call _la belle?_" asked doctor keene, with pretended simplicity. the old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable contempt, which nobody noticed. the gossips were one by one stealing a glance toward that which ever was, is and must be an irresistible lodestone to the eyes of all the sons of adam, to wit, a chaste and graceful complement of--skirts. then in a lower tone they resumed their desultory conversation. it was the seeker after basil who stood before the counter, holding in her hand, with her purse, the heavy veil whose folds had before concealed her features. chapter x "oo dad is, 'sieur frowenfel'?" whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as little as did agricola's continued harangue. as he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like distress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurried undertone. "'sieur frowenfel', i want you to sell me doze _basilic_." as she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers trembled. "it is waiting for you," said frowenfeld; but the lady did not hear him; she was giving her attention to the loud voice of agricola saying in the course of discussion: "the louisiana creole is the noblest variety of enlightened man!" "oo dad is, 'sieur frowenfel'?" she asked, softly, but with an excited eye. "that is mr. agricola fusilier," answered joseph in the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. with an angry flush she looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker. he hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning. "wrap it yonder," she almost whispered. he went, and in a moment returned, with the basil only partially hid in a paper covering. but the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil, had once more lost her eagerness for it; at least, instead of taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine figure just entering. she did not look to see who it might be--plenty of time to do that by accident, by and by. there she made a mistake; for the new-comer, with a silent bow of thanks, declined the place made for him, moved across the shop, and occupied his eyes with the contents of the glass case, his back being turned to the lady and frowenfeld. the apothecary recognized the creole whom he had met under the live-oak. the lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the package. as she took it and turned to depart, another small hand was laid upon it and it was returned to the counter. something was said in a low-pitched undertone, and the two sisters--if frowenfeld's guess was right--confronted each other. for a single instant only they stood so; an earnest and hurried murmur of french words passed between them, and they turned together, bowed with great suavity, and were gone. "the cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!" growled m. fusilier. frowenfeld's merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary. "good-day, mr. frowenfeld; i have been told that--" joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. so did the black attendant who glanced furtively back. "good-day, mr. frowenfeld; i--" "oh! how do you do, sir?" exclaimed the apothecary, with great pleasantness, of face. it seemed the most natural thing that they should resume their late conversation just where they had left off, and that would certainly be pleasant. but the man of more experience showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversation of any note. "i have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in this thing out of your private stock." he presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing some optical instrument. "it will give me a pretext for going," he had said to himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room. he was not going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him. "i do not know," replied frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of the case; "i will see what i have." he passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sight till he might better collect himself. "i do not keep these things for sale," said he as he went. "sir?" asked the creole, as if he had not understood, and followed through the open door. "is this what that lady was getting?" he asked, touching the remnant of the basil in the box. "yes, sir," said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table. "they had no carriage with them." the creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books. frowenfeld made only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others. "i do not know who they are," ventured the merchant. joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with the instrument in his extended hand. "you had it? i am glad," said the owner, receiving it, but keeping one hand still on the books. frowenfeld put up his materials. "mr. frowenfeld, are these your books? i mean do you use these books?" "yes, sir." the creole stepped back to the door. "agricola!" "_quoi_!" "_vien ici_." citizen fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did. the stranger said something very sprightly in french, running the back of one finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed. "you must be a great scholar," said the unknown by and by, addressing the apothecary. "he is a professor of chimistry," said the old man. "i am nothing, as yet, but a student," said joseph, as the three returned into the shop; "certainly not a scholar, and still less a professor." he spoke with a new quietness of manner that made the younger creole turn upon him a pleasant look. "h-my young friend," said the patriarch, turning toward joseph with a tremendous frown, "when i, agricola fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a professor. louisiana will not look to _you_ for your credentials; she will look to me!" he stumbled upon some slight impediment under foot. there were times when it took but little to make agricola stumble. looking to see what it was, joseph picked up a silken purse. there was a name embroidered on it. chapter xi sudden flashes of light the day was nearly gone. the company that had been chatting at the front door, and which in warmer weather would have tarried until bedtime, had wandered off; however, by stepping toward the light the young merchant could decipher the letters on the purse. citizen fusilier drew out a pair of spectacles, looked over his junior's shoulder, read aloud, "_aurore de g. nanca_--," and uttered an imprecation. "do not speak to me!" he thundered; "do not approach me! she did it maliciously!" "sir!" began frowenfeld. but the old man uttered another tremendous malediction and hurried into the street and away. "let him pass," said the other creole calmly. "what is the matter with him?" asked frowenfeld. "he is getting old." the creole extended the purse carelessly to the apothecary. "has it anything inside?" "but a single pistareen." "that is why she wanted the _basilic_, eh?" "i do not understand you, sir." "do you not know what she was going to do with it?" "with the basil? no sir." "may be she was going to make a little tisane, eh?" said the creole, forcing down a smile. but a portion of the smile would come when frowenfeld answered, with unnecessary resentment: "she was going to make some proper use of it, which need not concern me." "without doubt." the creole quietly walked a step or two forward and back and looked idly into the glass case. "is this young man in love with her?" he asked himself. he turned around. "do you know those ladies, mr. frowenfeld? do you visit them at home?" he drew out his porte-monnaie. "no, sir." "i will pay you for the repair of this instrument; have you change for--" "i will see," said the apothecary. as he spoke he laid the purse on a stool, till he should light his shop, and then went to his till without again taking it. the creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped the herb which still lay there. "mr. frowenfeld, you know what some very excellent people do with this? they rub it on the sill of the door to make the money come into the house." joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn. "not persons of intelligence and--" "all kinds. it is only some of the foolishness which they take from the slaves. many of your best people consult the voudou horses." "horses?" "priestesses, you might call them," explained the creole, "like momselle marcelline or 'zabeth philosophe." "witches!" whispered frowenfeld. "oh no," said the other with a shrug; "that is too hard a name; say fortune-tellers. but mr. frowenfeld, i wish you to lend me your good offices. just supposing the possi_bil_ity that that lady may be in need of money, you know, and will send back or come back for the purse, you know, knowing that she most likely lost it here, i ask you the favor that you will not let her know i have filled it with gold. in fact, if she mentions my name--" "to confess the truth, sir, i am not acquainted with your name." the creole smiled a genuine surprise. "i thought you knew it." he laughed a little at himself. "we have nevertheless become very good friends--i believe? well, in fact then, mr. frowenfeld, you might say you do not know who put the money in." he extended his open palm with the purse hanging across it. joseph was about to object to this statement, but the creole, putting on an expression of anxious desire, said: "i mean, not by name. it is somewhat important to me, mr. frowenfeld, that that lady should not know my present action. if you want to do those two ladies a favor, you may rest assured the way to do it is to say you do not know who put this gold." the creole in his earnestness slipped in his idiom. "you will excuse me if i do not tell you my name; you can find it out at any time from agricola. ah! i am glad she did not see me! you must not tell anybody about this little event, eh?" "no, sir," said joseph, as he finally accepted the purse. "i shall say nothing to any one else, and only what i cannot avoid saying to the lady and her sister." "_'tis not her sister_" responded the creole, "_'tis her daughter_." the italics signify, not how the words were said, but how they sounded to joseph. as if a dark lantern were suddenly turned full upon it, he saw the significance of citizen fusilier's transport. the fair strangers were the widow and daughter of the man whom agricola had killed in duel--the ladies with whom doctor keene had desired to make him acquainted. "well, good evening, mr. frowenfeld." the creole extended his hand (his people are great hand-shakers). "ah--" and then, for the first time, he came to the true object of his visit. "the conversation we had some weeks ago, mr. frowenfeld, has started a train of thought in my mind"--he began to smile as if to convey the idea that joseph would find the subject a trivial one--"which has almost brought me to the--" a light footfall accompanied with the soft sweep of robes cut short his words. there had been two or three entrances and exits during the time the creole had tarried, but he had not allowed them to disturb him. now, however, he had no sooner turned and fixed his glance upon this last comer, than without so much as the invariable creole leave-taking of "well, good evening, sir," he hurried out. chapter xii the philosophe the apothecary felt an inward nervous start as there advanced into the light of his hanging lamp and toward the spot where he had halted, just outside the counter, a woman of the quadroon caste, of superb stature and poise, severely handsome features, clear, tawny skin and large, passionate black eyes. "_bon soi', miché_." [monsieur.] a rather hard, yet not repellent smile showed her faultless teeth. frowenfeld bowed. "_mo vien c'erc'er la bourse de madame_." she spoke the best french at her command, but it was not understood. the apothecary could only shake his head. "_la bourse_" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. "_la bourse_" she reiterated. "purse?" "_oui, miché_." "you are sent for it?" "_oui, miché_." he drew it from his breast pocket and marked the sudden glisten of her eyes, reflecting the glisten of the gold in the silken mesh. "_oui, c'est ça_," said she, putting her hand out eagerly. "i am afraid to give you this to-night," said joseph. "_oui_," ventured she, dubiously, the lightning playing deep back in her eyes. "you might be robbed," said frowenfeld. "it is very dangerous for you to be out alone. it will not be long, now, until gun-fire." (eight o'clock p.m.--the gun to warn slaves to be in-doors, under pain of arrest and imprisonment.) the object of this solicitude shook her head with a smile at its gratuitousness. the smile showed determination also. "_mo pas compren_'," she said. "tell the lady to send for it to-morrow." she smiled helplessly and somewhat vexedly, shrugged and again shook her head. as she did so she heard footsteps and voices in the door at her back. "_c'est ça_" she said again with a hurried attempt at extreme amiability; "dat it; _oui_;" and lifting her hand with some rapidity made a sudden eager reach for the purse, but failed. "no!" said frowenfeld, indignantly. "hello!" said charlie keene amusedly, as he approached from the door. the woman turned, and in one or two rapid sentences in the creole dialect offered her explanation. "give her the purse, joe; i will answer for its being all right." frowenfeld handed it to her. she started to pass through the door in the rue royale by which doctor keene had entered; but on seeing on its threshold agricola frowning upon her, she turned quickly with evident trepidation, and hurried out into the darkness of the other street. agricola entered. doctor keene looked about the shop. "i tell you, agricole, you didn't have it with you; frowenfeld, you haven't seen a big knotted walking-stick?" frowenfeld was sure no walking-stick had been left there. "oh, yes, frowenfeld," said doctor keene, with a little laugh, as the three sat down, "i'd a'most as soon trust that woman as if she was white." the apothecary said nothing. "how free," said agricola, beginning with a meditative gaze at the sky without, and ending with a philosopher's smile upon his two companions,--"how free we people are from prejudice against the negro!" "the white people," said frowenfeld, half abstractedly, half inquiringly. "h-my young friend, when we say, 'we people,' we _always_ mean we white people. the non-mention of color always implies pure white; and whatever is not pure white is to all intents and purposes pure black. when i say the 'whole community,' i mean the whole white portion; when i speak of the 'undivided public sentiment,' i mean the sentiment of the white population. what else could i mean? could you suppose, sir, the expression which you may have heard me use--'my downtrodden country'--includes blacks and mulattoes? what is that up yonder in the sky? the moon. the new moon, or the old moon, or the moon in her third quarter, but always the moon! which part of it? why, the shining part--the white part, always and only! not that there is a prejudice against the negro. by no means. wherever he can be of any service in a strictly menial capacity we kindly and generously tolerate his presence." was the immigrant growing wise, or weak, that he remained silent? agricola rose as he concluded and said he would go home. doctor keene gave him his hand lazily, without rising. "frowenfeld," he said, with a smile and in an undertone, as agricola's footsteps died away, "don't you know who that woman is?" "no." "well, i'll tell you." he told him. * * * * * on that lonely plantation at the cannes brulées, where aurore nancanou's childhood had been passed without brothers or sisters, there had been given her, according to the well-known custom of plantation life, a little quadroon slave-maid as her constant and only playmate. this maid began early to show herself in many ways remarkable. while yet a child she grew tall, lithe, agile; her eyes were large and black, and rolled and sparkled if she but turned to answer to her name. her pale yellow forehead, low and shapely, with the jet hair above it, the heavily pencilled eyebrows and long lashes below, the faint red tinge that blushed with a kind of cold passion through the clear yellow skin of the cheek, the fulness of the red, voluptuous lips and the roundness of her perfect neck, gave her, even at fourteen, a barbaric and magnetic beauty, that startled the beholder like an unexpected drawing out of a jewelled sword. such a type could have sprung only from high latin ancestry on the one side and--we might venture--jaloff african on the other. to these charms of person she added mental acuteness, conversational adroitness, concealed cunning, and noiseless but visible strength of will; and to these, that rarest of gifts in one of her tincture, the purity of true womanhood. at fourteen a necessity which had been parleyed with for two years or more became imperative, and aurore's maid was taken from her. explanation is almost superfluous. aurore was to become a lady and her playmate a lady's maid; but not _her_ maid, because the maid had become, of the two, the ruling spirit. it was a question of grave debate in the mind of m. de grapion what disposition to make of her. about this time the grandissimes and de grapions, through certain efforts of honoré's father (since dead) were making some feeble pretences of mutual good feeling, and one of those kentuckian dealers in corn and tobacco whose flatboat fleets were always drifting down the mississippi, becoming one day m. de grapion's transient guest, accidentally mentioned a wish of agricola fusilier. agricola, it appeared, had commissioned him to buy the most beautiful lady's maid that in his extended journeyings he might be able to find; he wanted to make her a gift to his niece, honoré's sister. the kentuckian saw the demand met in aurore's playmate. m. de grapion would not sell her. (trade with a grandissime? let them suspect he needed money?) no; but he would ask agricola to accept the services of the waiting-maid for, say, ten years. the kentuckian accepted the proposition on the spot and it was by and by carried out. she was never recalled to the cannes brulées, but in subsequent years received her freedom from her master, and in new orleans became palmyre la philosophe, as they say in the corrupt french of the old creoles, or palmyre philosophe, noted for her taste and skill as a hair-dresser, for the efficiency of her spells and the sagacity of her divinations, but most of all for the chaste austerity with which she practised the less baleful rites of the voudous. "that's the woman," said doctor keene, rising to go, as he concluded the narrative,--"that's she, palmyre philosophe. now you get a view of the vastness of agricole's generosity; he tolerates her even though she does not present herself in the 'strictly menial capacity.' reason why--_he's afraid of her_." time passed, if that may be called time which we have to measure with a clock. the apothecary of the rue royale found better ways of measurement. as quietly as a spider he was spinning information into knowledge and knowledge into what is supposed to be wisdom; whether it was or not we shall see. his unidentified merchant friend who had adjured him to become acclimated as "they all did" had also exhorted him to study the human mass of which he had become a unit; but whether that study, if pursued, was sweetening and ripening, or whether it was corrupting him, that friend did not come to see; it was the busy time of year. certainly so young a solitary, coming among a people whose conventionalities were so at variance with his own door-yard ethics, was in sad danger of being unduly--as we might say--timonized. his acquaintances continued to be few in number. during this fermenting period he chronicled much wet and some cold weather. this may in part account for the uneventfulness of its passage; events do not happen rapidly among the creoles in bad weather. however, trade was good. but the weather cleared; and when it was getting well on into the creole spring and approaching the spring of the almanacs, something did occur that extended frowenfeld's acquaintance without doctor keene's assistance. chapter xiii a call from the rent-spectre it is nearly noon of a balmy morning late in february. aurore nancanou and her daughter have only this moment ceased sewing, in the small front room of no. rue bienville. number is the right-hand half of a single-story, low-roofed tenement, washed with yellow ochre, which it shares generously with whoever leans against it. it sits as fast on the ground as a toad. there is a kitchen belonging to it somewhere among the weeds in the back yard, and besides this room where the ladies are, there is, directly behind it, a sleeping apartment. somewhere back of this there is a little nook where in pleasant weather they eat. their cook and housemaid is the plain person who attends them on the street. her bedchamber is the kitchen and her bed the floor. the house's only other protector is a hound, the aim of whose life is to get thrust out of the ladies' apartments every fifteen minutes. yet if you hastily picture to yourself a forlorn-looking establishment, you will be moving straight away from the fact. neatness, order, excellence, are prevalent qualities in all the details of the main house's inward garniture. the furniture is old-fashioned, rich, french, imported. the carpets, if not new, are not cheap, either. bits of crystal and silver, visible here and there, are as bright as they are antiquated; and one or two portraits, and the picture of our lady of many sorrows, are passably good productions. the brass work, of which there is much, is brilliantly burnished, and the front room is bright and cheery. at the street door of this room somebody has just knocked. aurore has risen from her seat. the other still sits on a low chair with her hands and sewing dropped into her lap, looking up steadfastly into her mother's face with a mingled expression of fondness and dismayed expectation. aurore hesitates beside her chair, desirous of resuming her seat, even lifts her sewing from it; but tarries a moment, her alert suspense showing in her eyes. her daughter still looks up into them. it is not strange that the dwellers round about dispute as to which is the fairer, nor that in the six months during which the two have occupied number the neighbors have reached no conclusion on this subject. if some young enthusiast compares the daughter--in her eighteenth year--to a bursting blush rosebud full of promise, some older one immediately retorts that the other--in her thirty-fifth--is the red, red, full-blown, faultless joy of the garden. if one says the maiden has the dew of youth,--"but!" cry two or three mothers in a breath, "that other one, child, will never grow old. with her it will always be morning. that woman is going to last forever; ha-a-a-a!--even longer!" there was one direction in which the widow evidently had the advantage; you could see from the street or the opposite windows that she was a wise householder. on the day they moved into number she had been seen to enter in advance of all her other movables, carrying into the empty house a new broom, a looking-glass, and a silver coin. every morning since, a little watching would have discovered her at the hour of sunrise sprinkling water from her side casement, and her opposite neighbors often had occasion to notice that, sitting at her sewing by the front window, she never pricked her finger but she quickly ran it up behind her ear, and then went on with her work. would anybody but joseph frowenfeld ever have lived in and moved away from the two-story brick next them on the right and not have known of the existence of such a marvel? "ha!" they said, "she knows how to keep off bad luck, that madame yonder. and the younger one seems not to like it. girls think themselves so smart these days." ah, there was the knock again, right there on the street-door, as loud as if it had been given with a joint of sugar-cane! the daughter's hand, which had just resumed the needle, stood still in mid-course with the white thread half-drawn. aurore tiptoed slowly over the carpeted floor. there came a shuffling sound, and the corner of a folded white paper commenced appearing and disappearing under the door. she mounted a chair and peeped through that odd little _jalousie_ which formerly was in almost all new orleans street-doors; but the missive had meantime found its way across the sill, and she saw only the unpicturesque back of a departing errand-boy. but that was well. she had a pride, to maintain which--and a poverty, to conceal which--she felt to be necessary to her self-respect; and this made her of necessity a trifle unsocial in her own castle. do you suppose she was going to put on the face of having been born or married to this degraded condition of things? who knows?--the knock might have been from 'sieur frowenfel'--ha, ha! he might be just silly enough to call so early; or it might have been from that _polisson_ of a grandissime,--which one didn't matter, they were all detestable,--coming to collect the rent. that was her original fear; or, worse still, it might have been, had it been softer, the knock of some possible lady visitor. she had no intention of admitting any feminine eyes to detect this carefully covered up indigence. besides, it was monday. there is no sense in trifling with bad luck. the reception of monday callers is a source of misfortune never known to fail, save in rare cases when good luck has already been secured by smearing the front walk or the banquette with venetian red. before the daughter could dart up and disengage herself from her work her mother had pounced upon the paper. she was standing and reading, her rich black lashes curtaining their downcast eyes, her infant waist and round, close-fitted, childish arms harmonizing prettily with her mock frown of infantile perplexity, and her long, limp robe heightening the grace of her posture, when the younger started from her seat with the air of determining not to be left at a disadvantage. but what is that on the dark eyelash? with a sudden additional energy the daughter dashes the sewing and chair to right and left, bounds up, and in a moment has aurore weeping in her embrace and has snatched the note from her hand. "_ah! maman! ah! ma chère mère_!" the mother forced a laugh. she was not to be mothered by her daughter; so she made a dash at clotilde's uplifted hand to recover the note, which was unavailing. immediately there arose in colonial french the loveliest of contentions, the issue of which was that the pair sat down side by side, like two sisters over one love-letter, and undertook to decipher the paper. it read as follows: "new orleans, feb're, . "madame nancanou: i muss oblige to ass you for rent of that house whare you living, it is at number bienville street whare i do not received thos rent from you not since tree mons and i demand you this is mabe thirteen time. and i give to you notice of das writen in anglish as the new law requi. that witch the law make necessare only for das, and when you not pay me those rent in das till the tense of marh i will rekes you to move out. that witch make me to be verry sorry. i have the honor to remain, madam, "your humble servant, "h. grandissime. "_per_ z.f." there was a short french postscript on the opposite page signed only by m. zénon françois, explaining that he, who had allowed them in the past to address him as their landlord and by his name, was but the landlord's agent; that the landlord was a far better-dressed man than he could afford to be; that the writing opposite was a notice for them to quit the premises they had rented (not leased), or pay up; that it gave the writer great pain to send it, although it was but the necessary legal form and he only an irresponsible drawer of an inadequate salary, with thirteen children to support; and that he implored them to tear off and burn up this postscript immediately they had read it. "ah, the miserable!" was all the comment made upon it as the two ladies addressed their energies to the previous english. they had never suspected him of being m. grandissime. their eyes dragged slowly and ineffectually along the lines to the signature. "h. grandissime! loog ad 'im!" cried the widow, with a sudden short laugh, that brought the tears after it like a wind-gust in a rose-tree. she held the letter out before them as if she was lifting something alive by the back of the neck, and to intensify her scorn spoke in the hated tongue prescribed by the new courts. "loog ad 'im! dad ridge gen'leman oo give so mudge money to de 'ozpill!" "bud, _maman_," said the daughter, laying her hand appeasingly upon her mother's knee, "_ee_ do nod know 'ow we is poor." "ah!" retorted aurore, "_par example! non?_ ee thingue we is ridge, eh? ligue his oncle, eh? ee thing so, too, eh?" she cast upon her daughter the look of burning scorn intended for agricola fusilier. "you wan' to tague the pard of dose grandissime'?" the daughter returned a look of agony. "no," she said, "bud a man wad godd some 'ouses to rend, muz ee nod boun' to ged 'is rend?" "boun' to ged--ah! yez ee muz do 'is possible to ged 'is rend. oh! certain_lee_. ee is ridge, bud ee need a lill money, bad, bad. fo' w'at?" the excited speaker rose to her feet under a sudden inspiration. "_tenez, mademoiselle!_" she began to make great show of unfastening her dress. "_mais, comment?_" demanded the suffering daughter. "yez!" continued aurore, keeping up the demonstration, "you wand 'im to 'ave 'is rend so bad! an' i godd honely my cloze; so you juz tague diz to you' fine gen'lemen, 'sieur honoré grandissime." "ah-h-h-h!" cried the martyr. "an' you is righd," persisted the tormentor, still unfastening; but the daughter's tears gushed forth, and the repentant tease threw herself upon her knees, drew her child's head into her bosom and wept afresh. half an hour was passed in council; at the end of which they stood beneath their lofty mantelshelf, each with a foot on a brazen fire-dog, and no conclusion reached. "ah, my child!"--they had come to themselves now and were speaking in their peculiar french--"if we had here in these hands but the tenth part of what your papa often played away in one night without once getting angry! but we have not. ah! but your father was a fine fellow; if he could have lived for you to know him! so accomplished! ha, ha, ha! i can never avoid laughing, when i remember him teaching me to speak english; i used to enrage him so!" the daughter brought the conversation back to the subject of discussion. there were nineteen days yet allowed them. god knows--by the expiration of that time they might be able to pay. with the two music scholars whom she then had and three more whom she had some hope to get, she made bold to say they could pay the rent. "ah, clotilde, my child," exclaimed aurore, with sudden brightness, "you don't need a mask and costume to resemble your great-grandmother, the casket-girl!" aurore felt sure, on her part, that with the one embroidery scholar then under her tutelage, and the three others who had declined to take lessons, they could easily pay the rent--and how kind it was of monsieur, the aged father of that one embroidery scholar, to procure those invitations to the ball! the dear old man! he said he must see one more ball before he should die. aurore looked so pretty in the reverie into which she fell that her daughter was content to admire her silently. "clotilde," said the mother, presently looking up, "do you remember the evening you treated me so ill?" the daughter smiled at the preposterous charge. "i did not treat you ill." "yes, don't you know--the evening you made me lose my purse?" "certainly, i know!" the daughter took her foot from the andiron; her eyes lighted up aggressively. "for losing your purse blame yourself. for the way you found it again--which was far worse--thank palmyre. if you had not asked her to find it and shared the gold with her we could have returned with it to 'sieur frowenfel'; but now we are ashamed to let him see us. i do not doubt he filled the purse." "he? he never knew it was empty. it was nobody who filled it. palmyre says that papa lébat--" "ha!" exclaimed clotilde at this superstitious mention. the mother tossed her head and turned her back, swallowing the unendurable bitterness of being rebuked by her daughter. but the cloud hung over but a moment. "clotilde," she said, a minute after, turning with a look of sun-bright resolve, "i am going to see him." "to see whom?" asked the other, looking back from the window, whither she had gone to recover from a reactionary trembling. "to whom, my child? why--" "you do not expect mercy from honoré grandissime? you would not ask it?" "no. there is no mercy in the grandissime blood; but cannot i demand justice? ha! it is justice that i shall demand!" "and you will really go and see him?" "you will see, mademoiselle," replied aurore, dropping a broom with which she had begun to sweep up some spilled buttons. "and i with you?" "no! to a counting-room? to the presence of the chief of that detestable race? no!" "but you don't know where his office is." "anybody can tell me." preparation began at once. by and by-- "clotilde." clotilde was stooping behind her mother, with a ribbon between her lips, arranging a flounce. "m-m-m." "you must not watch me go out of sight; do you hear? ... but it _is_ dangerous. i knew of a gentleman who watched his wife go out of his sight and she never came back!" "hold still!" said clotilde. "but when my hand itches," retorted aurore in a high key, "haven't i got to put it instantly into my pocket if i want the money to come there? well, then!" the daughter proposed to go to the kitchen and tell alphonsina to put on her shoes. "my child," cried aurore, "you are crazy! do you want alphonsina to be seized for the rent?" "but you cannot go alone--and on foot!" "i must go alone; and--can you lend me your carriage? ah, you have none? certainly i must go alone and on foot if i am to say i cannot pay the rent. it is no indiscretion of mine. if anything happens to me it is m. grandissime who is responsible." now she is ready for the adventurous errand. she darts to the mirror. the high-water marks are gone from her eyes. she wheels half around and looks over her shoulder. the flaring bonnet and loose ribbons gave her a more girlish look than ever. "now which is the older, little old woman?" she chirrups, and smites her daughter's cheek softly with her palm. "and you are not afraid to go alone?" "no; but remember! look at that dog!" the brute sinks apologetically to the floor. clotilde opens the street door, hands aurore the note, aurore lays a frantic kiss upon her lips, pressing it on tight so as to get it again when she comes back, and--while clotilde calls the cook to gather up the buttons and take away the broom, and while the cook, to make one trip of it, gathers the hound into her bosom and carries broom and dog out together--aurore sallies forth, leaving clotilde to resume her sewing and await the coming of a guitar scholar. "it will keep her fully an hour," thought the girl, far from imagining that aurore had set about a little private business which she proposed to herself to accomplish before she even started in the direction of m. grandissime's counting-rooms. chapter xiv before sunset in old times, most of the sidewalks of new orleans not in the heart of town were only a rough, rank turf, lined on the side next the ditch with the gunwales of broken-up flatboats--ugly, narrow, slippery objects. as aurora--it sounds so much pleasanter to anglicize her name--as aurora gained a corner where two of these gunwales met, she stopped and looked back to make sure that clotilde was not watching her. that others had noticed her here and there she did not care; that was something beauty would have to endure, and it only made her smile to herself. "everybody sees i am from the country--walking on the street without a waiting-maid." a boy passed, hushing his whistle, and gazing at the lone lady until his turning neck could twist no farther. she was so dewy fresh! after he had got across the street he turned to look again. where could she have disappeared? the only object to be seen on the corner from which she had vanished was a small, yellow-washed house much like the one aurora occupied, as it was like hundreds that then characterized and still characterize the town, only that now they are of brick instead of adobe. they showed in those days, even more than now, the wide contrast between their homely exteriors and the often elegant apartments within. however, in this house the front room was merely neat. the furniture was of rude, heavy pattern, creole-made, and the walls were unadorned; the day of cheap pictures had not come. the lofty bedstead which filled one corner was spread and hung with a blue stuff showing through a web of white needlework. the brazen feet of the chairs were brightly burnished, as were the brass mountings of the bedstead and the brass globes on the cold andirons. curtains of blue and white hung at the single window. the floor, from habitual scrubbing with the common weed which politeness has to call _helenium autumnale_, was stained a bright, clean yellow. on it were, here and there in places, white mats woven of bleached palmetto-leaf. such were the room's appointments; there was but one thing more, a singular bit of fantastic carving,--a small table of dark mahogany supported on the upward-writhing images of three scaly serpents. aurora sat down beside this table. a dwarf congo woman, as black as soot, had ushered her in, and, having barred the door, had disappeared, and now the mistress of the house entered. february though it was, she was dressed--and looked comfortable--in white. that barbaric beauty which had begun to bud twenty years before was now in perfect bloom. the united grace and pride of her movement was inspiring but--what shall we say?--feline? it was a femininity without humanity,--something that made her, with all her superbness, a creature that one would want to find chained. it was the woman who had received the gold from frowenfeld--palmyre philosophe. the moment her eyes fell upon aurora her whole appearance changed. a girlish smile lighted up her face, and as aurora rose up reflecting it back, they simultaneously clapped hands, laughed and advanced joyously toward each other, talking rapidly without regard to each other's words. "sit down," said palmyre, in the plantation french of their childhood, as they shook hands. they took chairs and drew up face to face as close as they could come, then sighed and smiled a moment, and then looked grave and were silent. for in the nature of things, and notwithstanding the amusing familiarity common between creole ladies and the menial class, the unprotected little widow should have had a very serious errand to bring her to the voudou's house. "palmyre," began the lady, in a sad tone. "momselle aurore." "i want you to help me." the former mistress not only cast her hands into her lap, lifted her eyes supplicatingly and dropped them again, but actually locked her fingers to keep them from trembling. "momselle aurore--" began palmyre, solemnly. "now, i know what you are going to say--but it is of no use to say it; do this much for me this one time and then i will let voudou alone as much as you wish--forever!" "you have not lost your purse _again?_" "ah! foolishness, no." both laughed a little, the philosophe feebly, and aurora with an excited tremor. "well?" demanded the quadroon, looking grave again. aurora did not answer. "do you wish me to work a spell for you?" the widow nodded, with her eyes cast down. both sat quite still for some time; then the philosophe gently drew the landlord's letter from between aurora's hands. "what is this?" she could not read in any language. "i must pay my rent within nineteen days." "have you not paid it?" the delinquent shook her head. "where is the gold that came into your purse? all gone?" "for rice and potatoes," said aurora, and for the first time she uttered a genuine laugh, under that condition of mind which latins usually substitute for fortitude. palmyre laughed too, very properly. another silence followed. the lady could not return the quadroon's searching gaze. "momselle aurore," suddenly said palmyre, "you want me to work a spell for something else." aurora started, looked up for an instant in a frightened way, and then dropped her eyes and let her head droop, murmuring: "no, i do not." palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress. she saw that though aurora might be distressed about the rent, there was something else,--a deeper feeling,--impelling her upon a course the very thought of which drove the color from her lips and made her tremble. "you are wearing red," said the philosophe. aurora's hand went nervously to the red ribbon about her neck. "it is an accident; i had nothing else convenient." "miché agoussou loves red," persisted palmyre. (monsieur agoussou is the demon upon whom the voudous call in matters of love.) the color that came into aurora's cheek ought to have suited monsieur precisely. "it is an accident," she feebly insisted. "well," presently said palmyre, with a pretence of abandoning her impression, "then you want me to work you a spell for money, do you?" aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon's glance. "i know better," thought the philosophe. "you shall have the sort you want." the widow stole an upward glance. "oh!" said palmyre, with the manner of one making a decided digression, "i have been wanting to ask you something. that evening at the pharmacy--was there a tall, handsome gentleman standing by the counter?" "he was standing on the other side." "did you see his face?" "no; his back was turned." "momselle aurore," said palmyre, dropping her elbows upon her knees and taking the lady's hand as if the better to secure the truth, "was that the gentleman you met at the ball?" "my faith!" said aurora, stretching her eyebrows upward. "i did not think to look. who was it?" but palmyre philosophe was not going to give more than she got, even to her old-time momselle; she merely straightened back into her chair with an amiable face. "who do you think he is?" persisted aurora, after a pause, smiling downward and toying with her rings. the quadroon shrugged. they both sat in reverie for a moment--a long moment for such sprightly natures--and palmyre's mien took on a professional gravity. she presently pushed the landlord's letter under the lady's hands as they lay clasped in her lap, and a moment after drew aurora's glance with her large, strong eyes and asked: "what shall we do?" the lady immediately looked startled and alarmed and again dropped her eyes in silence. the quadroon had to speak again. "we will burn a candle." aurora trembled. "no," she succeeded in saying. "yes," said palmyre, "you must get your rent money." but the charm which she was meditating had no reference to rent money. "she knows that," thought the voudou. as she rose and called her congo slave-woman, aurora made as if to protest further; but utterance failed her. she clenched her hands and prayed to fate for clotilde to come and lead her away as she had done at the apothecary's. and well she might. the articles brought in by the servant were simply a little pound-cake and cordial, a tumbler half-filled with the _sirop naturelle_ of the sugar-cane, and a small piece of candle of the kind made from the fragrant green wax of the candleberry myrtle. these were set upon the small table, the bit of candle standing, lighted, in the tumbler of sirup, the cake on a plate, the cordial in a wine-glass. this feeble child's play was all; except that as palmyre closed out all daylight from the room and received the offering of silver that "paid the floor" and averted _guillons_ (interferences of outside imps), aurora,--alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle's flame, and silently called on assonquer (the imp of good fortune) to cast his snare in her behalf around the mind and heart of--she knew not whom. by and by her lips, which had moved at first, were still and she only watched the burning wax. when the flame rose clear and long it was a sign that assonquer was enlisted in the coveted endeavor. when the wick sputtered, the devotee trembled in fear of failure. its charred end curled down and twisted away from her and her heart sank; but the tall figure of palmyre for a moment came between, the wick was snuffed, the flame tapered up again, and for a long time burned, a bright, tremulous cone. again the wick turned down, but this time toward her,--a propitious omen,--and suddenly fell through the expended wax and went out in the sirup. the daylight, as palmyre let it once more into the apartment, showed aurora sadly agitated. in evidence of the innocence of her fluttering heart, guilt, at least for the moment, lay on it, an appalling burden. "that is all, palmyre, is it not? i am sure that is all--it must be all. i cannot stay any longer. i wish i was with clotilde; i have stayed too long." "yes; all for the present," replied the quadroon. "here, here is some charmed basil; hold it between your lips as you walk--" "but i am going to my landlord's office!" "office? nobody is at his office now; it is too late. you would find that your landlord had gone to dinner. i will tell you, though, where you _must_ go. first go home; eat your dinner; and this evening [the creoles never say afternoon], about a half-hour before sunset, walk down royale to the lower corner of the place d'armes, pass entirely around the square and return up royale. never look behind until you get into your house again." aurora blushed with shame. "alone?" she exclaimed, quite unnerved and tremulous. "you will seem to be alone; but i will follow behind you when you pass here. nothing shall hurt you. if you do that, the charm will certainly work; if you do not--" the quadroon's intentions were good. she was determined to see who it was that could so infatuate her dear little momselle; and, as on such an evening as the present afternoon promised to merge into all new orleans promenaded on the place d'armes and the levee, her charm was a very practical one. "and that will bring the money, will it?" asked aurora. "it will bring anything you want." "possible?" "these things that _you_ want, momselle aurore, are easy to bring. you have no charms working against you. but, oh, i wish to god i could work the _curse_ i want to work!" the woman's eyes blazed, her bosom heaved, she lifted her clenched hand above her head and looked upward, crying: "i would give this right hand off at the wrist to catch agricola fusilier where i could work him a curse! but i shall; i shall some day be revenged!" she pitched her voice still higher. "i cannot die till i have been! there is nothing that could kill me, i want my revenge so bad!" as suddenly as she had broken out, she hushed, unbarred the door, and with a stern farewell smile saw aurora turn homeward. "give me something to eat, _chérie_," cried the exhausted lady, dropping into clotilde's chair and trying to die. "ah! _maman_, what makes you look so sick?" aurora waved her hand contemptuously and gasped. "did you see him? what kept you so long--so long?" "ask me nothing; i am so enraged with disappointment. he was gone to dinner!" "ah! my poor mother!" "and i must go back as soon as i can take a little _sieste_. i am determined to see him this very day." "ah! my poor mother!" chapter xv rolled in the dust "no, frowenfeld," said little doctor keene, speaking for the after-dinner loungers, "you must take a little human advice. go, get the air on the plaza. we will keep shop for you. stay as long as you like and come home in any condition you think best." and joseph, tormented into this course, put on his hat and went out. "hard to move as a cow in the moonlight," continued doctor keene, "and knows just about as much of the world. he wasn't aware, until i told him to-day, that there are two honoré grandissimes." [laughter.] "why did you tell him?" "i didn't give him anything but the bare fact. i want to see how long it will take him to find out the rest." the place d'armes offered amusement to every one else rather than to the immigrant. the family relation, the most noticeable feature of its' well-pleased groups, was to him too painful a reminder of his late losses, and, after an honest endeavor to flutter out of the inner twilight of himself into the outer glare of a moving world, he had given up the effort and had passed beyond the square and seated himself upon a rude bench which encircled the trunk of a willow on the levee. the negress, who, resting near by with a tray of cakes before her, has been for some time contemplating the three-quarter face of her unconscious neighbor, drops her head at last with a small, ethiopian, feminine laugh. it is a self-confession that, pleasant as the study of his countenance is, to resolve that study into knowledge is beyond her powers; and very pardonably so it is, she being but a _marchande des gâteaux_ (an itinerant cake-vender), and he, she concludes, a man of parts. there is a purpose, too, as well as an admission, in the laugh. she would like to engage him in conversation. but he does not notice. little supposing he is the object of even a cake-merchant's attention, he is lost in idle meditation. one would guess his age to be as much as twenty-six. his face is beardless, of course, like almost everybody's around him, and of a german kind of seriousness. a certain diffidence in his look may tend to render him unattractive to careless eyes, the more so since he has a slight appearance of self-neglect. on a second glance, his refinement shows out more distinctly, and one also sees that he is not shabby. the little that seems lacking is woman's care, the brush of attentive fingers here and there, the turning of a fold in the high-collared coat, and a mere touch on the neckerchief and shirt-frill. he has a decidedly good forehead. his blue eyes, while they are both strong and modest, are noticeable, too, as betraying fatigue, and the shade of gravity in them is deepened by a certain worn look of excess--in books; a most unusual look in new orleans in those days, and pointedly out of keeping with the scene which was absorbing his attention. you might mistake the time for mid-may. before the view lies the place d'armes in its green-breasted uniform of new spring grass crossed diagonally with white shell walks for facings, and dotted with the _élite_ of the city for decorations. over the line of shade-trees which marks its farther boundary, the white-topped twin turrets of st. louis cathedral look across it and beyond the bared site of the removed battery (built by the busy carondelet to protect louisiana from herself and kentucky, and razed by his immediate successors) and out upon the mississippi, the color of whose surface is beginning to change with the changing sky of this beautiful and now departing day. a breeze, which is almost early june, and which has been hovering over the bosom of the great river and above the turf-covered levee, ceases, as if it sank exhausted under its burden of spring odors, and in the profound calm the cathedral bell strikes the sunset hour. from its neighboring garden, the convent of the ursulines responds in a tone of devoutness, while from the parapet of the less pious little fort st. charles, the evening gun sends a solemn ejaculation rumbling down the "coast;" a drum rolls, the air rises again from the water like a flock of birds, and many in the square and on the levee's crown turn and accept its gentle blowing. rising over the levee willows, and sinking into the streets,--which are lower than the water,--it flutters among the balconies and in and out of dim spanish arcades, and finally drifts away toward that part of the sky where the sun is sinking behind the low, unbroken line of forest. there is such seduction in the evening air, such sweetness of flowers on its every motion, such lack of cold, or heat, or dust, or wet, that the people have no heart to stay in-doors; nor is there any reason why they should. the levee road is dotted with horsemen, and the willow avenue on the levee's crown, the whole short mile between terre aux boeufs gate on the right and tchoupitoulas gate on the left, is bright with promenaders, although the hour is brief and there will be no twilight; for, so far from being may, it is merely that same nineteenth of which we have already spoken,--the nineteenth of louisiana's delicious february. among the throng were many whose names were going to be written large in history. there was casa calvo,--sebastian de casa calvo de la puerta y o'farril, marquis of casa calvo,--a man then at the fine age of fifty-three, elegant, fascinating, perfect in spanish courtesy and spanish diplomacy, rolling by in a showy equipage surrounded by a clanking body-guard of the catholic king's cavalry. there was young daniel clark, already beginning to amass those riches which an age of litigation has not to this day consumed; it was he whom the french colonial prefect, laussat, in a late letter to france, had extolled as a man whose "talents for intrigue were carried to a rare degree of excellence." there was laussat himself, in the flower of his years, sour with pride, conscious of great official insignificance and full of petty spites--he yet tarried in a land where his beautiful wife was the "model of taste." there was that convivial old fox, wilkinson, who had plotted for years with miro and did not sell himself and his country to spain because--as we now say--"he found he could do better;" who modestly confessed himself in a traitor's letter to the spanish king as a man "whose head may err, but whose heart cannot deceive!" and who brought governor gayoso to an early death-bed by simply out-drinking him. there also was edward livingston, attorney-at-law, inseparably joined to the mention of the famous batture cases--though that was later. there also was that terror of colonial peculators, the old ex-intendant morales, who, having quarrelled with every governor of louisiana he ever saw, was now snarling at casa calvo from force of habit. and the creoles--the knickerbockers of louisiana--but time would fail us. the villeres and destrehans--patriots and patriots' sons; the de la chaise family in mourning for young auguste la chaise of kentuckian-louisianian-san domingan history; the livaudaises, _père et fils_, of haunted house fame, descendants of the first pilot of the belize; the pirate brothers lafitte, moving among the best; marigny de mandeville, afterwards the marquis member of congress; the davezacs, the mossys, the boulignys, the labatuts, the bringiers, the de trudeaus, the de macartys, the de la houssayes, the de lavilleboeuvres, the grandprés, the forstalls; and the proselyted creoles: Étienne de boré (he was the father of all such as handle the sugar-kettle); old man pitot, who became mayor; madame pontalba and her unsuccessful suitor, john mcdonough; the three girods, the two graviers, or the lone julian poydras, godfather of orphan girls. besides these, and among them as shining fractions of the community, the numerous representatives of the not only noble, but noticeable and ubiquitous, family of grandissime: grandissimes simple and grandissimes compound; brahmins, mandarins and fusiliers. one, 'polyte by name, a light, gay fellow, with classic features, hair turning gray, is standing and conversing with this group here by the mock-cannon inclosure of the grounds. another, his cousin, charlie mandarin, a tall, very slender, bronzed gentleman in a flannel hunting-shirt and buckskin leggings, is walking, in moccasins, with a sweet lady in whose tasteful attire feminine scrutiny, but such only, might detect economy, but whose marked beauty of yesterday is retreating and reappearing in the flock of children who are noisily running round and round them, nominally in the care of three fat and venerable black nurses. another, yonder, théophile grandissime, is whipping his stockings with his cane, a lithe youngster in the height of the fashion (be it understood the fashion in new orleans was five years or so behind paris), with a joyous, noble face, a merry tongue and giddy laugh, and a confession of experiences which these pages, fortunately for their moral tone, need not recount. all these were there and many others. this throng, shifting like the fragments of colored glass in the kaleidoscope, had its far-away interest to the contemplative joseph. to them he was of little interest, or none. of the many passers, scarcely an occasional one greeted him, and such only with an extremely polite and silent dignity which seemed to him like saying something of this sort: "most noble alien, give you good-day--stay where you are. profoundly yours--" two men came through the place d'armes on conspicuously fine horses. one it is not necessary to describe. the other, a man of perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, was extremely handsome and well dressed, the martial fashion of the day showing his tall and finely knit figure to much advantage. he sat his horse with an uncommon grace, and, as he rode beside his companion, spoke and gave ear by turns with an easy dignity sufficient of itself to have attracted popular observation. it was the apothecary's unknown friend. frowenfeld noticed them while they were yet in the middle of the grounds. he could hardly have failed to do so, for some one close beside his bench in undoubted allusion to one of the approaching figures exclaimed: "here comes honoré grandissime." moreover, at that moment there was a slight unwonted stir on the place d'armes. it began at the farther corner of the square, hard by the principal, and spread so quickly through the groups near about, that in a minute the entire company were quietly made aware of something going notably wrong in their immediate presence. there was no running to see it. there seemed to be not so much as any verbal communication of the matter from mouth to mouth. rather a consciousness appeared to catch noiselessly from one to another as the knowledge of human intrusion comes to groups of deer in a park. there was the same elevating of the head here and there, the same rounding of beautiful eyes. some stared, others slowly approached, while others turned and moved away; but a common indignation was in the breast of that thing dreadful everywhere, but terrible in louisiana, the majority. for there, in the presence of those good citizens, before the eyes of the proudest and fairest mothers and daughters of new orleans, glaringly, on the open plaza, the creole whom joseph had met by the graves in the field, honoré grandissime, the uttermost flower on the topmost branch of the tallest family tree ever transplanted from france to louisiana, honoré,--the worshiped, the magnificent,--in the broad light of the sun's going down, rode side by side with the yankee governor and was not ashamed! joseph, on his bench, sat contemplating the two parties to this scandal as they came toward him. their horses' flanks were damp from some pleasant gallop, but their present gait was the soft, mettlesome movement of animals who will even submit to walk if their masters insist. as they wheeled out of the broad diagonal path that crossed the square, and turned toward him in the highway, he fancied that the creole observed him. he was not mistaken. as they seemed about to pass the spot where he sat, m. grandissime interrupted the governor with a word and, turning his horse's head, rode up to the bench, lifting his hat as he came. "good-evening, mr. frowenfeld." joseph, looking brighter than when he sat unaccosted, rose and blushed. "mr. frowenfeld, you know my uncle very well, i believe--agricole fusilier--long beard?" "oh! yes, sir, certainly." "well, mr. frowenfeld, i shall be much obliged if you will tell him--that is, should you meet him this evening--that i wish to see him. if you will be so kind?" "oh! yes, sir, certainly." frowenfeld's diffidence made itself evident in this reiterated phrase. "i do not know that you will see him, but if you should, you know--" "oh, certainly, sir!" the two paused a single instant, exchanging a smile of amiable reminder from the horseman and of bashful but pleased acknowledgment from the one who saw his precepts being reduced to practice. "well, good-evening, mr. frowenfeld." m. grandissime lifted his hat and turned. frowenfeld sat down. "_bou zou, miché honoré!_" called the _marchande_. "_comment to yé, clemence?_" the merchant waved his hand as he rode away with his companion. "_beau miché, là_," said the _marchande_, catching joseph's eye. he smiled his ignorance and shook his head. "dass one fine gen'leman," she repeated. "_mo pa'lé anglé_," she added with a chuckle. "you know him?" "oh! yass, sah; mawse honoré knows me, yass. all de gen'lemens knows me. i sell de _calas;_ mawnin's sell _calas_, evenin's sell zinzer-cake. _you_ know me" (a fact which joseph had all along been aware of). "dat me w'at pass in rue royale ev'y mawnin' holl'in' '_bé calas touts chauds_,' an' singin'; don't you know?" the enthusiasm of an artist overcame any timidity she might have been supposed to possess, and, waiving the formality of an invitation, she began, to frowenfeld's consternation, to sing, in a loud, nasal voice. but the performance, long familiar, attracted no public attention, and he for whose special delight it was intended had taken an attitude of disclaimer and was again contemplating the quiet groups of the place d'armes and the pleasant hurry of the levee road. "don't you know?" persisted the woman. "yass, sah, dass me; i's clemence." but frowenfeld was looking another way. "you know my boy," suddenly said she. frowenfeld looked at her. "yass, sah. dat boy w'at bring you de box of _basilic_ lass chrismus; dass my boy." she straightened her cakes on the tray and made some changes in their arrangement that possibly were important. "i learned to speak english in fijinny. bawn dah." she looked steadily into the apothecary's absorbed countenance for a full minute, then let her eyes wander down the highway. the human tide was turning cityward. presently she spoke again. "folks comin' home a'ready, yass." her hearer looked down the road. suddenly a voice that, once heard, was always known,--deep and pompous, as if a lion roared,--sounded so close behind him as to startle him half from his seat. "is this a corporeal man, or must i doubt my eyes? hah! professor frowenfeld!" it said. "mr. fusilier!" exclaimed frowenfeld in a subdued voice, while he blushed again and looked at the new-comer with that sort of awe which children experience in a menagerie. "_citizen_ fusilier," said the lion. agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of brandishing the catchwords of new-fangled reforms; they served to spice a breath that was strong with the praise of the "superior liberties of europe,"--those old, cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which america was settled. frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the same moment. "i am glad to meet you. i--" he was going on to give honoré grandissime's message, but was interrupted. "my young friend," rumbled the old man in his deepest key, smiling emotionally and holding and solemning continuing to shake joseph's hand, "i am sure you are. you ought to thank god that you have my acquaintance." frowenfeld colored to the temples. "i must acknowledge--" he began. "ah!" growled the lion, "your beautiful modesty leads you to misconstrue me, sir. you pay my judgment no compliment. i know your worth, sir; i merely meant, sir, that in me--poor, humble me--you have secured a sympathizer in your tastes and plans. agricola fusilier, sir, is not a cock on a dunghill, to find a jewel and then scratch it aside." the smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from the young man's face, and he sat down forcibly. "you jest," he said. the reply was a majestic growl. "i _never_ jest!" the speaker half sat down, then straightened up again. "ah, the marquis of caso calvo!--i must bow to him, though an honest man's bow is more than he deserves." "more than he deserves?" was frowenfeld's query. "more than he deserves!" was the response. "what has he done? i have never heard--" the denunciator turned upon frowenfeld his most royal frown, and retorted with a question which still grows wild in louisiana: "what"--he seemed to shake his mane--"what has he _not_ done, sir?" and then he withdrew his frown slowly, as if to add, "you'll be careful next time how you cast doubt upon a public official's guilt." the marquis's cavalcade came briskly jingling by. frowenfeld saw within the carriage two men, one in citizen's dress, the other in a brilliant uniform. the latter leaned forward, and, with a cordiality which struck the young spectator as delightful, bowed. the immigrant glanced at citizen fusilier, expecting to see the greeting returned with great haughtiness; instead of which that person uncovered his leonine head, and, with a solemn sweep of his cocked hat, bowed half his length. nay, he more than bowed, he bowed down--so that the action hurt frowenfeld from head to foot. "what large gentlemen was that sitting on the other side?" asked the young man, as his companion sat down with the air of having finished an oration. "no gentleman at all!" thundered the citizen. "that fellow" (beetling frown), "that _fellow_ is edward livingston." "the great lawyer?" "the great villain!" frowenfeld himself frowned. the old man laid a hand upon his junior's shoulder and growled benignantly: "my young friend, your displeasure delights me!" the patience with which frowenfeld was bearing all this forced a chuckle and shake of the head from the _marchande_. citizen fusilier went on speaking in a manner that might be construed either as address or soliloquy, gesticulating much and occasionally letting out a fervent word that made passers look around and joseph inwardly wince. with eyes closed and hands folded on the top of the knotted staff which he carried but never used, he delivered an apostrophe to the "spotless soul of youth," enticed by the "spirit of adventure" to "launch away upon the unploughed sea of the future!" he lifted one hand and smote the back of the other solemnly, once, twice, and again, nodding his head faintly several times without opening his eyes, as who should say, "very impressive; go on," and so resumed; spoke of this spotless soul of youth searching under unknown latitudes for the "sunken treasures of experience"; indulged, as the reporters of our day would say, in "many beautiful nights of rhetoric," and finally depicted the loathing with which the spotless soul of youth "recoils!"--suiting the action to the word so emphatically as to make a pretty little boy who stood gaping at him start back--"on encountering in the holy chambers of public office the vultures hatched in the nests of ambition and avarice!" three or four persons lingered carelessly near by with ears wide open. frowenfeld felt that he must bring this to an end, and, like any young person who has learned neither deceit nor disrespect to seniors, he attempted to reason it down. "you do not think many of our public men are dishonest!" "sir!" replied the rhetorician, with a patronizing smile, "h-you must be thinking of france!" "no, sir; of louisiana." "louisiana! dishonest? all, sir, all. they are all as corrupt as olympus, sir!" "well," said frowenfeld, with more feeling than was called for, "there is one who, i feel sure, is pure. i know it by his face!" the old man gave a look of stern interrogation. "governor claiborne." "ye-e-e g-hods! claiborne! _claiborne!_ why, he is a yankee!" the lion glowered over the lamb like a thundercloud. "he is a virginian," said frowenfeld. "he is an american, and no american can be honest." "you are prejudiced," exclaimed the young man. citizen fusilier made himself larger. "what is prejudice? i do not know." "i am an american myself," said frowenfeld, rising up with his face burning. the citizen rose up also, but unruffled. "my beloved young friend," laying his hand heavily upon the other's shoulder, "you are not. you were merely born in america." but frowenfeld was not appeased. "hear me through," persisted the flatterer. "you were merely born in america. i, too, was born in america--but will any man responsible for his opinion mistake me--agricola fusilier--for an american?" he clutched his cane in the middle and glared around, but no person seemed to be making the mistake to which he so scornfully alluded, and he was about to speak again when an outcry of alarm coming simultaneously from joseph and the _marchande_ directed his attention to a lady in danger. the scene, as afterward recalled to the mind of the un-american citizen, included the figures of his nephew and the new governor returning up the road at a canter; but, at the time, he knew only that a lady of unmistakable gentility, her back toward him, had just gathered her robes and started to cross the road, when there was a general cry of warning, and the _marchande_ cried, "_garde choual!_" while the lady leaped directly into the danger and his nephew's horse knocked her to the earth! though there was a rush to the rescue from every direction, she was on her feet before any one could reach her, her lips compressed, nostrils dilated, cheek burning, and eyes flashing a lady's wrath upon a dismounted horseman. it was the governor. as the crowd had rushed in, the startled horses, from whom the two riders had instantly leaped, drew violently back, jerking their masters with them and leaving only the governor in range of the lady's angry eye. "mademoiselle!" he cried, striving to reach her. she pointed him in gasping indignation to his empty saddle, and, as the crowd farther separated them, waved away all permission to apologize and turned her back. "hah!" cried the crowd, echoing her humor. "lady," interposed the governor, "do not drive us to the rudeness of leaving--" "_animal, vous!_" cried half a dozen, and the lady gave him such a look of scorn that he did not finish his sentence. "open the way, there," called a voice in french. it was honoré grandissime. but just then he saw that the lady had found the best of protectors, and the two horsemen, having no choice, remounted and rode away. as they did so, m. grandissime called something hurriedly to frowenfeld, on whose arm the lady hung, concerning the care of her; but his words were lost in the short yell of derision sent after himself and his companion by the crowd. old agricola, meanwhile, was having a trouble of his own. he had followed joseph's wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the lady turned her face he wheeled abruptly away. this brought again into view the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it in the face of palmyre philosophe. she stood beside the seat with the smile of one foiled and intensely conscious of peril, but neither frightened nor suppliant, holding back with her eyes the execution of agricola's threat against her life. presently she drew a short step backward, then another, then a third, and then turned and moved away down the avenue of willows, followed for a few steps by the lion and by the laughing comment of the _marchande_, who stood looking after them with her tray balanced on her head. "_ya, ya! ye connais voudou bien!_[ ]" [footnote : "they're up in the voudou arts."] the old man turned to rejoin his companion. the day was rapidly giving place to night and the people were withdrawing to their homes. he crossed the levee, passed through the place d'armes and on into the city without meeting the object of his search. for joseph and the lady had hurried off together. as the populace floated away in knots of three, four and five, those who had witnessed mademoiselle's (?) mishap told it to those who had not; explaining that it was the accursed yankee governor who had designedly driven his horse at his utmost speed against the fair victim (some of them butted against their hearers by way of illustration); that the fiend had then maliciously laughed; that this was all the yankees came to new orleans for, and that there was an understanding among them--"understanding, indeed!" exclaimed one, "they have instructions from the president!"--that unprotected ladies should be run down wherever overtaken. if you didn't believe it you could ask the tyrant, claiborne, himself; he made no secret of it. one or two--but they were considered by others extravagant--testified that, as the lady fell, they had seen his face distorted with a horrid delight, and had heard him cry: "daz de way to knog them!" "but how came a lady to be out on the levee, at sunset, on foot and alone?" asked a citizen, and another replied--both using the french of the late province: "as for being on foot"--a shrug. "but she was not alone; she had a _milatraisse_ behind her." "ah! so; that was well." "but--ha, ha!--the _milatraisse_, seeing her mistress out of danger, takes the opportunity to try to bring the curse upon agricola fusilier by sitting down where he had just risen up, and had to get away from him as quickly as possible to save her own skull." "and left the lady?" "yes; and who took her to her home at last, but frowenfeld, the apothecary!" "ho, ho! the astrologer! we ought to hang that fellow." "with his books tied to his feet," suggested a third citizen. "it is no more than we owe to the community to go and smash his show-window. he had better behave himself. come, gentlemen, a little _taffia_ will do us good. when shall we ever get through these exciting times?" chapter xvi starlight in the rue chartres "oh! m'sieur frowenfel', tague me ad home!" it was aurora, who caught the apothecary's arm vehemently in both her hands with a look of beautiful terror. and whatever joseph's astronomy might have previously taught him to the contrary, he knew by his senses that the earth thereupon turned entirely over three times in two seconds. his confused response, though unintelligible, answered all purposes, as the lady found herself the next moment hurrying across the place d'armes close to his side, and as they by-and-by passed its farther limits she began to be conscious that she was clinging to her protector as though she would climb up and hide under his elbow. as they turned up the rue chartres she broke the silence. "oh!-h!"--breathlessly,--"'h!--m'sieur frowenf'--you walkin' so faz!" "oh!" echoed frowenfeld, "i did not know what i was doing." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed the lady, "me, too, juz de sem lag you! _attendez_; wait." they halted; a moment's deft manipulation of a veil turned it into a wrapping for her neck. "'sieur frowenfel', oo dad man was? you know 'im?" she returned her hand to frowenfeld's arm and they moved on. "the one who spoke to you, or--you know the one who got near enough to apologize is not the one whose horse struck you!" "i din know. but oo dad odder one? i saw h-only 'is back, bud i thing it is de sem--" she identified it with the back that was turned to her during her last visit to frowenfeld's shop; but finding herself about to mention a matter so nearly connected with the purse of gold, she checked herself; but frowenfeld, eager to say a good word for his acquaintance, ventured to extol his character while he concealed his name. "while i have never been introduced to him, i have some acquaintance with him, and esteem him a noble gentleman." "w'ere you meet him?" "i met him first," he said, "at the graves of my parents and sisters." there was a kind of hush after the mention, and the lady made no reply. "it was some weeks after my loss," resumed frowenfeld. "in wad _cimetière_ dad was?" "in no cemetery--being protestants, you know--" "ah, yes, sir?" with a gentle sigh. "the physician who attended me procured permission to bury them on some private land below the city." "not in de groun'[ ]?" [footnote : only jews and paupers are buried in the ground in new orleans.] "yes; that was my father's expressed wish when he died." "you 'ad de fivver? oo nurse you w'en you was sick?" "an old hired negress." "dad was all?" "yes." "hm-m-m!" she said piteously, and laughed in her sleeve. who could hope to catch and reproduce the continuous lively thrill which traversed the frame of the escaped book-worm as every moment there was repeated to his consciousness the knowledge that he was walking across the vault of heaven with the evening star on his arm--at least, that he was, at her instigation, killing time along the dim, ill-lighted _trottoirs_ of the rue chartres, with aurora listening sympathetically at his side. but let it go; also the sweet broken english with which she now and then interrupted him; also the inward, hidden sparkle of her dancing gallic blood; her low, merry laugh; the roguish mental reservation that lurked behind her graver speeches; the droll bravados she uttered against the powers that be, as with timid fingers he brushed from her shoulder a little remaining dust of the late encounter--these things, we say, we let go,--as we let butterflies go rather than pin them to paper. they had turned into the rue bienville, and were walking toward the river, frowenfeld in the midst of a long sentence, when a low cry of tearful delight sounded in front of them, some one in long robes glided forward, and he found his arm relieved of its burden and that burden transferred to the bosom and passionate embrace of another--we had almost said a fairer--creole, amid a bewildering interchange of kisses and a pelting shower of creole french. a moment after, frowenfeld found himself introduced to "my dotter, clotilde," who all at once ceased her demonstrations of affection and bowed to him with a majestic sweetness, that seemed one instant grateful and the next, distant. "i can hardly understand that you are not sisters," said frowenfeld, a little awkwardly. "ah! _ecoutez!_" exclaimed the younger. "ah! _par exemple!_" cried the elder, and they laughed down each other's throats, while the immigrant blushed. this encounter was presently followed by a silent surprise when they stopped and turned before the door of number , and frowenfeld contrasted the women with their painfully humble dwelling. but therein is where your true creole was, and still continues to be, properly, yea, delightfully un-american; the outside of his house may be as rough as the outside of a bird's nest; it is the inside that is for the birds; and the front room of this house, when the daughter presently threw open the batten shutters of its single street door, looked as bright and happy, with its candelabra glittering on the mantel, and its curtains of snowy lace, as its bright-eyed tenants. "'sieur frowenfel', if you pliz to come in," said aurora, and the timid apothecary would have bravely accepted the invitation, but for a quick look which he saw the daughter give the mother; whereupon he asked, instead, permission to call at some future day, and received the cordial leave of aurora and another bow from clotilde. chapter xvii that night do we not fail to accord to our nights their true value? we are ever giving to our days the credit and blame of all we do and mis-do, forgetting those silent, glimmering hours when plans--and sometimes plots--are laid; when resolutions are formed or changed; when heaven, and sometimes heaven's enemies, are invoked; when anger and evil thoughts are recalled, and sometimes hate made to inflame and fester; when problems are solved, riddles guessed, and things made apparent in the dark, which day refused to reveal. our nights are the keys to our days. they explain them. they are also the day's correctors. night's leisure untangles the mistakes of day's haste. we should not attempt to comprise our pasts in the phrase, "in those days;" we should rather say "in those days and nights." that night was a long-remembered one to the apothecary of the rue royale. but it was after he had closed his shop, and in his back room sat pondering the unusual experiences of the evening, that it began to be, in a higher degree, a night of events to most of those persons who had a part in its earlier incidents. that honoré grandissime whom frowenfeld had only this day learned to know as _the_ honoré grandissime and the young governor-general were closeted together. "what can you expect, my-de'-seh?" the creole was asking, as they confronted each other in the smoke of their choice tobacco. "remember, they are citizens by compulsion. you say your best and wisest law is that one prohibiting the slave-trade; my-de'-seh, i assure you, privately, i agree with you; but they abhor your law! "your principal danger--at least, i mean difficulty--is this: that the louisianais themselves, some in pure lawlessness, some through loss of office, some in a vague hope of preserving the old condition of things, will not only hold off from all participation in your government, but will make all sympathy with it, all advocacy of its principles, and especially all office-holding under it, odious--disreputable--infamous. you may find yourself constrained to fill your offices with men who can face down the contumely of a whole people. you know what such men generally are. one out of a hundred may be a moral hero--the ninety-nine will be scamps; and the moral hero will most likely get his brains blown out early in the day. "count o'reilly, when he established the spanish power here thirty-five years ago, cut a similar knot with the executioner's sword; but, my-de'-seh, you are here to establish a _free_ government; and how can you make it freer than the people wish it? there is your riddle! they hold off and say, 'make your government as free as you can, but do not ask us to help you;' and before you know it you have no retainers but a gang of shameless mercenaries, who will desert you whenever the indignation of this people overbalances their indolence; and you will fall the victim of what you may call our mutinous patriotism." the governor made a very quiet, unappreciative remark about a "patriotism that lets its government get choked up with corruption and then blows it out with gunpowder!" the creole shrugged. "and repeats the operation indefinitely," he said. the governor said something often heard, before and since, to the effect that communities will not sacrifice themselves for mere ideas. "my-de'-seh," replied the creole, "you speak like a true anglo-saxon; but, sir! how many communities have _committed_ suicide. and this one?--why, it is _just_ the kind to do it!" "well," said the governor, smilingly, "you have pointed out what you consider to be the breakers, now can you point out the channel?" "channel? there is none! and you, nor i, cannot dig one. two great forces _may_ ultimately do it, religion and education--as i was telling you i said to my young friend, the apothecary,--but still i am free to say what would be my first and principal step, if i was in your place--as i thank god i am not." the listener asked him what that was. "wherever i could find a creole that i could venture to trust, my-de'-seh, i would put him in office. never mind a little political heterodoxy, you know; almost any man can be trusted to shoot away from the uniform he has on. and then--" "but," said the other, "i have offered you--" "oh!" replied the creole, like a true merchant, "me, i am too busy; it is impossible! but, i say, i would _compel_, my-de'-seh, this people to govern themselves!" "and pray, how would you give a people a free government and then compel them to administer it?" "my-de'-seh, you should not give one poor creole the puzzle which belongs to your whole congress; but you may depend on this, that the worst thing for all parties--and i say it only because it is worst for all--would be a feeble and dilatory punishment of bad faith." when this interview finally drew to a close the governor had made a memorandum of some fifteen or twenty grandissimes, scattered through different cantons of louisiana, who, their kinsman honoré thought, would not decline appointments. * * * * * certain of the muses were abroad that night. faintly audible to the apothecary of the rue royale through that deserted stillness which is yet the marked peculiarity of new orleans streets by night, came from a neighboring slave-yard the monotonous chant and machine-like tune-beat of an african dance. there our lately met _marchande_ (albeit she was but a guest, fortified against the street-watch with her master's written "pass") led the ancient calinda dance with that well-known song of derision, in whose ever multiplying stanzas the helpless satire of a feeble race still continues to celebrate the personal failings of each newly prominent figure among the dominant caste. there was a new distich to the song to-night, signifying that the pride of the grandissimes must find his friends now among the yankees: "miché hon'ré, allé! h-allé! trouvé to zamis parmi les yankis. dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! frowenfeld, as we have already said, had closed his shop, and was sitting in the room behind it with one arm on his table and the other on his celestial globe, watching the flicker of his small fire and musing upon the unusual experiences of the evening. upon every side there seemed to start away from his turning glance the multiplied shadows of something wrong. the melancholy face of that honoré grandissime, his landlord, at whose mention dr. keene had thought it fair to laugh without explaining; the tall, bright-eyed _milatraisse_; old agricola; the lady of the basil; the newly identified merchant friend, now the more satisfactory honoré,--they all came before him in his meditation, provoking among themselves a certain discord, faint but persistent, to which he strove to close his ear. for he was brain-weary. even in the bright recollection of the lady and her talk he became involved among shadows, and going from bad to worse, seemed at length almost to gasp in an atmosphere of hints, allusions, faint unspoken admissions, ill-concealed antipathies, unfinished speeches, mistaken identities and whisperings of hidden strife. the cathedral clock struck twelve and was answered again from the convent belfry; and as the notes died away he suddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy throb of the african song and dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain for an unknown lapse of time. the apothecary nodded once or twice, and thereupon rose up and prepared for bed, thinking to sleep till morning. * * * * * aurora and her daughter had long ago put out their chamber light. early in the evening the younger had made favorable mention of retiring, to which the elder replied by asking to be left awhile to her own thoughts. clotilde, after some tender protestations, consented, and passed through the open door that showed, beyond it, their couch. the air had grown just cool and humid enough to make the warmth of one small brand on the hearth acceptable, and before this the fair widow settled herself to gaze beyond her tiny, slippered feet into its wavering flame, and think. her thoughts were such as to bestow upon her face that enhancement of beauty that comes of pleasant reverie, and to make it certain that that little city afforded no fairer sight,--unless, indeed, it was the figure of clotilde just beyond the open door, as in her white nightdress, enriched with the work of a diligent needle, she knelt upon the low _prie-dieu_ before the little family altar, and committed her pure soul to the divine keeping. clotilde could not have been many minutes asleep when aurora changed her mind and decided to follow. the shade upon her face had deepened for a moment into a look of trouble; but a bright philosophy, which was part of her paternal birthright, quickly chased it away, and she passed to her room, disrobed, lay softly down beside the beauty already there and smiled herself to sleep,-- "blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, as though a rose should shut, and be a bud again." but she also wakened again, and lay beside her unconscious bedmate, occupied with the company of her own thoughts. "why should these little concealments ruffle my bosom? does not even nature herself practise wiles? look at the innocent birds; do they build where everybody can count their eggs? and shall a poor human creature try to be better than a bird? didn't i say my prayers under the blanket just now?" her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon one elbow to bend upon the sleeper a gaze of ardent admiration. "ah, beautiful little chick! how guileless! indeed, how deficient in that respect!" she sat up in the bed and hearkened; the bell struck for midnight. was that the hour? the fates were smiling! surely m. assonquer himself must have wakened her to so choice an opportunity. she ought not to despise it. now, by the application of another and easily wrought charm, that darkened hour lately spent with palmyre would have, as it were, its colors set. the night had grown much cooler. stealthily, by degrees, she rose and left the couch. the openings of the room were a window and two doors, and these, with much caution, she contrived to open without noise. none of them exposed her to the possibility of public view. one door looked into the dim front room; the window let in only a flood of moonlight over the top of a high house which was without openings on that side; the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard, and that invaluable protector, the cook's hound, lying fast asleep. in her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment in the centre of the chamber, then sank upon one knee, rapped the floor gently but audibly thrice, rose, drew a step backward, sank upon the other knee, rapped thrice, rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the third time rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow to pour upon the ground next day an oblation of champagne--then closed the doors and window and crept back to bed. then she knew how cold she had become. it seemed as though her very marrow was frozen. she was seized with such an uncontrollable shivering that clotilde presently opened her eyes, threw her arm about her mother's neck, and said: "ah! my sweet mother, are you so cold?" "the blanket was all off of me," said the mother, returning the embrace, and the two sank into unconsciousness together. * * * * * into slumber sank almost at the same moment joseph frowenfeld. he awoke, not a great while later, to find himself standing in the middle of the floor. three or four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots, almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his shop. he had barely time to throw himself into half his garments when the knocker sounded on his street door, and when he opened it agricola fusilier entered, supported by his nephew honoré on one side and doctor keene on the other. the latter's right hand was pressed hard against a bloody place in agricola's side. "give us plenty of light, frowenfeld," said the doctor, "and a chair and some lint, and some castile soap, and some towels and sticking-plaster, and anything else you can think of. agricola's about scared to death--" "professor frowenfeld," groaned the aged citizen, "i am basely and mortally stabbed!" "right on, frowenfeld," continued the doctor, "right on into the back room. fasten that front door. here, agricola, sit down here. that's right, frow., stir up a little fire. give me--never mind, i'll just cut the cloth open." there was a moment of silent suspense while the wound was being reached, and then the doctor spoke again. "just as i thought; only a safe and comfortable gash that will keep you in-doors a while with your arm in a sling. you are more scared than hurt, i think, old gentleman." "you think an infernal falsehood, sir!" "see here, sir," said the doctor, without ceasing to ply his dexterous hands in his art, "i'll jab these scissors into your back if you say that again." "i suppose," growled the "citizen," "it is just the thing your professional researches have qualified you for, sir!" "just stand here, mr. frowenfeld," said the little doctor, settling down to a professional tone, "and hand me things as i ask for them. honoré, please hold this arm; so." and so, after a moderate lapse of time, the treatment that medical science of those days dictated was applied--whatever that was. let those who do not know give thanks. m. grandissime explained to frowenfeld what had occurred. "you see, i succeeded in meeting my uncle, and we went together to my office. my uncle keeps his accounts with me. sometimes we look them over. we stayed until midnight; i dismissed my carriage. as we walked homeward we met some friends coming out of the rooms of the bagatelle club; five or six of my uncles and cousins, and also doctor keene. we all fell a-talking of my grandfather's _fête de grandpère_ of next month, and went to have some coffee. when we separated, and my uncle and my cousin achille grandissime and doctor keene and myself came down royal street, out from that dark alley behind your shop jumped a little man and stuck my uncle with a knife. if i had not caught his arm he would have killed my uncle." "and he escaped," said the apothecary. "no, sir!" said agricola, with his back turned. "i think he did. i do not think he was struck." "and mr. ----, your cousin?" "achille? i have sent him for a carriage." "why, agricola," said the doctor, snipping the loose ravellings from his patient's bandages, "an old man like you should not have enemies." "i am _not_ an old man, sir!" "i said _young_ man." "i am not a _young_ man, sir!" "i wonder who the fellow was," continued doctor keene, as he readjusted the ripped sleeve. "that is _my_ affair, sir; i know who it was." * * * * * "and yet she insists," m. grandissime was asking frowenfeld, standing with his leg thrown across the celestial globe, "that i knocked her down intentionally?" frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a rap on the door. "that is my cousin, with the carriage," said m. grandissime, following the apothecary into the shop. frowenfeld opened to a young man,--a rather poor specimen of the grandissime type, deficient in stature but not in stage manner. "_est il mort_?" he cried at the threshold. "mr. frowenfeld, let me make you acquainted with my cousin, achille grandissime." mr. achille grandissime gave frowenfeld such a bow as we see now only in pictures. "ve'y 'appe to meck, yo' acquaintenz!" agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and demanded in indignant thunder-tones, as he entered: "who--ordered--that--carriage?" "i did," said honoré. "will you please get into it at once." "ah! dear honoré!" exclaimed the old man, "always too kind! i go in it purely to please you." good-night was exchanged; honoré entered the vehicle and agricola was helped in. achille touched his hat, bowed and waved his hand to joseph, and shook hands with the doctor, and saying, "well, good-night. doctor keene," he shut himself out of the shop with another low bow. "think i am going to shake hands with an apothecary?" thought m. achille. doctor keene had refused honoré's invitation to go with them. "frowenfeld," he said, as he stood in the middle of the shop wiping a ring with a towel and looking at his delicate, freckled hand, "i propose, before going to bed with you, to eat some of your bread and cheese. aren't you glad?" "i shall be, doctor," replied the apothecary, "if you will tell me what all this means." "indeed i will not,--that is, not to-night. what? why, it would take until breakfast to tell what 'all this means,'--the story of that pestiferous darky bras coupé, with the rest? oh, no, sir. i would sooner not have any bread and cheese. what on earth has waked your curiosity so suddenly, anyhow?" "have you any idea who stabbed citizen fusilier?" was joseph's response. "why, at first i thought it was the other honoré grandissime; but when i saw how small the fellow was, i was at a loss, completely. but, whoever it is, he has my bullet in him, whatever honoré may think." "will mr. fusilier's wound give him much trouble?" asked joseph, as they sat down to a luncheon at the fire. "hardly; he has too much of the blood of lufki-humma in him. but i need not say that; for the grandissime blood is just as strong. a wonderful family, those grandissimes! they are an old, illustrious line, and the strength that was once in the intellect and will is going down into the muscles. i have an idea that their greatness began, hundreds of years ago, in ponderosity of arm,--of frame, say,--and developed from generation to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness of sinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into power of mind, then into subtleties of genius. now they are going back down the incline. look at honoré; he is high up on the scale, intellectual and sagacious. but look at him physically, too. what an exquisite mold! what compact strength! i should not wonder if he gets that from the indian queen. what endurance he has! he will probably go to his business by and by and not see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. he is the flower of the family, and possibly the last one. now, old agricola shows the downward grade better. seventy-five, if he is a day, with, maybe, one-fourth the attainments he pretends to have, and still less good sense; but strong--as an orang-outang. shall we go to bed?" chapter xviii new light upon dark places when the long, wakeful night was over, and the doctor gone, frowenfeld seated himself to record his usual observations of the weather; but his mind was elsewhere--here, there, yonder. there are understandings that expand, not imperceptibly hour by hour, but as certain flowers do, by little explosive ruptures, with periods of quiescence between. after this night of experiences it was natural that frowenfeld should find the circumference of his perceptions consciously enlarged. the daylight shone, not into his shop alone, but into his heart as well. the face of aurora, which had been the dawn to him before, was now a perfect sunrise, while in pleasant timeliness had come in this apollo of a honoré grandissime. the young immigrant was dazzled. he felt a longing to rise up and run forward in this flood of beams. he was unconscious of fatigue, or nearly so--would, have been wholly so but for the return by and by of that same dim shadow, or shadows, still rising and darting across every motion of the fancy that grouped again the actors in last night's scenes; not such shadows as naturally go with sunlight to make it seem brighter, but a something which qualified the light's perfection and the air's freshness. wherefore, resolved: that he would compound his life, from this time forward, by a new formula: books, so much; observation, so much; social intercourse, so much; love--as to that, time enough for that in the future (if he was in love with anybody, he certainly did not know it); of love, therefore, amount not yet necessary to state, but probably (when it should be introduced), in the generous proportion in which physicians prescribe _aqua_. resolved, in other words, without ceasing to be frowenfeld the studious, to begin at once the perusal of this newly found book, the community of new orleans. true, he knew he should find it a difficult task--not only that much of it was in a strange tongue, but that it was a volume whose displaced leaves would have to be lifted tenderly, blown free of much dust, re-arranged, some torn fragments laid together again with much painstaking, and even the purport of some pages guessed out. obviously, the place to commence at was that brightly illuminated title-page, the ladies nancanou. as the sun rose and diffused its beams in an atmosphere whose temperature had just been recorded as ° f., the apothecary stepped half out of his shop-door to face the bracing air that came blowing upon his tired forehead from the north. as he did so, he said to himself: "how are these two honoré grandissimes related to each other, and why should one be thought capable of attempting the life of agricola?" the answer was on its way to him. there is left to our eyes but a poor vestige of the picturesque view presented to those who looked down the rue royale before the garish day that changed the rue enghien into ingine street, and dropped the 'e' from royale. it was a long, narrowing perspective of arcades, lattices, balconies, _zaguans_, dormer windows, and blue sky--of low, tiled roofs, red and wrinkled, huddled down into their own shadows; of canvas awnings with fluttering borders, and of grimy lamp-posts twenty feet in height, each reaching out a gaunt iron arm over the narrow street and dangling a lamp from its end. the human life which dotted the view displayed a variety of tints and costumes such as a painter would be glad to take just as he found them: the gayly feathered indian, the slashed and tinselled mexican, the leather-breeched raftsmen, the blue-or yellow-turbaned _négresse_, the sugar-planter in white flannel and moccasins, the average townsman in the last suit of clothes of the lately deceased century, and now and then a fashionable man in that costume whose union of tight-buttoned martial severity, swathed throat, and effeminate superabundance of fine linen seemed to offer a sort of state's evidence against the pompous tyrannies and frivolities of the times. the _marchande des calas_ was out. she came toward joseph's shop, singing in a high-pitched nasal tone this new song: "dé'tit zozos--yé té assis-- dé'tit zozos--si la barrier. dé'tit zozos, qui zabotté; qui ça yé di' mo pas conné. "manzeur-poulet vini simin, croupé si yé et croqué yé; personn' pli' 'tend' yé zabotté-- dé'tit zozos si la barrier." "you lak dat song?" she asked, with a chuckle, as she let down from her turbaned head a flat indian basket of warm rice cakes. "what does it mean?" she laughed again--more than the questioner could see occasion for. "dat mean--two lill birds; dey was sittin' on de fence an' gabblin' togeddah, you know, lak you see two young gals sometime', an' you can't mek out w'at dey sayin', even ef dey know demself? h-ya! chicken-hawk come 'long dat road an' jes' set down an' munch 'em, an' nobody can't no mo' hea' deir lill gabblin' on de fence, you know." here she laughed again. joseph looked at her with severe suspicion, but she found refuge in benevolence. "honey, you ought to be asleep dis werry minit; look lak folks been a-worr'in' you. i's gwine to pick out de werry bes' _calas_ i's got for you." as she delivered them she courtesied, first to joseph and then, lower and with hushed gravity, to a person who passed into the shop behind him, bowing and murmuring politely as he passed. she followed the new-comer with her eyes, hastily accepted the price of the cakes, whispered, "dat's my mawstah," lifted her basket to her head and went away. her master was frowenfeld's landlord. frowenfeld entered after him, calas in hand, and with a grave "good-morning, sir." "--m'sieu'," responded the landlord, with a low bow. frowenfeld waited in silence. the landlord hesitated, looked around him, seemed about to speak, smiled, and said, in his soft, solemn voice, feeling his way word by word through the unfamiliar language: "ah lag to teg you apar'." "see me alone?" the landlord recognized his error by a fleeting smile. "alone," said he. "shall we go into my room?" "_s'il vous plait, m'sieu'_." frowenfeld's breakfast, furnished by contract from a neighboring kitchen, stood on the table. it was a frugal one, but more comfortable than formerly, and included coffee, that subject of just pride in creole cookery. joseph deposited his _calas_ with these things and made haste to produce a chair, which his visitor, as usual, declined. "idd you' bregfuz, m'sieu'." "i can do that afterward," said frowenfeld; but the landlord insisted and turned away from him to look up at the books on the wall, precisely as that other of the same name had done a few weeks before. frowenfeld, as he broke his loaf, noticed this, and, as the landlord turned his face to speak, wondered that he had not before seen the common likeness. "dez stog," said the sombre man. "what, sir? oh!--dead stock? but how can the materials of an education be dead stock?" the landlord shrugged. he would not argue the point. one american trait which the creole is never entirely ready to encounter is this gratuitous yankee way of going straight to the root of things. "dead stock in a mercantile sense, you mean," continued the apothecary; "but are men right in measuring such things only by their present market value?" the landlord had no reply. it was little to him, his manner intimated; his contemplation dwelt on deeper flaws in human right and wrong; yet--but it was needless to discuss it. however, he did speak. "ah was elevade in pariz." "educated in paris," exclaimed joseph, admiringly. "then you certainly cannot find your education dead stock." the grave, not amused, smile which was the landlord's only rejoinder, though perfectly courteous, intimated that his tenant was sailing over depths of the question that he was little aware of. but the smile in a moment gave way for the look of one who was engrossed with another subject. "m'sieu'," he began; but just then joseph made an apologetic gesture and went forward to wait upon an inquirer after "godfrey's cordial;" for that comforter was known to be obtainable at "frowenfeld's." the business of the american drug-store was daily increasing. when frowenfeld returned his landlord stood ready to address him, with the air of having decided to make short of a matter. "m'sieu' ----" "have a seat, sir," urged the apothecary. his visitor again declined, with his uniform melancholy grace. he drew close to frowenfeld. "ah wand you mague me one _ouangan_," he said. joseph shook his head. he remembered doctor keene's expressed suspicion concerning the assault of the night before. "i do not understand you, sir; what is that?" "you know." the landlord offered a heavy, persuading smile. "an unguent? is that what you mean--an ointment?" "m'sieu'," said the applicant, with a not-to-be-deceived expression, "_vous êtes astrologue--magicien--" "god forbid!" the landlord was grossly incredulous. "you godd one 'p'tit albert.'" he dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book on the table, whose title much use had effaced. "that is the bible. i do not know what the tee albare is!" frowenfeld darted an aroused glance into the ever-courteous eyes of his visitor, who said without a motion: "you di'n't gave agricola fusilier _une ouangan, la nuit passé_?" "sir?" "ee was yeh?--laz nighd?" "mr. fusilier was here last night--yes. he had been attacked by an assassin and slightly wounded. he was accompanied by his nephew, who, i suppose, is your cousin: he has the same name." frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, concluded with a propitiatory smile, which, however, was not reflected. "ma bruzzah," said the visitor. "your brother!" "ma whide bruzzah; ah ham nod whide, m'sieu'." joseph said nothing. he was too much awed to speak; the ejaculation that started toward his lips turned back and rushed into his heart, and it was the quadroon who, after a moment, broke the silence: "ah ham de holdez son of numa grandissime." "yes--yes," said frowenfeld, as if he would wave away something terrible. "nod sell me--_ouangan_?" asked the landlord, again. "sir," exclaimed frowenfeld, taking a step backward, "pardon me if i offend you; that mixture of blood which draws upon you the scorn of this community is to me nothing--nothing! and every invidious distinction made against you on that account i despise! but, sir, whatever may be either your private wrongs, or the wrongs you suffer in common with your class, if you have it in your mind to employ any manner of secret art against the interests or person of any one--" the landlord was making silent protestations, and his tenant, lost in a wilderness of indignant emotions, stopped. "m'sieu'," began the quadroon, but ceased and stood with an expression of annoyance every moment deepening on his face, until he finally shook his head slowly, and said with a baffled smile: "ah can nod spig engliss." "write it," said frowenfeld, lifting forward a chair. the landlord, for the first time in their acquaintance, accepted a seat, bowing low as he did so, with a demonstration of profound gratitude that just perceptibly heightened his even dignity. paper, quills, and ink were handed down from a shelf and joseph retired into the shop. honoré grandissime, f.m.c. (these initials could hardly have come into use until some months later, but the convenience covers the sin of the slight anachronism), honoré grandissime, free man of color, entered from the rear room so silently that joseph was first made aware of his presence by feeling him at his elbow. he handed the apothecary--but a few words in time, lest we misjudge. * * * * * the father of the two honorés was that numa grandissime--that mere child--whom the grand marquis, to the great chagrin of the de grapions, had so early cadetted. the commission seems not to have been thrown away. while the province was still in first hands, numa's was a shining name in the annals of kerlerec's unsatisfactory indian wars; and in (when the colonists, ill-informed, inflammable, and long ill-governed, resisted the transfer of louisiana to spain), at a time of life when most young men absorb all the political extravagances of their day, he had stood by the side of law and government, though the popular cry was a frenzied one for "liberty." moreover, he had held back his whole chafing and stamping tribe from a precipice of disaster, and had secured valuable recognition of their office-holding capacities from that really good governor and princely irishman whose one act of summary vengeance upon a few insurgent office-coveters has branded him in history as cruel o'reilly. but the experience of those days turned numa gray, and withal he was not satisfied with their outcome. in the midst of the struggle he had weakened in one manly resolve--against his will he married. the lady was a fusilier, agricola's sister, a person of rare intelligence and beauty, whom, from early childhood, the secret counsels of his seniors had assigned to him. despite this, he had said he would never marry; he made, he said, no pretensions to severe conscientiousness, or to being better than others, but--as between his maker and himself--he had forfeited the right to wed, they all knew how. but the fusiliers had become very angry and numa, finding strife about to ensue just when without unity he could not bring an undivided clan through the torrent of the revolution, had "nobly sacrificed a little sentimental feeling," as his family defined it, by breaking faith with the mother of the man now standing at joseph frowenfeld's elbow, and who was then a little toddling boy. it was necessary to save the party--nay, that was a slip; we should say, to save the family; this is not a parable. yet numa loved his wife. she bore him a boy and a girl, twins; and as her son grew in physical, intellectual, and moral symmetry, he indulged the hope that--the ambition and pride of all the various grandissimes now centering in this lawful son, and all strife being lulled--he should yet see this honoré right the wrongs which he had not quite dared to uproot. and honoré inherited the hope and began to make it an intention and aim even before his departure (with his half-brother the other honoré) for school in paris, at the early age of fifteen. numa soon after died, and honoré, after various fortunes in paris, london, and elsewhere, in the care, or at least company, of a pious uncle in holy orders, returned to the ancestral mansion. the father's will--by the law they might have set it aside, but that was not their way--left the darker honoré the bulk of his fortune, the younger a competency. the latter--instead of taking office, as an ancient grandissime should have done--to the dismay and mortification of his kindred, established himself in a prosperous commercial business. the elder bought houses and became a _rentier_. * * * * * the landlord handed the apothecary the following writing: mr. joseph frowenfeld: think not that anybody is to be either poisoned by me nor yet to be made a sufferer by the exercise of anything by me of the character of what is generally known as grigri, otherwise magique. this, sir, i do beg your permission to offer my assurance to you of the same. ah, no! it is not for that! i am the victim of another entirely and a far differente and dissimilar passion, _i.e._, love. esteemed sir, speaking or writing to you as unto the only man of exclusively white blood whom i believe is in louisiana willing to do my dumb, suffering race the real justice, i love palmyre la philosophe with a madness which is by the human lips or tongues not possible to be exclaimed (as, i may add, that i have in the same like manner since exactley nine years and seven months and some days). alas! heavens! i can't help it in the least particles at all! what, what shall i do, for ah! it is pitiful! she loves me not at all, but, on the other hand, is (if i suspicion not wrongfully) wrapped up head and ears in devotion of one who does not love her, either, so cold and incapable of appreciation is he. i allude to honoré grandissime. ah! well do i remember the day when we returned--he and me--from the france. she was there when we landed on that levee, she was among that throng of kindreds and domestiques, she shind like the evening star as she stood there (it was the first time i saw her, but she was known to him when at fifteen he left his home, but i resided not under my own white father's roof--not at all--far from that). she cried out "a la fin to vini!" and leap herself with both resplendant arm around his neck and kist him twice on the one cheek and the other, and her resplendant eyes shining with a so great beauty. if you will give me a _poudre d'amour_ such as i doubt not your great knowledge enable you to make of a power that cannot to be resist, while still at the same time of a harmless character toward the life or the health of such that i shall succeed in its use to gain the affections of that emperice of my soul, i hesitate not to give you such price as it may please you to nominate up as high as to $l, --nay, more. sir, will you do that? i have the honor to remain, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, h. grandissime. frowenfeld slowly transferred his gaze from the paper to his landlord's face. dejection and hope struggled with each other in the gaze that was returned; but when joseph said, with a countenance full of pity, "i have no power to help you," the disappointed lover merely looked fixedly for a moment in the direction of the street, then lifted his hat toward his head, bowed, and departed. chapter xix art and commerce it was some two or three days after the interview just related that the apothecary of the rue royale found it necessary to ask a friend to sit in the shop a few minutes while he should go on a short errand. he was kept away somewhat longer than he had intended to stay, for, as they were coming out of the cathedral, he met aurora and clotilde. both the ladies greeted him with a cordiality which was almost inebriating, aurora even extending her hand. he stood but a moment, responding blushingly to two or three trivial questions from her; yet even in so short a time, and although clotilde gave ear with the sweetest smiles and loveliest changes of countenance, he experienced a lively renewal of a conviction that this young lady was most unjustly harboring toward him a vague disrelish, if not a positive distrust. that she had some mental reservation was certain. "'sieur frowenfel'," said aurora, as he raised his hat for good-day, "you din come home yet." he did not understand until he had crimsoned and answered he knew not what--something about having intended every day. he felt lifted he knew not where, paradise opened, there was a flood of glory, and then he was alone; the ladies, leaving adieus sweeter than the perfume they carried away with them, floated into the south and were gone. why was it that the elder, though plainly regarded by the younger with admiration, dependence, and overflowing affection, seemed sometimes to be, one might almost say, watched by her? he liked aurora the better. on his return to the shop his friend remarked that if he received many such visitors as the one who had called during his absence, he might be permitted to be vain. it was honoré grandissime, and he had left no message. "frowenfeld," said his friend, "it would pay you to employ a regular assistant." joseph was in an abstracted mood. "i have some thought of doing so." unlucky slip! as he pushed open his door next morning, what was his dismay to find himself confronted by some forty men. five of them leaped up from the door-sill, and some thirty-five from the edge of the _trottoir_, brushed that part of their wearing-apparel which always fits with great neatness on a creole, and trooped into the shop. the apothecary fell behind his defences, that is to say, his prescription desk, and explained to them in a short and spirited address that he did not wish to employ any of them on any terms. nine-tenths of them understood not a word of english; but his gesture was unmistakable. they bowed gratefully, and said good-day. now frowenfeld did these young men an injustice; and though they were far from letting him know it, some of them felt it and interchanged expressions of feeling reproachful to him as they stopped on the next corner to watch a man painting a sign. he had treated them as if they all wanted situations. was this so? far from it. only twenty men were applicants; the other twenty were friends who had come to see them get the place. and again, though, as the apothecary had said, none of them knew anything about the drug business--no, nor about any other business under the heavens--they were all willing that he should teach them--except one. a young man of patrician softness and costly apparel tarried a moment after the general exodus, and quickly concluded that on frowenfeld's account it was probably as well that he could not qualify, since he was expecting from france an important government appointment as soon as these troubles should be settled and louisiana restored to her former happy condition. but he had a friend--a cousin--whom he would recommend, just the man for the position; a splendid fellow; popular, accomplished--what? the best trainer of dogs that m. frowenfeld might ever hope to look upon; a "so good fisherman as i never saw! "--the marvel of the ball-room--could handle a partner of twice his weight; the speaker had seen him take a lady so tall that his head hardly came up to her bosom, whirl her in the waltz from right to left--this way! and then, as quick as lightning, turn and whirl her this way, from left to right--"so grezful ligue a peajohn! he could read and write, and knew more comig song!"--the speaker would hasten to secure him before he should take some other situation. the wonderful waltzer never appeared upon the scene; yet joseph made shift to get along, and by and by found a man who partially met his requirements. the way of it was this: with his forefinger in a book which he had been reading, he was one day pacing his shop floor in deep thought. there were two loose threads hanging from the web of incident weaving around him which ought to connect somewhere; but where? they were the two visits made to his shop by the young merchant, honoré grandissime. he stopped still to think; what "train of thought" could he have started in the mind of such a man? he was about to resume his walk, when there came in, or more strictly speaking, there shot in, a young, auburn-curled, blue-eyed man, whose adolescent buoyancy, as much as his delicate, silver-buckled feet and clothes of perfect fit, pronounced him all-pure creole. his name, when it was presently heard, accounted for the blond type by revealing a franco-celtic origin. "'sieur frowenfel'," he said, advancing like a boy coming in after recess, "i 'ave somet'ing beauteeful to place into yo' window." he wheeled half around as he spoke and seized from a naked black boy, who at that instant entered, a rectangular object enveloped in paper. frowenfeld's window was fast growing to be a place of art exposition. a pair of statuettes, a golden tobacco-box, a costly jewel-casket, or a pair of richly gemmed horse-pistols--the property of some ancient gentleman or dame of emaciated fortune, and which must be sold to keep up the bravery of good clothes and pomade that hid slow starvation--went into the shop-window of the ever-obliging apothecary, to be disposed of by _tombola_. and it is worthy of note in passing, concerning the moral education of one who proposed to make no conscious compromise with any sort of evil, that in this drivelling species of gambling he saw nothing hurtful or improper. but "in frowenfeld's window" appeared also articles for simple sale or mere transient exhibition; as, for instance, the wonderful tapestries of a blind widow of ninety; tremulous little bunches of flowers, proudly stated to have been made entirely of the bones of the ordinary catfish; others, large and spreading, the sight of which would make any botanist fall down "and die as mad as the wild waves be," whose ticketed merit was that they were composed exclusively of materials produced upon creole soil; a picture of the ursulines' convent and chapel, done in forty-five minutes by a child of ten years, the daughter of the widow felicie grandissime; and the siege of troy, in ordinary ink, done entirely with the pen, the labor of twenty years, by "a citizen of new orleans." it was natural that these things should come to "frowenfeld's corner," for there, oftener than elsewhere, the critics were gathered together. ah! wonderful men, those critics; and, fortunately, we have a few still left. the young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting. he said nothing--with his mouth; but stood at arm's length balancing the painting and casting now upon it and now upon joseph frowenfeld a look more replete with triumph than caesar's three-worded dispatch. the apothecary fixed upon it long and silently the gaze of a somnambulist. at length he spoke: "what is it?" "louisiana rif-using to hanter de h-union!" replied the creole, with an ecstasy that threatened to burst forth in hip-hurrahs. joseph said nothing, but silently wondered at louisiana's anatomy. "gran' subjec'!" said the creole. "allegorical," replied the hard-pressed apothecary. "allegoricon? no, sir! allegoricon never saw dat pigshoe. if you insist to know who make dat pigshoe--de hartis' stan' bif-ore you!" "it is your work?" "'tis de work of me, raoul innerarity, cousin to de disting-wish honoré grandissime. i swear to you, sir, on stack of bible' as 'igh as yo' head!" he smote his breast. "do you wish to put it in the window?" "yes, seh." "for sale?" m. raoul innerarity hesitated a moment before replying: "'sieur frowenfel', i think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh? i want you to say, 'my frien', 'sieur innerarity, never care to sell anything; 'tis for egs-hibby-shun'; _mais_--when somebody look at it, so," the artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetousness, "'you say, _foudre tonnerre!_ what de dev'!--i take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty--you can have her for two hun'red fifty dollah!' better not be too proud, eh, 'sieur frowenfel'?" "no, sir," said joseph, proceeding to place it in the window, his new friend following him about spanielwise; "but you had better let me say plainly that it is for sale." "oh--i don't care--_mais_--my rillation' will never forgive me! _mais_--go-ahead-i-don't-care! 't is for sale." "'sieur frowenfel'," he resumed, as they came away from the window, "one week ago"--he held up one finger--"what i was doing? makin' bill of ladin', my faith!--for my cousin honoré! an' now, i ham a hartis'! so soon i foun' dat, i say, 'cousin honoré,'"--the eloquent speaker lifted his foot and administered to the empty air a soft, polite kick--"i never goin' to do anoder lick o' work so long i live; adieu!" he lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the direction of his cousin's office. "mr. innerarity," exclaimed the apothecary, "i fear you are making a great mistake." "you tink i hass too much?" "well, sir, to be candid, i do; but that is not your greatest mistake." "what she's worse?" the apothecary simultaneously smiled and blushed. "i would rather not say; it is a passably good example of creole art; there is but one way by which it can ever be worth what you ask for it." "what dat is?" the smile faded and the blush deepened as frowenfeld replied: "if it could become the means of reminding this community that crude ability counts next to nothing in art, and that nothing else in this world ought to work so hard as genius, it would be worth thousands of dollars!" "you tink she is worse a t'ousand dollah?" asked the creole, shadow and sunshine chasing each other across his face. "no, sir." the unwilling critic strove unnecessarily against his smile. "ow much you tink?" "mr. innerarity, as an exercise it is worth whatever truth or skill it has taught you; to a judge of paintings it is ten dollars' worth of paint thrown away; but as an article of sale it is worth what it will bring without misrepresentation." "two--hun-rade an'--fifty--dollahs or--not'in'!" said the indignant creole, clenching one fist, and with the other hand lifting his hat by the front corner and slapping it down upon the counter. "ha, ha, ha! a pase of waint--a wase of paint! 'sieur frowenfel', you don' know not'in' 'bout it! you har a jedge of painting?" he added cautiously. "no, sir." "_eh, bien! foudre tonnerre_!--look yeh! you know? 'sieur frowenfel'? dat de way de publique halways talk about a hartis's firs' pigshoe. but, i hass you to pardon me, monsieur frowenfel', if i 'ave speak a lill too warm." "then you must forgive me if, in my desire to set you right, i have spoken with too much liberty. i probably should have said only what i first intended to say, that unless you are a person of independent means--" "you t'ink i would make bill of ladin'? ah! hm-m!" "--that you had made a mistake in throwing up your means of support--" "but 'e 'as fill de place an' don' want me no mo'. you want a clerk?--one what can speak fo' lang-widge--french, eng-lish, spanish, _an'_ italienne? come! i work for you in de mawnin' an' paint in de evenin'; come!" joseph was taken unaware. he smiled, frowned, passed his hand across his brow, noticed, for the first time since his delivery of the picture, the naked little boy standing against the edge of a door, said, "why--," and smiled again. "i riffer you to my cousin honoré," said innerarity. "have you any knowledge of this business?" "i 'ave.' "can you keep shop in the forenoon or afternoon indifferently, as i may require?" "eh? forenoon--afternoon?" was the reply. "can you paint sometimes in the morning and keep shop in the evening?" "yes, seh." minor details were arranged on the spot. raoul dismissed the black boy, took off his coat and fell to work decanting something, with the understanding that his salary, a microscopic one, should begin from date if his cousin should recommend him. "'sieur frowenfel'," he called from under the counter, later in the day, "you t'ink it would be hanny disgrace to paint de pigshoe of a niggah?" "certainly not." "ah, my soul! what a pigshoe i could paint of bras-coupé!" we have the afflatus in louisiana, if nothing else. chapter xx a very natural mistake mr. raoul innerarity proved a treasure. the fact became patent in a few hours. to a student of the community he was a key, a lamp, a lexicon, a microscope, a tabulated statement, a book of heraldry, a city directory, a glass of wine, a book of days, a pair of wings, a comic almanac, a diving bell, a creole _veritas_. before the day had had time to cool, his continual stream of words had done more to elucidate the mysteries in which his employer had begun to be befogged than half a year of the apothecary's slow and scrupulous guessing. it was like showing how to carve a strange fowl. the way he dovetailed story into story and drew forward in panoramic procession lufki-humma and epaminondas fusilier, zephyr grandissime and the lady of the _lettre de cachet_, demosthenes de grapion and the _fille à l'hôpital_, georges de grapion and the _fille à la cassette_, numa grandissime, father of the two honorés, young nancanou and old agricola,--the way he made them "knit hands and beat the ground in a light, fantastic round," would have shamed the skilled volubility of sheharazade. "look!" said the story-teller, summing up; "you take hanny 'istory of france an' see the hage of my familie. pipple talk about de boulignys, de sauvés, de grandprès, de lemoynes, de st. maxents,--bla-a-a! de grandissimes is as hole as de dev'! what? de mose of de creole families is not so hold as plenty of my yallah kinfolks!" the apothecary found very soon that a little salt improved m. raoul's statements. but here he was, a perfect treasure, and frowenfeld, fleeing before his illimitable talking power in order to digest in seclusion the ancestral episodes of the grandissimes and de grapions, laid pleasant plans for the immediate future. to-morrow morning he would leave the shop in raoul's care and call on m. honoré grandissime to advise with him concerning the retention of the born artist as a drug-clerk. to-morrow evening he would pluck courage and force his large but bashful feet up to the doorstep of number rue bienville. and the next evening he would go and see what might be the matter with doctor keene, who had looked ill on last parting with the evening group that lounged in frowenfeld's door, some three days before. the intermediate hours were to be devoted, of course, to the prescription desk and his "dead stock." and yet after this order of movement had been thus compactly planned, there all the more seemed still to be that abroad which, now on this side, and now on that, was urging him in a nervous whisper to make haste. there had escaped into the air, it seemed, and was gliding about, the expectation of a crisis. such a feeling would have been natural enough to the tenants of number rue bienville, now spending the tenth of the eighteen days of grace allowed them in which to save their little fortress. for palmyre's assurance that the candle burning would certainly cause the rent-money to be forthcoming in time was to clotilde unknown, and to aurora it was poor stuff to make peace of mind of. but there was a degree of impracticability in these ladies, which, if it was unfortunate, was, nevertheless, a part of their creole beauty, and made the absence of any really brilliant outlook what the galaxy makes a moonless sky. perhaps they had not been as diligent as they might have been in canvassing all possible ways and means for meeting the pecuniary emergency so fast bearing down upon them. from a creole standpoint, they were not bad managers. they could dress delightfully on an incredibly small outlay; could wear a well-to-do smile over an inward sigh of stifled hunger; could tell the parents of their one or two scholars to consult their convenience, and then come home to a table that would make any kind soul weep; but as to estimating the velocity of bills-payable in their orbits, such trained sagacity was not theirs. their economy knew how to avoid what the creole-african apothegm calls _commerce man lizon--qui asseté pou' trois picaillons et vend' pou' ein escalin_ (bought for three picayunes and sold for two); but it was an economy that made their very hound a spartan; for, had that economy been half as wise as it was heroic, his one meal a day would not always have been the cook's leavings of cold rice and the lickings of the gumbo plates. on the morning fixed by joseph frowenfeld for calling on m. grandissime, on the banquette of the rue toulouse, directly in front of an old spanish archway and opposite a blacksmith's shop,--this blacksmith's shop stood between a jeweller's store and a large, balconied and dormer-windowed wine-warehouse--aurore nancanou, closely veiled, had halted in a hesitating way and was inquiring of a gigantic negro cartman the whereabouts of the counting-room of m. honoré grandissime. before he could respond she descried the name upon a staircase within the archway, and, thanking the cartman as she would have thanked a prince, hastened to ascend. an inspiring smell of warm rusks, coming from a bakery in the paved court below, rushed through the archway and up the stair and accompanied her into the cemetery-like silence of the counting-room. there were in the department some fourteen clerks. it was a den of grandissimes. more than half of them were men beyond middle life, and some were yet older. one or two were so handsome, under their noble silvery locks, that almost any woman--clotilde, for instance,--would have thought, "no doubt that one, or that one, is the head of the house." aurora approached the railing which shut in the silent toilers and directed her eyes to the farthest corner of the room. there sat there at a large desk a thin, sickly-looking man with very sore eyes and two pairs of spectacles, plying a quill with a privileged loudness. "h-h-m-m!" said she, very softly. a young man laid down his rule and stepped to the rail with a silent bow. his face showed a jaded look. night revelry, rather than care or years, had wrinkled it; but his bow was high-bred. "madame,"--in an undertone. "monsieur, it is m. grandissime whom i wish to see," she said in french. but the young man responded in english. "you har one tenant, ent it?" "yes, seh." "zen eet ees m. de brahmin zat you 'ave to see." "no, seh; m. grandissime." "m. grandissime nevva see one tenant." "i muz see m. grandissime." aurora lifted her veil and laid it up on her bonnet. the clerk immediately crossed the floor to the distant desk. the quill of the sore-eyed man scratched louder--scratch, scratch--as though it were trying to scratch under the door of number rue bienville--for a moment, and then ceased. the clerk, with one hand behind him and one touching the desk, murmured a few words, to which the other, after glancing under his arm at aurora, gave a short, low reply and resumed his pen. the clerk returned, came through a gateway in the railing, led the way into a rich inner room, and turning with another courtly bow, handed her a cushioned armchair and retired. "after eighteen years," thought aurora, as she found herself alone. it had been eighteen years since any representative of the de grapion line had met a grandissime face to face, so far as she knew; even that representative was only her deceased husband, a mere connection by marriage. how many years it was since her grandfather, georges de grapion, captain of dragoons, had had his fatal meeting with a mandarin de grandissime, she did not remember. there, opposite her on the wall, was the portrait of a young man in a corslet who might have been m. mandarin himself. she felt the blood of her race growing warmer in her veins. "insolent tribe," she said, without speaking, "we have no more men left to fight you; but now wait. see what a woman can do." these thoughts ran through her mind as her eye passed from one object to another. something reminded her of frowenfeld, and, with mingled defiance at her inherited enemies and amusement at the apothecary, she indulged in a quiet smile. the smile was still there as her glance in its gradual sweep reached a small mirror. she almost leaped from her seat. not because that mirror revealed a recess which she had not previously noticed; not because behind a costly desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not because he might have been observing her, for it was altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, he had avoided looking up; nor because this was evidently honoré grandissime; but because honoré grandissime, if this were he, was the same person whom she had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy--the rider whose horse ten days ago had knocked her down, the lieutenant of dragoons who had unmasked and to whom she had unmasked at the ball! fly! but where? how? it was too late; she had not even time to lower her veil. m. grandissime looked up at the glass, dropped the letter with a slight start of consternation and advanced quickly toward her. for an instant her embarrassment showed itself in a mantling blush and a distressful yearning to escape; but the next moment she rose, all a-flutter within, it is true, but with a face as nearly sedate as the inborn witchery of her eyes would allow. he spoke in parisian french: "please be seated, madame." she sank down. "do you wish to see me?" "no, sir." she did not see her way out of this falsehood, but--she couldn't say yes. silence followed. "whom do--" "i wish to see m. honoré grandissime." "that is my name, madame." "ah!"--with an angelic smile; she had collected her wits now, and was ready for war. "you are not one of his clerks?" m. grandissime smiled softly, while he said to himself: "you little honey-bee, you want to sting me, eh?" and then he answered her question. "no, madame; i am the gentleman you are looking for." "the gentleman she was look--" her pride resented the fact. "me!"--thought she--"i am the lady whom, i have not a doubt, you have been longing to meet ever since the ball;" but her look was unmoved gravity. she touched her handkerchief to her lips and handed him the rent notice. "i received that from your office the monday before last." there was a slight emphasis in the announcement of the time; it was the day of the run-over. honoré grandissime, stopping with the rent-notice only half unfolded, saw the advisability of calling up all the resources of his sagacity and wit in order to answer wisely; and as they answered his call a brighter nobility so overspread face and person that aurora inwardly exclaimed at it even while she exulted in her thrust. "monday before last?" she slightly bowed. "a serious misfortune befell me that day," said m. grandissime. "ah?" replied the lady, raising her brows with polite distress, "but you have entirely recovered, i suppose." "it was i, madame, who that evening caused you a mortification for which i fear you will accept no apology." "on the contrary," said aurora, with an air of generous protestation, "it is i who should apologize; i fear i injured your horse." m. grandissime only smiled, and opening the rent-notice dropped his glance upon it while he said in a preoccupied tone: "my horse is very well, i thank you." but as he read the paper, his face assumed a serious air and he seemed to take an unnecessary length of time to reach the bottom of it. "he is trying to think how he will get rid of me," thought aurora; "he is making up some pretext with which to dismiss me, and when the tenth of march comes we shall be put into the street." m. grandissime extended the letter toward her, but she did not lift her hands. "i beg to assure you, madame, i could never have permitted this notice to reach you from my office; i am not the honoré grandissime for whom this is signed." aurora smiled in a way to signify clearly that that was just the subterfuge she had been anticipating. had she been at home she would have thrown herself, face downward, upon the bed; but she only smiled meditatively upward at the picture of an east indian harbor and made an unnecessary rearrangement of her handkerchief under her folded hands. "there are, you know,"--began honoré, with a smile which changed the meaning to "you know very well there are"--"two honoré grandissimes. this one who sent you this letter is a man of color--" "oh!" exclaimed aurora, with a sudden malicious sparkle. "if you will entrust this paper to me," said honoré, quietly, "i will see him and do now engage that you shall have no further trouble about it. of course, i do not mean that i will pay it, myself; i dare not offer to take such a liberty." then he felt that a warm impulse had carried him a step too far. aurora rose up with a refusal as firm as it was silent. she neither smiled nor scintillated now, but wore an expression of amiable practicality as she presently said, receiving back the rent-notice as she spoke: "i thank you, sir, but it might seem strange to him to find his notice in the hands of a person who can claim no interest in the matter. i shall have to attend to it myself." "ah! little enchantress," thought her grave-faced listener, as he gave attention, "this, after all--ball and all--is the mood in which you look your very, very best"--a fact which nobody knew better than the enchantress herself. he walked beside her toward the open door leading back into the counting-room, and the dozen or more clerks, who, each by some ingenuity of his own, managed to secure a glimpse of them, could not fail to feel that they had never before seen quite so fair a couple. but she dropped her veil, bowed m. grandissime a polite "no farther," and passed out. m. grandissime walked once up and down his private office, gave the door a soft push with his foot and lighted a cigar. the clerk who had before acted as usher came in and handed him a slip of paper with a name written on it. m. grandissime folded it twice, gazed out the window, and finally nodded. the clerk disappeared, and joseph frowenfeld paused an instant in the door and then advanced, with a buoyant good-morning. "good-morning," responded m. grandissime. he smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a mechanical and preoccupied air that was not what joseph felt justified in expecting. "how can i serve you, mr. frhowenfeld?" asked the merchant, glancing through into the counting-room. his coldness was almost all in joseph's imagination, but to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearly induced to walk away without answering. however, he replied: "a young man whom i have employed refers to you to recommend him." "yes, sir? prhay, who is that?" "your cousin, i believe, mr. raoul innerarity." m. grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two steps toward his desk. "rhaoul? oh yes, i rhecommend rhaoul to you. as an assistant in yo' sto'?--the best man you could find." "thank you, sir," said joseph, coldly. "good-morning!" he added turning to go. "mr. frhowenfeld," said the other, "do you evva rhide?" "i used to ride," replied the apothecary, turning, hat in hand, and wondering what such a question could mean. "if i send a saddle-hoss to yo' do' on day aftah to-morrhow evening at fo' o'clock, will you rhide out with me for-h about a hour-h and a half--just for a little pleasu'e?" joseph was yet more astonished than before. he hesitated, accepted the invitation, and once more said good-morning. chapter xxi doctor keene recovers his bullet it early attracted the apothecary's notice, in observing the civilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false bottoms in its social errors only by incessant reiteration. as he re-entered the shop, dissatisfied with himself for accepting m. grandissime's invitation to ride, he knew by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips of his employee that the f.m.c. had been making one of his reconnoisances, and possibly had ventured in to inquire for his tenant. "i t'ink, me, dat hanny w'ite man is a gen'leman; but i don't care if a man are good like a h-angel, if 'e har not pu'e w'ite '_ow can_ 'e be a gen'leman?" raoul's words were addressed to a man who, as he rose up and handed frowenfeld a note, ratified the creole's sentiment by a spurt of tobacco juice and an affirmative "hm-m." the note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date. dear joe: come and see me some time this evening. i am on my back in bed. want your help in a little matter. yours, keene. i have found out who ---- ----" frowenfeld pondered: "i have found out who ---- ----" ah! doctor keene had found out who stabbed agricola. some delays occurred in the afternoon, but toward sunset the apothecary dressed and went out. from the doctor's bedside in the rue st. louis, if not delayed beyond all expectation, he would proceed to visit the ladies at number rue bienville. the air was growing cold and threatening bad weather. he found the doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross and almost too weak for speech. he could only whisper, as his friend approached his pillow: "these vile lungs!" "hemorrhage?" the invalid held up three small, freckled fingers. joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed savage not to express some feeling, so after standing a moment he began to say: "i am very sorry--" "you needn't bother yourself!" whispered the doctor, who lay frowning upward. by and by he whispered again. frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry when well, repeated, in a savage hiss: "sit down!" it was some time before he again broke the silence. "tell you what i want--you to do--for me." "well, sir--" "hold on!" gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes with impatience,--"till i get through." he lay a little while motionless, and then drew from under his pillow a wallet, and from the wallet a pistol-ball. "took that out--a badly neglected wound--last day i saw you." here a pause, an appalling cough, and by and by a whisper: "knew the bullet in an instant." he smiled wearily. "peculiar size." he made a feeble motion. frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and handed him a pistol from a small table. the ball slipped softly home. "refused two hundred dollars--those pistols"--with a sigh and closed eyes. by and by again--"patient had smart fever--but it will be gone--time you get--there. want you to--take care--t' i get up." "but, doctor--" the sick man turned away his face with a petulant frown; but presently, with an effort at self-control, brought it back and whispered: "you mean you--not physician?" "yes." "no. no more are half--doc's. you can do it. simple gun-shot wound in the shoulder." a rest. "pretty wound; ranges"--he gave up the effort to describe it. "you'll see it." another rest. "you see--this matter has been kept quiet so far. i don't want any one--else to know--anything about it." he sighed audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep, but whispered again, with his eyes closed--"'specially on culprit's own account." frowenfeld was silent: but the invalid was waiting for an answer, and, not getting it, stirred peevishly. "do you wish me to go to-night?" asked the apothecary. "to-morrow morning. will you--?" "certainly, doctor." the invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking steadily at his friend, and finally let a faint smile play about his mouth,--a wan reminder of his habitual roguery. "good boy," he whispered. frowenfeld rose and straightened the bedclothes, took a few steps about the room, and finally returned. the doctor's restless eye had followed him at every movement. "you'll go?" "yes," replied the apothecary, hat in hand; "where is it?" "corner bienville and bourbon,--upper river corner,--yellow one-story house, doorsteps on street. you know the house?" "i think i do." "good-night. here!--i wish you would send that black girl in here--as you go out--make me better fire--joe!" the call was a ghostly whisper. frowenfeld paused in the door. "you don't mind my--bad manners, joe?" the apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles. "no, doctor." he started toward number rue bienville, but a light, cold sprinkle set in, and he turned back toward his shop. no sooner had the rain got him there than it stopped, as rain sometimes will do. chapter xxii wars within the breast the next morning came in frigid and gray. the unseasonable numerals which the meteorologist recorded in his tables might have provoked a superstitious lover of better weather to suppose that monsieur danny, the head imp of discord, had been among the aërial currents. the passionate southern sky, looking down and seeing some six thousand to seventy-five hundred of her favorite children disconcerted and shivering, tried in vain, for two hours, to smile upon them with a little frozen sunshine, and finally burst into tears. in thus giving way to despondency, it is sad to say, the sky was closely imitating the simultaneous behavior of aurora nancanou. never was pretty lady in cheerier mood than that in which she had come home from honoré's counting-room. hard would it be to find the material with which to build again the castles-in-air that she founded upon two or three little discoveries there made. should she tell them to clotilde? ah! and for what? no, clotilde was a dear daughter--ha! few women were capable of having such a daughter as clotilde; but there were things about which she was entirely too scrupulous. so, when she came in from that errand profoundly satisfied that she would in future hear no more about the rent than she might choose to hear, she had been too shrewd to expose herself to her daughter's catechising. she would save her little revelations for disclosure when they might be used to advantage. as she threw her bonnet upon the bed, she exclaimed, in a tone of gentle and wearied reproach: "why did you not remind me that m. honoré grandissime, that precious somebody-great, has the honor to rejoice in a quadroon half-brother of the same illustrious name? why did you not remind me, eh?" "ah! and you know it as well as a, b, c," playfully retorted clotilde. "well, guess which one is our landlord?" "which one?" "_ma foi_! how do _i_ know? i had to wait a shameful long time to see _monsieur le prince_,--just because i am a de grapion, i know. when at last i saw him, he says, 'madame, this is the other honoré grandissime.' there, you see we are the victims of a conspiracy; if i go to the other, he will send me back to the first. but, clotilde, my darling," cried the beautiful speaker, beamingly, "dismiss all fear and care; we shall have no more trouble about it." "and how, indeed, do you know that?" "something tells it to me in my ear. i feel it! trust in providence, my child. look at me, how happy i am; but you--you never trust in providence. that is why we have so much trouble,--because you don't trust in providence. oh! i am so hungry, let us have dinner." "what sort of a person is m. grandissime in his appearance?" asked clotilde, over their feeble excuse for a dinner. "what sort? do you imagine i had nothing better to do than notice whether a grandissime is good-looking or not? for all i know to the contrary, he is--some more rice, please, my dear." but this light-heartedness did not last long. it was based on an unutterable secret, all her own, about which she still had trembling doubts; this, too, notwithstanding her consultation of the dark oracles. she was going to stop that. in the long run, these charms and spells themselves bring bad luck. moreover, the practice, indulged in to excess, was wicked, and she had promised clotilde,--that droll little saint,--to resort to them no more. hereafter, she should do nothing of the sort, except, to be sure, to take such ordinary precautions against misfortune as casting upon the floor a little of whatever she might be eating or drinking to propitiate m. assonquer. she would have liked, could she have done it without fear of detection, to pour upon the front door-sill an oblation of beer sweetened with black molasses to papa lébat (who keeps the invisible keys of all the doors that admit suitors), but she dared not; and then, the hound would surely have licked it up. ah me! was she forgetting that she was a widow? she was in poor plight to meet the all but icy gray morning; and, to make her misery still greater, she found, on dressing, that an accident had overtaken her, which she knew to be a trustworthy sign of love grown cold. she had lost--alas! how can we communicate it in english!--a small piece of lute-string ribbon, about _so long_, which she used for--not a necktie exactly, but-- and she hunted and hunted, and couldn't bear to give up the search, and sat down to breakfast and ate nothing, and rose up and searched again (not that she cared for the omen), and struck the hound with the broom, and broke the broom, and hunted again, and looked out the front window, and saw the rain beginning to fall, and dropped into a chair--crying, "oh! clotilde, my child, my child! the rent collector will be here saturday and turn us into the street!" and so fell a-weeping. a little tear-letting lightened her unrevealable burden, and she rose, rejoicing that clotilde had happened to be out of eye-and-ear-shot. the scanty fire in the fireplace was ample to warm the room; the fire within her made it too insufferably hot! rain or no rain, she parted the window-curtains and lifted the sash. what a mark for love's arrow she was, as, at the window, she stretched her two arms upward! and, "right so," who should chance to come cantering by, the big drops of rain pattering after him, but the knightliest man in that old town, and the fittest to perfect the fine old-fashioned poetry of the scene! "clotilde," said aurora, turning from her mirror, whither she had hastened to see if her face showed signs of tears (clotilde was entering the room), "we shall never be turned out of this house by honoré grandissime!" "why?" asked clotilde, stopping short in the floor, forgetting aurora's trust in providence, and expecting to hear that m. grandissime had been found dead in his bed. "because i saw him just now; he rode by on horseback. a man with that noble face could never _do such a thing_!" the astonished clotilde looked at her mother searchingly. this sort of speech about a grandissime? but aurora was the picture of innocence. clotilde uttered a derisive laugh. "_impertinente_!" exclaimed the other, laboring not to join in it. "ah-h-h!" cried clotilde, in the same mood, "and what face had he when he wrote that letter?" "what face?" "yes, what face?" "i do not know what face you mean," said aurora. "what face," repeated clotilde, "had monsieur honoré de grandissime on the day that he wrote--" "ah, f-fah!" cried aurora, and turned away, "you don't know what you are talking about! you make me wish sometimes that i were dead!" clotilde had gone and shut down the sash, as it began to rain hard and blow. as she was turning away, her eye was attracted by an object at a distance. "what is it?" asked aurora, from a seat before the fire. "nothing," said clotilde, weary of the sensational,--"a man in the rain." it was the apothecary of the rue royale, turning from that street toward the rue bourbon, and bowing his head against the swirling norther. chapter xxiii frowenfeld keeps his appointment doctor keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent state of great mental enjoyment. at times he would smile and close his eyes, open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly and smile again. and when the rain and wind, all tangled together, came against the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almost to laughter. "he's in it," he murmured, "he's just reaching there. i would give fifty dollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees where he is." as this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man, joseph frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outward opening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with the vigorous haste of a man in the rain. as they parted, he hurriedly helped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape which shuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down the bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properly goes with a ducking, looked to see where he was. one object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--set his gaze. on the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay palmyre philosophe. her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty. an instantaneous indignation against doctor keene set the face of the speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. yet her gaze did not change. the congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in african b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command from her mistress. in frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be neither trifled with nor contemned. and this again the quadroon discerned, before he was himself aware of it. "doctor keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes. she did not stir or reply. then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat. at this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her glance; it gave the apothecary speech. "the doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound." she made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand toward a chair near a comfortable fire. he sat down. it would be well to dry himself. he drew near the hearth and let his gaze fall into the fire. when he presently lifted his eyes and looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was regarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence and scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. hard rubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. but she presently suppressed the feeling. she hated men. but frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent her hostility. this monument of the shame of two races--this poisonous blossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable white man's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies would have to stand up in the great day with her and answer as accessory before the fact! he looked again into the fire. the patient spoke: "_eh bi'n, miché_?" her look was severe, but less aggressive. the shuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearing warm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing them she tarried. "your fever is gone," said frowenfeld, standing by the bed. he had laid his fingers on her wrist. she brushed them off and once more turned full upon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes. the apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale. "you--" he was going to say, "you insult me;" but his lips came tightly together. two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyes spoke for him. then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead, he said, speaking his words one by one; "please understand that you must trust me." she may not have understood his english, but she comprehended, nevertheless. she looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closed her eyes. then she turned, and frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helped her to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawl about her. "zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still since depositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to bare the philosophe's superb shoulder. as frowenfeld again put forward his hand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmly put it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; and by the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commanding gentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired palmyre not only with a sense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder. this woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensive against what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. with possibly one exception, the man now before her was the only one she had ever encountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profound respect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. and yet, by inexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiest people under the sun." we ought to stop saying that. so far as palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty and exalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of its prerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. the man before her did not. there lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon as she discovered it, glorified him. before this assurance the cold fierceness of her eyes gave way, and a friendlier light from them rewarded the apothecary's final touch. he called for more pillows, made a nest of them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed his next consideration toward his hat and the door. it was many an hour after he had backed out into the trivial remains of the rain-storm before he could replace with more tranquillizing images the vision of the philosophe reclining among her pillows, in the act of making that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar button of her robe, which women make when they are uncertain about the perfection of their dishabille, and giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty of an empress. chapter xxiv frowenfeld makes an argument on the afternoon of the same day on which frowenfeld visited the house of the philosophe, the weather, which had been so unfavorable to his late plans, changed; the rain ceased, the wind drew around to the south, and the barometer promised a clear sky. wherefore he decided to leave his business, when he should have made his evening weather notes, to the care of m. raoul innerarity, and venture to test both mademoiselle clotilde's repellent attitude and aurora's seeming cordiality at number rue bienville. why he should go was a question which the apothecary felt himself but partially prepared to answer. what necessity called him, what good was to be effected, what was to happen next, were points he would have liked to be clear upon. that he should be going merely because he was invited to come--merely for the pleasure of breathing their atmosphere--that he should be supinely gravitating toward them--this conclusion he positively could not allow; no, no; the love of books and the fear of women alike protested. true, they were a part of that book which is pronounced "the proper study of mankind,"--indeed, that was probably the reason which he sought: he was going to contemplate them as a frontispiece to that unwriteable volume which he had undertaken to con. also, there was a charitable motive. doctor keene, months before, had expressed a deep concern regarding their lack of protection and even of daily provision; he must quietly look into that. would some unforeseen circumstance shut him off this evening again from this very proper use of time and opportunity? as he was sitting at the table in his back room, registering his sunset observations, and wondering what would become of him if aurora should be out and that other in, he was startled by a loud, deep voice exclaiming, close behind him: "_eh, bien! monsieur le professeur!_" frowenfeld knew by the tone, before he looked behind him, that he would find m. agricola fusilier very red in the face; and when he looked, the only qualification he could make was that the citizen's countenance was not so ruddy as the red handkerchief in which his arm was hanging. "what have you there?" slowly continued the patriarch, taking his free hand off his fettered arm and laying it upon the page as frowenfeld hurriedly rose, and endeavored to shut the book. "some private memoranda," answered the meteorologist, managing to get one page turned backward, reddening with confusion and indignation, and noticing that agricola's spectacles were upside down. "private! eh? no such thing, sir! professor frowenfeld, allow me" (a classic oath) "to say to your face, sir, that you are the most brilliant and the most valuable man--of your years--in afflicted louisiana! ha!" (reading:) "'morning observation; cathedral clock, a.m. thermometer degrees.' ha! 'hygrometer l '--but this is not to-day's weather? ah! no. ha! 'barometer . .' ha! 'sky cloudy, dark; wind, south, light.' ha! 'river rising.' ha! professor frowenfeld, when will you give your splendid services to your section? you must tell me, my son, for i ask you, my son, not from curiosity, but out of impatient interest." "i cannot say that i shall ever publish my tables," replied the "son," pulling at the book. "then, sir, in the name of louisiana," thundered the old man, clinging to the book, "i can! they shall be published! ah! yes, dear frowenfeld. the book, of course, will be in french, eh? you would not so affront the most sacred prejudices of the noble people to whom you owe everything as to publish it in english? you--ah! have we torn it?" "i do not write french," said the apothecary, laying the torn edges together. "professor frowenfeld, men are born for each other. what do i behold before me? i behold before me, in the person of my gifted young friend, a supplement to myself! why has nature strengthened the soul of agricola to hold the crumbling fortress of this body until these eyes--which were once, my dear boy, as proud and piercing as the battle-steed's--have become dim?" joseph's insurmountable respect for gray hairs kept him standing, but he did not respond with any conjecture as to nature's intentions, and there was a stern silence. the crumbling fortress resumed, his voice pitched low like the beginning of the long roll. he knew nature's design. "it was in order that you, professor frowenfeld, might become my vicar! your book shall be in french! we must give it a wide scope! it shall contain valuable geographical, topographical, biographical, and historical notes. it shall contain complete lists of all the officials in the province (i don't say territory, i say province) with their salaries and perquisites; ah! we will expose that! and--ha! i will write some political essays for it. raoul shall illustrate it. honoré shall give you money to publish it. ah! professor frowenfeld, the star of your fame is rising out of the waves of oblivion! come--i dropped in purposely to ask you--come across the street and take a glass of _taffia_ with agricola fusilier." this crowning honor the apothecary was insane enough to decline, and agricola went away with many professions of endearment, but secretly offended because joseph had not asked about his wound. all the same the apothecary, without loss of time, departed for the yellow-washed cottage, number rue bienville. "to-morrow, at four p.m.," he said to himself, "if the weather is favorable, i ride with m. grandissime." he almost saw his books and instruments look up at him reproachfully. the ladies were at home. aurora herself opened the door, and clotilde came forward from the bright fireplace with a cordiality never before so unqualified. there was something about these ladies--in their simple, but noble grace, in their half-gallic, half-classic beauty, in a jocund buoyancy mated to an amiable dignity--that made them appear to the scholar as though they had just bounded into life from the garlanded procession of some old fresco. the resemblance was not a little helped on by the costume of the late revolution (most acceptably chastened and belated by the distance from paris). their black hair, somewhat heavier on clotilde's head, where it rippled once or twice, was knotted _en grecque_, and adorned only with the spoils of a nosegay given to clotilde by a chivalric small boy in the home of her music scholar. "we was expectin' you since several days," said clotilde, as the three sat down before the fire, frowenfeld in a cushioned chair whose moth-holes had been carefully darned. frowenfeld intimated, with tolerable composure, that matters beyond his control had delayed his coming, beyond his intention. "you gedd'n' ridge," said aurora, dropping her wrists across each other. frowenfeld, for once, laughed outright, and it seemed so odd in him to do so that both the ladies followed his example. the ambition to be rich had never entered his thought, although in an unemotional, german way, he was prospering in a little city where wealth was daily pouring in, and a man had only to keep step, so to say, to march into possessions. "you hought to 'ave a mo' larger sto' an' some clerque," pursued aurora. the apothecary answered that he was contemplating the enlargement of his present place or removal to a roomier, and that he had already employed an assistant. "oo it is, 'sieur frowenfel'?" clotilde turned toward the questioner a remonstrative glance. "his name," replied frowenfeld, betraying a slight embarrassment, "is--innerarity; mr. raoul innerarity; he is--" "ee pain' dad pigtu' w'at 'angin' in yo' window?" clotilde's remonstrance rose to a slight movement and a murmur. frowenfeld answered in the affirmative, and possibly betrayed the faint shadow of a smile. the response was a peal of laughter from both ladies. "he is an excellent drug clerk," said frowenfeld defensively. whereat aurora laughed again, leaning over and touching clotilde's knee with one finger. "an' excellen' drug cl'--ha, ha, ha! oh!" "you muz podden uz, m'sieu' frowenfel'," said clotilde, with forced gravity. aurora sighed her participation in the apology; and, a few moments later, the apothecary and both ladies (the one as fond of the abstract as the other two were ignorant of the concrete) were engaged in an animated, running discussion on art, society, climate, education,--all those large, secondary _desiderata_ which seem of first importance to young ambition and secluded beauty, flying to and fro among these subjects with all the liveliness and uncertainty of a game of pussy-wants-a-corner. frowenfeld had never before spent such an hour. at its expiration, he had so well held his own against both the others, that the three had settled down to this sort of entertainment: aurora would make an assertion, or clotilde would ask a question; and frowenfeld, moved by that frankness and ardent zeal for truth which had enlisted the early friendship of dr. keene, amused and attracted honoré grandissime, won the confidence of the f.m.c., and tamed the fiery distrust and enmity of palmyre, would present his opinions without the thought of a reservation either in himself or his hearers. on their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional "yes-seh," or "ceddenly," or "of coze," or,--prettier affirmation still,--a solemn drooping of the eyelids, a slight compression of the lips, and a low, slow declination of the head. "the bane of all creole art-effort"--(we take up the apothecary's words at a point where clotilde was leaning forward and slightly frowning in an honest attempt to comprehend his condensed english)--"the bane of all creole art-effort, so far as i have seen it, is amateurism." "amateu--" murmured clotilde, a little beclouded on the main word and distracted by a french difference of meaning, but planting an elbow on one knee in the genuineness of her attention, and responding with a bow. "that is to say," said frowenfeld, apologizing for the homeliness of his further explanation by a smile, "a kind of ambitious indolence that lays very large eggs, but can neither see the necessity for building a nest beforehand, nor command the patience to hatch the eggs afterward." "of coze," said aurora. "it is a great pity," said the sermonizer, looking at the face of clotilde, elongated in the brass andiron; and, after a pause: "nothing on earth can take the place of hard and patient labor. but that, in this community, is not esteemed; most sorts of it are contemned; the humbler sorts are despised, and the higher are regarded with mingled patronage and commiseration. most of those who come to my shop with their efforts at art hasten to explain, either that they are merely seeking pastime, or else that they are driven to their course by want; and if i advise them to take their work back and finish it, they take it back and never return. industry is not only despised, but has been degraded and disgraced, handed over into the hands of african savages." "doze creole' is _lezzy_," said aurora. "that is a hard word to apply to those who do not _consciously_ deserve it," said frowenfeld; "but if they could only wake up to the fact,--find it out themselves--" "ceddenly," said clotilde. "'sieur frowenfel'," said aurora, leaning her head on one side, "some pipple thing it is doze climade; 'ow you lag doze climade?" "i do not suppose," replied the visitor, "there is a more delightful climate in the world." "ah-h-h!"--both ladies at once, in a low, gracious tone of acknowledgment. "i thing louisiana is a paradize-me!" said aurora. "w'ere you goin' fin' sudge a h-air?" she respired a sample of it. "w'ere you goin' fin' sudge a so ridge groun'? de weed' in my bag yard is twenny-five feet 'igh!" "ah! maman!" "twenty-six!" said aurora, correcting herself. "w'ere you fin' sudge a reever lag dad mississippi? _on dit_," she said, turning to clotilde, "_que ses eaux ont la propriété de contribuer même à multiplier l'espèce humaine_--ha, ha, ha!" clotilde turned away an unmoved countenance to hear frowenfeld. frowenfeld had contracted a habit of falling into meditation whenever the french language left him out of the conversation. "yes," he said, breaking a contemplative pause, "the climate is _too_ comfortable and the soil too rich,--though i do not think it is entirely on their account that the people who enjoy them are so sadly in arrears to the civilized world." he blushed with the fear that his talk was bookish, and felt grateful to clotilde for seeming to understand his speech. "w'ad you fin' de rizzon is, 'sieur frowenfel'?" she asked. "i do not wish to philosophize," he answered. "_mais_, go hon." "_mais_, go ahade," said both ladies, settling themselves. "it is largely owing," exclaimed frowenfeld, with sudden fervor, "to a defective organization of society, which keeps this community, and will continue to keep it for an indefinite time to come, entirely unprepared and disinclined to follow the course of modern thought." "of coze," murmured aurora, who had lost her bearings almost at the first word. "one great general subject of thought now is human rights,--universal human rights. the entire literature of the world is becoming tinctured with contradictions of the dogmas upon which society in this section is built. human rights is, of all subjects, the one upon which this community is most violently determined to hear no discussion. it has pronounced that slavery and caste are right, and sealed up the whole subject. what, then, will they do with the world's literature? they will coldly decline to look at it, and will become, more and more as the world moves on, a comparatively illiterate people." "bud, 'sieur frowenfel'," said clotilde, as frowenfeld paused--aurora was stunned to silence,--"de unitee state' goin' pud doze nigga' free, aind it?" frowenfeld pushed his hair hard back. he was in the stream now, and might as well go through. "i have heard that charge made, even by some americans. i do not know. but there is a slavery that no legislation can abolish,--the slavery of caste. that, like all the slaveries on earth, is a double bondage. and what a bondage it is which compels a community, in order to preserve its established tyrannies, to walk behind the rest of the intelligent world! what a bondage is that which incites a people to adopt a system of social and civil distinctions, possessing all the enormities and none of the advantages of those systems which europe is learning to despise! this system, moreover, is only kept up by a flourish of weapons. we have here what you may call an armed aristocracy. the class over which these instruments of main force are held is chosen for its servility, ignorance, and cowardice; hence, indolence in the ruling class. when a man's social or civil standing is not dependent on his knowing how to read, he is not likely to become a scholar." "of coze," said aurora, with a pensive respiration, "i thing id is doze climade," and the apothecary stopped, as a man should who finds himself unloading large philosophy in a little parlor. "i thing, me, dey hought to pud doze quadroon' free?" it was clotilde who spoke, ending with the rising inflection to indicate the tentative character of this daringly premature declaration. frowenfeld did not answer hastily. "the quadroons," said he, "want a great deal more than mere free papers can secure them. emancipation before the law, though it may be a right which man has no right to withhold, is to them little more than a mockery until they achieve emancipation in the minds and good will of the people--'the people,' did i say? i mean the ruling class." he stopped again. one must inevitably feel a little silly, setting up tenpins for ladies who are too polite, even if able, to bowl them down. aurora and the visitor began to speak simultaneously; both apologized, and aurora said: "'sieur frowenfel', w'en i was a lill girl,"--and frowenfeld knew that he was going to hear the story of palmyre. clotilde moved, with the obvious intention to mend the fire. aurora asked, in french, why she did not call the cook to do it, and frowenfeld said, "let me,"--threw on some wood, and took a seat nearer clotilde. aurora had the floor. chapter xxv aurora as a historian alas! the phonograph was invented three-quarters of a century too late. if type could entrap one-half the pretty oddities of aurora's speech,--the arch, the pathetic, the grave, the earnest, the matter-of-fact, the ecstatic tones of her voice,--nay, could it but reproduce the movement of her hands, the eloquence of her eyes, or the shapings of her mouth,--ah! but type--even the phonograph--is such an inadequate thing! sometimes she laughed; sometimes clotilde, unexpectedly to herself, joined her; and twice or thrice she provoked a similar demonstration from the ox-like apothecary,--to her own intense amusement. sometimes she shook her head in solemn scorn; and, when frowenfeld, at a certain point where palmyre's fate locked hands for a time with that of bras-coupé, asked a fervid question concerning that strange personage, tears leaped into her eyes, as she said: "ah! 'sieur frowenfel', iv i tra to tell de sto'y of bras-coupé, i goin' to cry lag a lill bebby." the account of the childhood days upon the plantation at cannes brulées may be passed by. it was early in palmyre's fifteenth year that that kentuckian, 'mutual friend' of her master and agricola, prevailed with m. de grapion to send her to the paternal grandissime mansion,--a complimentary gift, through agricola, to mademoiselle, his niece,--returnable ten years after date. the journey was made in safety; and, by and by, palmyre was presented to her new mistress. the occasion was notable. in a great chair in the centre sat the _grandpère_, a chevalier de grandissime, whose business had narrowed down to sitting on the front veranda and wearing his decorations,--the cross of st. louis being one; on his right, colonel numa grandissime, with one arm dropped around honoré, then a boy of palmyre's age, expecting to be off in sixty days for france; and on the left, with honoré's fair sister nestled against her, "madame numa," as the creoles would call her, a stately woman and beautiful, a great admirer of her brother agricola. (aurora took pains to explain that she received these minutiae from palmyre herself in later years.) one other member of the group was a young don of some twenty years' age, not an inmate of the house, but only a cousin of aurora on her deceased mother's side. to make the affair complete, and as a seal to this tacit grandissime-de-grapion treaty, this sole available representative of the "other side" was made a guest for the evening. like the true spaniard that he was, don josé martinez fell deeply in love with honoré's sister. then there came agricola leading in palmyre. there were others, for the grandissime mansion was always full of grandissimes; but this was the central group. in this house palmyre grew to womanhood, retaining without interruption the place into which she seemed to enter by right of indisputable superiority over all competitors,--the place of favorite attendant to the sister of honoré. attendant, we say, for servant she never seemed. she grew tall, arrowy, lithe, imperial, diligent, neat, thorough, silent. her new mistress, though scarcely at all her senior, was yet distinctly her mistress; she had that through her fusilier blood; experience was just then beginning to show that the fusilier grandissime was a superb variety; she was a mistress one could wish to obey. palmyre loved her, and through her contact ceased, for a time, at least, to be the pet leopard she had been at the cannes brulées. honoré went away to paris only sixty days after palmyre entered the house. but even that was not soon enough. "'sieur frowenfel'," said aurora, in her recital, "palmyre, she never tole me dad, _mais_ i am shoe, _shoe_ dad she fall in love wid honoré grandissime. 'sieur frowenfel', i thing dad honoré grandissime is one bad man, ent it? whad you thing, 'sieur frowenfel'?" "i think, as i said to you the last time, that he is one of the best, as i know that he is one of the kindest and most enlightened gentlemen in the city," said the apothecary. "ah, 'sieur frowenfel'! ha, ha!" "that is my conviction." the lady went on with her story. "hanny'ow, i know she _con_tinue in love wid 'im all doze ten year' w'at 'e been gone. she baig mademoiselle grandissime to wrad dad ledder to my papa to ass to kip her two years mo'." here aurora carefully omitted that episode which doctor keene had related to frowenfeld,--her own marriage and removal to fausse rivière, the visit of her husband to the city, his unfortunate and finally fatal affair with agricola, and the surrender of all her land and slaves to that successful duellist. m. de grapion, through all that, stood by his engagement concerning palmyre; and, at the end of ten years, to his own astonishment, responded favorably to a letter from honoré's sister, irresistible for its goodness, good sense, and eloquent pleading, asking leave to detain palmyre two years longer; but this response came only after the old master and his pretty, stricken aurora had wept over it until they were weak and gentle,--and was not a response either, but only a silent consent. shortly before the return of honoré--and here it was that aurora took up again the thread of her account--while his mother, long-widowed, reigned in the paternal mansion, with agricola for her manager, bras-coupé appeared. from that advent, and the long and varied mental sufferings which its consequences brought upon her, sprang that second change in palmyre, which made her finally untamable, and ended in a manumission, granted her more for fear than for conscience' sake. when aurora attempted to tell those experiences, even leaving bras-coupé as much as might be out of the recital, she choked with tears at the very start, stopped, laughed, and said: "_c'est tout_--daz all. 'sieur frowenfel', oo you fine dad pigtu' to loog lag, yonnah, hon de wall?" she spoke as if he might have overlooked it, though twenty times, at least, in the last hour, she had seen him glance at it. "it is a good likeness," said the apothecary, turning to clotilde, yet showing himself somewhat puzzled in the matter of the costume. the ladies laughed. "daz ma grade-gran'-mamma," said clotilde. "dass one _fille à la cassette_," said aurora, "my gran'-muzzah; _mais_, ad de sem tarn id is clotilde." she touched her daughter under the chin with a ringed finger. "clotilde is my gran'-mamma." frowenfeld rose to go. "you muz come again, 'sieur frowenfel'," said both ladies, in a breath. what could he say? chapter xxvi a ride and a rescue "douane or bienville?" such was the choice presented by honoré grandissime to joseph frowenfeld, as the former on a lively brown colt and the apothecary on a nervy chestnut fell into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in the rue royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, raoul innerarity. "douane?" said frowenfeld. (it was the street we call custom-house.) "it has mud-holes," objected honoré. "well, then, the rue du canal?" "the canal--i can smell it from here. why not rue bienville?" frowenfeld said he did not know. (we give the statement for what it is worth.) notice their route. a spirit of perversity seems to have entered into the very topography of this quarter. they turned up the rue bienville (up is toward the river); reaching the levee, they took their course up the shore of the mississippi (almost due south), and broke into a lively gallop on the tchoupitoulas road, which in those days skirted that margin of the river nearest the sunsetting, namely, the _eastern_ bank. conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting upon trite topics or swinging easily from polite inquiry to mild affirmation, and back again. they were men of thought, these two, and one of them did not fully understand why he was in his present position; hence some reticence. it was one of those afternoons in early march that make one wonder how the rest of the world avoids emigrating to louisiana in a body. "is not the season early?" asked frowenfeld. m. grandissime believed it was; but then the creole spring always seemed so, he said. the land was an inverted firmament of flowers. the birds were an innumerable, busy, joy-compelling multitude, darting and fluttering hither and thither, as one might imagine the babes do in heaven. the orange-groves were in blossom; their dark-green boughs seemed snowed upon from a cloud of incense, and a listening ear might catch an incessant, whispered trickle of falling petals, dropping "as the honey-comb." the magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and shining evergreen foliage frequent sprays of pale new leaves and long, slender, buff buds of others yet to come. the oaks, both the bare-armed and the "green-robed senators," the willows, and the plaqueminiers, were putting out their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave participation with the laughing gardens. the homes that gave perfection to this beauty were those old, large, belvidered colonial villas, of which you may still here and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, high and broad, among foundries, cotton-and tobacco-sheds, junk-yards, and longshoremen's hovels, like one unconquered elephant in a wreck of artillery. in frowenfeld's day the "smell of their garments was like lebanon." they were seen by glimpses through chance openings in lofty hedges of cherokee-rose or bois-d'arc, under boughs of cedar or pride-of-china, above their groves of orange or down their long, overarched avenues of oleander; and the lemon and the pomegranate, the banana, the fig, the shaddock, and at times even the mango and the guava, joined "hands around" and tossed their fragrant locks above the lilies and roses. frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further concerning the probable intent of m. grandissime's invitation to ride; these beauties seemed rich enough in good reasons. he felt glad and grateful. at a certain point the two horses turned of their own impulse, as by force of habit, and with a few clambering strides mounted to the top of the levee and stood still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying, brimming river. the creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self-forgetful look of his immigrant friend. "mr. frowenfeld," he said, as the delighted apothecary turned with unwonted suddenness and saw his smile, "i believe you like this better than discussion. you find it easier to be in harmony with louisiana than with louisianians, eh?" frowenfeld colored with surprise. something unpleasant had lately occurred in his shop. was this to signify that m. grandissime had heard of it? "i am a louisianian," replied he, as if this were a point assailed. "i would not insinuate otherwise," said m. grandissime, with a kindly gesture. "i would like you to feel so. we are citizens now of a different government from that under which we lived the morning we first met. yet"--the creole paused and smiled--"you are not, and i am glad you are not, what we call a louisianian." frowenfeld's color increased. he turned quickly in his saddle as if to say something very positive, but hesitated, restrained himself and asked: "mr. grandissime, is not your creole 'we' a word that does much damage?" the creole's response was at first only a smile, followed by a thoughtful countenance; but he presently said, with some suddenness: "my-de'-seh, yes. yet you see i am, even this moment, forgetting we are not a separate people. yes, our creole 'we' does damage, and our creole 'you' does more. i assure you, sir, i try hard to get my people to understand that it is time to stop calling those who come and add themselves to the community, aliens, interlopers, invaders. that is what i hear my cousins, 'polyte and sylvestre, in the heat of discussion, called you the other evening; is it so?" "i brought it upon myself," said frowenfeld. "i brought it upon myself." "ah!" interrupted m. grandissime, with a broad smile, "excuse me--i am fully prepared to believe it. but the charge is a false one. i told them so. my-de'-seh--i know that a citizen of the united states in the united states has a right to become, and to be called, under the laws governing the case, a louisianian, a vermonter, or a virginian, as it may suit his whim; and even if he should be found dishonest or dangerous, he has a right to be treated just exactly as we treat the knaves and ruffians who are native born! every discreet man must admit that." "but if they do not enforce it, mr. grandissime," quickly responded the sore apothecary, "if they continually forget it--if one must surrender himself to the errors and crimes of the community as he finds it--" the creole uttered a low laugh. "party differences, mr. frowenfeld; they have them in all countries." "so your cousins said," said frowenfeld. "and how did you answer them?" "offensively," said the apothecary, with sincere mortification. "oh! that was easy," replied the other, amusedly; "but how?" "i said that, having here only such party differences as are common elsewhere, we do not behave as they elsewhere do; that in most civilized countries the immigrant is welcome, but here he is not. i am afraid i have not learned the art of courteous debate," said frowenfeld, with a smile of apology. "'tis a great art," said the creole, quietly, stroking his horse's neck. "i suppose my cousins denied your statement with indignation, eh?" "yes; they said the honest immigrant is always welcome." "well, do you not find that true?" "but, mr. grandissime, that is requiring the immigrant to prove his innocence!" frowenfeld spoke from the heart. "and even the honest immigrant is welcome only when he leaves his peculiar opinions behind him. is that right, sir?" the creole smiled at frowenfeld's heat. "my-de'-seh, my cousins complain that you advocate measures fatal to the prevailing order of society." "but," replied the unyielding frowenfeld, turning redder than ever, "that is the very thing that american liberty gives me the right--peaceably--to do! here is a structure of society defective, dangerous, erected on views of human relations which the world is abandoning as false; yet the immigrant's welcome is modified with the warning not to touch these false foundations with one of his fingers." "did you tell my cousins the foundations of society here are false?" "i regret to say i did, very abruptly. i told them they were privately aware of the fact." "you may say," said the ever-amiable creole, "that you allowed debate to run into controversy, eh?" frowenfeld was silent; he compared the gentleness of this creole's rebukes with the asperity of his advocacy of right, and felt humiliated. but m. grandissime spoke with a rallying smile. "mr. frowenfeld, you never make pills with eight corners eh?" "no, sir." the apothecary smiled. "no, you make them round; cannot you make your doctrines the same way? my-de'-seh, you will think me impertinent; but the reason i speak is because i wish very much that you and my cousins would not be offended with each other. to tell you the truth, my-de'-seh, i hoped to use you with them--pardon my frankness." "if louisiana had more men like you, m. grandissime," cried the untrained frowenfeld, "society would be less sore to the touch." "my-de'-seh," said the creole, laying his hand out toward his companion and turning his horse in such a way as to turn the other also, "do me one favor; remember that it _is_ sore to the touch." the animals picked their steps down the inner face of the levee and resumed their course up the road at a walk. "did you see that man just turn the bend of the road, away yonder?" the creole asked. "yes." "did you recognize him?" "it was--my landlord, wasn't it?" "yes. did he not have a conversation with you lately, too?" "yes, sir; why do you ask?" "it has had a bad effect on him. i wonder why he is out here on foot?" the horses quickened their paces. the two friends rode along in silence. frowenfeld noticed his companion frequently cast an eye up along the distant sunset shadows of the road with a new anxiety. yet, when m. grandissime broke the silence it was only to say: "i suppose you find the blemishes in our state of society can all be attributed to one main defect, mr. frowenfeld?" frowenfeld was glad of the chance to answer: "i have not overlooked that this society has disadvantages as well as blemishes; it is distant from enlightened centres; it has a language and religion different from that of the great people of which it is now called to be a part. that it has also positive blemishes of organism--" "yes," interrupted the creole, smiling at the immigrant's sudden magnanimity, "its positive blemishes; do they all spring from one main defect?" "i think not. the climate has its influence, the soil has its influence--dwellers in swamps cannot be mountaineers." "but after all," persisted the creole, "the greater part of our troubles comes from--" "slavery," said frowenfeld, "or rather caste." "exactly," said m. grandissime. "you surprise me, sir," said the simple apothecary. "i supposed you were--" "my-de'-seh," exclaimed m. grandissime, suddenly becoming very earnest, "i am nothing, nothing! there is where you have the advantage of me. i am but a _dilettante_, whether in politics, in philosophy, morals, or religion. i am afraid to go deeply into anything, lest it should make ruin in my name, my family, my property." he laughed unpleasantly. the question darted into frowenfeld's mind, whether this might not be a hint of the matter that m. grandissime had been trying to see him about. "mr. grandissime," he said, "i can hardly believe you would neglect a duty either for family, property, or society." "well, you mistake," said the creole, so coldly that frowenfeld colored. they galloped on. m. grandissime brightened again, almost to the degree of vivacity. by and by they slackened to a slow trot and were silent. the gardens had been long left behind, and they were passing between continuous cherokee-rose hedges on the right and on the left, along that bend of the mississippi where its waters, glancing off three miles above from the old de macarty levee (now carrollton), at the slightest opposition in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd of dervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked by the little yellow depot-house of westwego. miles up the broad flood the sun was disappearing gorgeously. from their saddles, the two horsemen feasted on the scene without comment. but presently, m. grandissime uttered a low ejaculation and spurred his horse toward a tree hard by, preparing, as he went, to fasten his rein to an overhanging branch. frowenfeld, agreeable to his beckon, imitated the movement. "i fear he intends to drown himself," whispered m. grandissime, as they hurriedly dismounted. "who? not--" "yes, your landlord, as you call him. he is on the flatboat; i saw his hat over the levee. when we get on top the levee, we must get right into it. but do not follow him into the water in front of the flat; it is certain death; no power of man could keep you from going under it." the words were quickly spoken; they scrambled to the levee's crown. just abreast of them lay a flatboat, emptied of its cargo and moored to the levee. they leaped into it. a human figure swerved from the onset of the creole and ran toward the bow of the boat, and in an instant more would have been in the river. "stop!" said frowenfeld, seizing the unresisting f.m.c. firmly by the collar. honoré grandissime smiled, partly at the apothecary's brief speech, but much more at his success. "let him go, mr. frowenfeld," he said, as he came near. the silent man turned away his face with a gesture of shame. m. grandissime, in a gentle voice, exchanged a few words with him, and he turned and walked away, gained the shore, descended the levee, and took a foot-path which soon hid him behind a hedge. "he gives his pledge not to try again," said the creole, as the two companions proceeded to resume the saddle. "do not look after him." (joseph had cast a searching look over the hedge.) they turned homeward. "ah! mr. frowenfeld," said the creole, suddenly, "if the _immygrant_ has cause of complaint, how much more has _that_ man! true, it is only love for which he would have just now drowned himself; yet what an accusation, my-de'-seh, is his whole life against that 'caste' which shuts him up within its narrow and almost solitary limits! and yet, mr. frowenfeld, this people esteem this very same crime of caste the holiest and most precious of their virtues. my-de'-seh, it never occurs to us that in this matter we are interested, and therefore disqualified, witnesses. we say we are not understood; that the jury (the civilized world) renders its decision without viewing the body; that we are judged from a distance. we forget that we ourselves are too _close_ to see distinctly, and so continue, a spectacle to civilization, sitting in a horrible darkness, my-de'-seh!" he frowned. "the shadow of the ethiopian," said the grave apothecary. m. grandissime's quick gesture implied that frowenfeld had said the very word. "ah! my-de'-seh, when i try sometimes to stand outside and look at it, i am _ama-aze_ at the length, the blackness of that shadow!" (he was so deeply in earnest that he took no care of his english.) "it is the _némésis_ w'ich, instead of coming afteh, glides along by the side of this morhal, political, commercial, social mistake! it blanches, my-de'-seh, ow whole civilization! it drhags us a centurhy behind the rhes' of the world! it rhetahds and poisons everhy industrhy we got!--mos' of all our-h immense agrhicultu'e! it brheeds a thousan' cusses that nevva leave home but jus' flutter-h up an' rhoost, my-de'-seh, on ow _heads_; an' we nevva know it!--yes, sometimes some of us know it." he changed the subject. they had repassed the ruins of fort st. louis, and were well within the precincts of the little city, when, as they pulled up from a final gallop, mention was made of doctor keene. he was improving; honoré had seen him that morning; so, at another hour, had frowenfeld. doctor keene had told honoré about palmyre's wound. "you was at her house again this morning?" asked the creole. "yes," said frowenfeld. m. grandissime shook his head warningly. "'tis a dangerous business. you are almost sure to become the object of slander. you ought to tell doctor keene to make some other arrangement, or presently you, too, will be under the--" he lowered his voice, for frowenfeld was dismounting at the shop door, and three or four acquaintances stood around--"under the 'shadow of the ethiopian.'" chapter xxvii the fÊte de grandpÈre sojourners in new orleans who take their afternoon drive down esplanade street will notice, across on the right, between it and that sorry streak once fondly known as champs Élysées, two or three large, old houses, rising above the general surroundings and displaying architectural features which identify them with an irrevocable past--a past when the faithful and true creole could, without fear of contradiction, express his religious belief that the antipathy he felt for the américain invader was an inborn horror laid lengthwise in his ante-natal bones by a discriminating and appreciative providence. there is, for instance, or was until lately, one house which some hundred and fifteen years ago was the suburban residence of the old sea-captain governor, kerlerec. it stands up among the oranges as silent and gray as a pelican, and, so far as we know, has never had one cypress plank added or subtracted since its master was called to france and thrown into the bastile. another has two dormer windows looking out westward, and, when the setting sun strikes the panes, reminds one of a man with spectacles standing up in an audience, searching for a friend who is not there and will never come back. these houses are the last remaining--if, indeed, they were not pulled down yesterday--of a group that once marked from afar the direction of the old highway between the city's walls and the suburb st. jean. here clustered the earlier aristocracy of the colony; all that pretty crew of counts, chevaliers, marquises, colonels, dons, etc., who loved their kings, and especially their kings' moneys, with an _abandon_ which affected the accuracy of nearly all their accounts. among these stood the great mother-mansion of the grandissimes. do not look for it now; it is quite gone. the round, white-plastered brick pillars which held the house fifteen feet up from the reeking ground and rose on loftily to sustain the great overspreading roof, or clustered in the cool, paved basement; the lofty halls, with their multitudinous glitter of gilded brass and twinkle of sweet-smelling wax-candles; the immense encircling veranda, where twenty creole girls might walk abreast; the great front stairs, descending from the veranda to the garden, with a lofty palm on either side, on whose broad steps forty grandissimes could gather on a birthday afternoon; and the belvidere, whence you could see the cathedral, the ursulines', the governor's mansion, and the river, far away, shining between the villas of tchoupitoulas coast--all have disappeared as entirely beyond recall as the flowers that bloomed in the gardens on the day of this _fête de grandpère_. odd to say, it was not the grandpère's birthday that had passed. for weeks the happy children of the many grandissime branches--the mandarins, the st. blancards, the brahmins--had been standing with their uplifted arms apart, awaiting the signal to clap hands and jump, and still, from week to week, the appointed day had been made to fall back, and fall back before--what think you?--an inability to understand honoré. it was a sad paradox in the history of this majestic old house that her best child gave her the most annoyance; but it had long been so. even in honoré's early youth, a scant two years after she had watched him, over the tops of her green myrtles and white and crimson oleanders, go away, a lad of fifteen, supposing he would of course come back a grandissime of the grandissimes--an inflexible of the inflexibles--he was found "inciting" (so the stately dames and officials who graced her front veranda called it) a grandissime-de grapion reconciliation by means of transatlantic letters, and reducing the flames of the old feud, rekindled by the fusilier-nancanou duel, to a little foul smoke. the main difficulty seemed to be that honoré could not be satisfied with a clean conscience as to his own deeds and the peace and fellowships of single households; his longing was, and had ever been--he had inherited it from his father--to see one unbroken and harmonious grandissime family gathering yearly under this venerated roof without reproach before all persons, classes, and races with whom they had ever had to do. it was not hard for the old mansion to forgive him once or twice; but she had had to do it often. it seems no over-stretch of fancy to say she sometimes gazed down upon his erring ways with a look of patient sadness in her large and beautiful windows. and how had that forbearance been rewarded? take one short instance: when, seven years before this present _fête de grandpère_, he came back from europe, and she (this old home which we cannot help but personify), though in trouble then--a trouble that sent up the old feud flames again--opened her halls to rejoice in him with the joy of all her gathered families, he presently said such strange things in favor of indiscriminate human freedom that for very shame's sake she hushed them up, in the fond hope that he would outgrow such heresies. but he? on top of all the rest, he declined a military commission and engaged in commerce--"shopkeeping, _parbleu!_" however, therein was developed a grain of consolation. honoré became--as he chose to call it--more prudent. with much tact, agricola was amiably crowded off the dictator's chair, to become, instead, a sort of seneschal. for a time the family peace was perfect, and honoré, by a touch here to-day and a word there to-morrow, was ever lifting the name, and all who bore it, a little and a little higher; when suddenly, as in his father's day--that dear numa who knew how to sacrifice his very soul, as a sort of iphigenia for the propitiation of the family gods--as in numa's day came the cession to spain, so now fell this other cession, like an unexpected tornado, threatening the wreck of her children's slave-schooners and the prostration alike of their slave-made crops and their spanish liberties; and just in the fateful moment where numa would have stood by her, honoré had let go. ah, it was bitter! "see what foreign education does!" cried a mandarin de grandissime of the baton rouge coast. "i am sorry now"--derisively--"that i never sent _my_ boy to france, am i not? no! no-o-o! i would rather my son should never know how to read, than that he should come back from paris repudiating the sentiments and prejudices of his own father. is education better than family peace? ah, bah! my son make friends with américains and tell me they--that call a negro 'monsieur'--are as good as his father? but that is what we get for letting honoré become a merchant. ha! the degradation! shaking hands with men who do not believe in the slave trade! shake hands? yes; associate--fraternize! with apothecaries and negrophiles. and now we are invited to meet at the _fête de grandpère_, in the house where he is really the chief--the _caçique!_" no! the family would not come together on the first appointment; no, nor on the second; no, not if the grandpapa did express his wish; no, nor on the third--nor on the fourth. "_non, messieurs_!" cried both youth and reckless age; and, sometimes, also, the stronger heads of the family, the men of means, of force and of influence, urged on from behind by their proud and beautiful wives and daughters. arms, generally, rather than heads, ruled there in those days. sentiments (which are the real laws) took shape in accordance with the poetry, rather than the reason, of things, and the community recognized the supreme domination of "the gentleman" in questions of right and of "the ladies" in matters of sentiment. under such conditions strength establishes over weakness a showy protection which is the subtlest of tyrannies, yet which, in the very moment of extending its arm over woman, confers upon her a power which a truer freedom would only diminish; constitutes her in a large degree an autocrat of public sentiment and thus accepts her narrowest prejudices and most belated errors as veriest need-be's of social life. the clans classified easily into three groups; there were those who boiled, those who stewed, and those who merely steamed under a close cover. the men in the first two groups were, for the most part, those who were holding office under old spanish commissions, and were daily expecting themselves to be displaced and louisiana thereby ruined. the steaming ones were a goodly fraction of the family--the timid, the apathetic, the "conservative." the conservatives found ease better than exactitude, the trouble of thinking great, the agony of deciding harrowing, and the alternative of smiling cynically and being liberal so much easier--and the warm weather coming on with a rapidity-wearying to contemplate. "the yankee was an inferior animal." "certainly." "but honoré had a right to his convictions." "yes, that was so, too." "it looked very traitorous, however." "yes, so it did." "nevertheless, it might turn out that honoré was advancing the true interests of his people." "very likely." "it would not do to accept office under the yankee government." "of course not." "yet it would never do to let the yankees get the offices, either." "that was true; nobody could deny that." "if spain or france got the country back, they would certainly remember and reward those who had held out faithfully." "certainly! that was an old habit with france and spain." "but if they did not get the country back--" "yes, that is so; honoré is a very good fellow, and--" and, one after another, under the mild coolness of honoré's amiable disregard, their indignation trickled back from steam to water, and they went on drawing their stipends, some in honoré's counting-room, where they held positions, some from the provisional government, which had as yet made but few changes, and some, secretly, from the cunning casa-calvo; for, blow the wind east or blow the wind west, the affinity of the average grandissime for a salary abideth forever. then, at the right moment, honoré made a single happy stroke, and even the hot grandissimes, they of the interior parishes and they of agricola's squadron, slaked and crumbled when he wrote each a letter saying that the governor was about to send them appointments, and that it would be well, if they wished to _evade_ them, to write the governor at once, surrendering their present commissions. well! evade? they would evade nothing! do you think they would so belittle themselves as to write to the usurper? they would submit to keep the positions first. but the next move was honoré's making the whole town aware of his apostasy. the great mansion, with the old grandpère sitting out in front, shivered. as we have seen, he had ridden through the place d'armes with the arch-usurper himself. yet, after all, a grandissime would be a grandissime still; whatever he did he did openly. and wasn't that glorious--never to be ashamed of anything, no matter how bad? it was not everyone who could ride with the governor. and blood was so much thicker than vinegar that the family, that would not meet either in january or february, met in the first week of march, every constituent one of them. the feast has been eaten. the garden now is joyous with children and the veranda resplendent with ladies. from among the latter the eye quickly selects one. she is perceptibly taller than the others; she sits in their midst near the great hall entrance; and as you look at her there is no claim of ancestry the grandissimes can make which you would not allow. her hair, once black, now lifted up into a glistening snow-drift, augments the majesty of a still beautiful face, while her full stature and stately bearing suggest the finer parts of agricola, her brother. it is madame grandissime, the mother of honoré. one who sits at her left, and is very small, is a favorite cousin. on her right is her daughter, the widowed señora of josé martinez; she has wonderful black hair and a white brow as wonderful. the commanding carriage of the mother is tempered in her to a gentle dignity and calm, contrasting pointedly with the animated manners of the courtly matrons among whom she sits, and whose continuous conversation takes this direction or that, at the pleasure of madame grandissime. but if you can command your powers of attention, despite those children who are shouting creole french and sliding down the rails of the front stair, turn the eye to the laughing squadron of beautiful girls, which every few minutes, at an end of the veranda, appears, wheels and disappears, and you note, as it were by flashes, the characteristics of face and figure that mark the louisianaises in the perfection of the new-blown flower. you see that blondes are not impossible; there, indeed, are two sisters who might be undistinguishable twins but that one has blue eyes and golden hair. you note the exquisite pencilling of their eyebrows, here and there some heavier and more velvety, where a less vivacious expression betrays a share of spanish blood. as grandissimes, you mark their tendency to exceed the medium creole stature, an appearance heightened by the fashion of their robes. there is scarcely a rose in all their cheeks, and a full red-ripeness of the lips would hardly be in keeping; but there is plenty of life in their eyes, which glance out between the curtains of their long lashes with a merry dancing that keeps time to the prattle of tongues. you are not able to get a straight look into them, and if you could you would see only your own image cast back in pitiful miniature; but you turn away and feel, as you fortify yourself with an inward smile, that they know you, you man, through and through, like a little song. and in turning, your sight is glad to rest again on the face of honoré's mother. you see, this time, that she _is_ his mother, by a charm you had overlooked, a candid, serene and lovable smile. it is the wonder of those who see that smile that she can ever be harsh. the playful, mock-martial tread of the delicate creole feet is all at once swallowed up by the sound of many heavier steps in the hall, and the fathers, grandfathers, sons, brothers, uncles and nephews of the great family come out, not a man of them that cannot, with a little care, keep on his feet. their descendants of the present day sip from shallower glasses and with less marked results. the matrons, rising, offer the chief seat to the first comer, the great-grandsire--the oldest living grandissime--alcibiade, a shaken but unfallen monument of early colonial days, a browned and corrugated souvenir of de vaudreuil's pomps, of o'reilly's iron rule, of galvez' brilliant wars--a man who had seen bienville and zephyr grandissime. with what splendor of manner madame fusilier de grandissime offers, and he accepts, the place of honor! before he sits down he pauses a moment to hear out the companion on whose arm he had been leaning. but théophile, a dark, graceful youth of eighteen, though he is recounting something with all the oblivious ardor of his kind, becomes instantly silent, bows with grave deference to the ladies, hands the aged forefather gracefully to his seat, and turning, recommences the recital before one who hears all with the same perfect courtesy--his beloved cousin honoré. meanwhile, the gentlemen throng out. gallant crew! these are they who have been pausing proudly week after week in an endeavor (?) to understand the opaque motives of numa's son. in the middle of the veranda pauses a tall, muscular man of fifty, with the usual smooth face and an iron-gray queue. that is colonel agamemnon brahmin de grandissime, purveyor to the family's military pride, conservator of its military glory, and, after honoré, the most admired of the name. achille grandissime, he who took agricola away from frowenfeld's shop in the carriage, essays to engage agamemnon in conversation, and the colonel, with a glance at his kinsman's nether limbs and another at his own, and with that placid facility with which the graver sort of creoles take up the trivial topics of the lighter, grapples the subject of boots. a tall, bronzed, slender young man, who prefixes to grandissime the maternal st. blancard, asks where his wife is, is answered from a distance, throws her a kiss and sits down on a step, with jean baptiste de grandissime, a piratical-looking black-beard, above him, and alphonse mandarin, an olive-skinned boy, below. valentine grandissime, of tchoupitoulas, goes quite down to the bottom of the steps and leans against the balustrade. he is a large, broad-shouldered, well-built man, and, as he stands smoking a cigar, with his black-stockinged legs crossed, he glances at the sky with the eye of a hunter--or, it may be, of a sailor. "valentine will not marry," says one of two ladies who lean over the rail of the veranda above. "i wonder why." the other fixes on her a meaning look, and she twitches her shoulders and pouts, seeing she has asked a foolish question, the answer to which would only put valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit. such were the choice spirits of the family. agricola had retired. raoul was there; his pretty auburn head might have been seen about half-way up the steps, close to one well sprinkled with premature gray. "no such thing!" exclaimed his companion. (the conversation was entirely in creole french.) "i give you my sacred word of honor!" cried raoul. "that honoré is having all his business carried on in english?" asked the incredulous sylvestre. (such was his name.) "i swear--" replied raoul, resorting to his favorite pledge--"on a stack of bibles that high!" "ah-h-h-h, pf-f-f-f-f!" this polite expression of unbelief was further emphasized by a spasmodic flirt of one hand, with the thumb pointed outward. "ask him! ask him!" cried raoul. "honoré!" called sylvestre, rising up. two or three persons passed the call around the corner of the veranda. honoré came with a chain of six girls on either arm. by the time he arrived, there was a babel of discussion. "raoul says you have ordered all your books and accounts to be written in english," said sylvestre. "well?" "it is not true, is it?" "yes." the entire veranda of ladies raised one long-drawn, deprecatory "ah!" except honoré's mother. she turned upon him a look of silent but intense and indignant disappointment. "honoré!" cried sylvestre, desirous of repairing his defeat, "honoré!" but honoré was receiving the clamorous abuse of the two half dozens of girls. "honoré!" cried sylvestre again, holding up a torn scrap of writing-paper which bore the marks of the counting-room floor and of a boot-heel, "how do you spell 'la-dee?'" there was a moment's hush to hear the answer. "ask valentine," said honoré. everybody laughed aloud. that taciturn man's only retort was to survey the company above him with an unmoved countenance, and to push the ashes slowly from his cigar with his little finger. m. valentine grandissime, of tchoupitoulas, could not read. "show it to agricola," cried two or three, as that great man came out upon the veranda, heavy-eyed, and with tumbled hair. sylvestre, spying agricola's head beyond the ladies, put the question. "how is it spelled on that paper?" retorted the king of beasts. "l-a-y--" "ignoramus!" growled the old man. "i did not spell it," cried raoul, and attempted to seize the paper. but sylvestre throwing his hand behind him, a lady snatched the paper, two or three cried "give it to agricola!" and a pretty boy, whom the laughter and excitement had lured from the garden, scampered up the steps and handed it to the old man. "honoré!" cried raoul, "it must not be read. it is one of your private matters." but raoul's insinuation that anybody would entrust him with a private matter brought another laugh. honoré nodded to his uncle to read it out, and those who could not understand english, as well as those who could, listened. it was a paper sylvestre had picked out of a waste-basket on the day of aurore's visit to the counting-room. agricola read: "what is that layde want in thare with honoré?" "honoré is goin giv her bac that proprety--that is aurore de grapion what agricola kill the husband." that was the whole writing, but agricola never finished. he was reading aloud--"that is aurore de grap--" at that moment he dropped the paper and blackened with wrath; a sharp flash of astonishment ran through the company; an instant of silence followed and agricola's thundering voice rolled down upon sylvestre in a succession of terrible imprecations. it was painful to see the young man's face as, speechless, he received this abuse. he stood pale and frightened, with a smile playing about his mouth, half of distress and half of defiance, that said as plain as a smile could say, "uncle agricola, you will have to pay for this mistake." as the old man ceased, sylvestre turned and cast a look downward to valentine grandissime, then walked up the steps, and passing with a courteous bow through the group that surrounded agricola, went into the house. valentine looked at the zenith, then at his shoe-buckles, tossed his cigar quietly into the grass and passed around a corner of the house to meet sylvestre in the rear. honoré had already nodded to his uncle to come aside with him, and agricola had done so. the rest of the company, save a few male figures down in the garden, after some feeble efforts to keep up their spirits on the veranda, remarked the growing coolness or the waning daylight, and singly or in pairs withdrew. it was not long before raoul, who had come up upon the veranda, was left alone. he seemed to wait for something, as, leaning over the rail while the stars came out, he sang to himself, in a soft undertone, a snatch of a creole song: "la pluie--la pluie tombait, crapaud criait, moustique chantait--" the moon shone so brightly that the children in the garden did not break off their hide-and-seek, and now and then raoul suspended the murmur of his song, absorbed in the fate of some little elf gliding from one black shadow to crouch in another. he was himself in the deep shade of a magnolia, over whose outer boughs the moonlight was trickling, as if the whole tree had been dipped in quicksilver. in the broad walk running down to the garden gate some six or seven dark forms sat in chairs, not too far away for the light of their cigars to be occasionally seen and their voices to reach his ear; but he did not listen. in a little while there came a light footstep, and a soft, mock-startled "who is that?" and one of that same sparkling group of girls that had lately hung upon honoré came so close to raoul, in her attempt to discern his lineaments, that their lips accidentally met. they had but a moment of hand-in-hand converse before they were hustled forth by a feminine scouting party and thrust along into one of the great rooms of the house, where the youth and beauty of the grandissimes were gathered in an expansive semicircle around a languishing fire, waiting to hear a story, or a song, or both, or half a dozen of each, from that master of narrative and melody, raoul innerarity. "but mark," they cried unitedly, "you have got to wind up with the story of bras-coupé!" "a song! a song!" "_une chanson créole! une chanson des nègres!_" "sing 'yé tolé dancé la doung y doung doung!'" cried a black-eyed girl. raoul explained that it had too many objectionable phrases. "oh, just hum the objectionable phrases and go right on." but instead he sang them this: "_la prémier' fois mo té 'oir li, li té posé au bord so lit; mo di', bouzon, bel n'amourèse! l'aut' fois li té si' so la saise comme vié madam dans so fauteil, quand li vivé cóté soleil. so giés yé té plis noir passé la nouitte, so dé la lev' plis doux passe la quitte! tou' mo la vie, zamein mo oir ein n' amourèse zoli comme ça! mo' blié manzé--mo' blié boir'-- mo' blié tout dipi ç' temps-là-- mo' blié parlé--mo' blié dormi, quand mo pensé aprés zami!_" "and you have heard bras-coupé sing that, yourself?" "once upon a time," said raoul, warming with his subject, "we were coming down from pointe macarty in three pirogues. we had been three days fishing and hunting in lake salvador. bras-coupé had one pirogue with six paddles--" "oh, yes!" cried a youth named baltazar; "sing that, raoul!" and he sang that. "but oh, raoul, sing that song the negroes sing when they go out in the bayous at night, stealing pigs and chickens!" "that boat song, do you mean, which they sing as a signal to those on shore?" he hummed. [illustration: music] "dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, momza; momza, momza, momza, momza, roza, roza, roza-et--momza." this was followed by another and still another, until the hour began to grow late. and then they gathered closer around him and heard the promised story. at the same hour honoré grandissime, wrapping himself in a greatcoat and giving himself up to sad and somewhat bitter reflections, had wandered from the paternal house, and by and by from the grounds, not knowing why or whither, but after a time soliciting, at frowenfeld's closing door, the favor of his company. he had been feeling a kind of suffocation. this it was that made him seek and prize the presence and hand-grasp of the inexperienced apothecary. he led him out to the edge of the river. here they sat down, and with a laborious attempt at a hard and jesting mood, honoré told the same dark story. chapter xxviii the story of bras-coupÉ "a very little more than eight years ago," began honoré--but not only honoré, but raoul also; and not only they, but another, earlier on the same day,--honoré, the f.m.c. but we shall not exactly follow the words of any one of these. bras-coupé, they said, had been, in africa and under another name, a prince among his people. in a certain war of conquest, to which he had been driven by _ennui_, he was captured, stripped of his royalty, marched down upon the beach of the atlantic, and, attired as a true son of adam, with two goodly arms intact, became a commodity. passing out of first hands in barter for a looking-glass, he was shipped in good order and condition on board the good schooner _Égalité_, whereof blank was master, to be delivered without delay at the port of nouvelle orléans (the dangers of fire and navigation excepted), unto blank blank. in witness whereof, he that made men's skins of different colors, but all blood of one, hath entered the same upon his book, and sealed it to the day of judgment. of the voyage little is recorded--here below; the less the better. part of the living merchandise failed to keep; the weather was rough, the cargo large, the vessel small. however, the captain discovered there was room over the side, and there--all flesh is grass--from time to time during the voyage he jettisoned the unmerchantable. yet, when the reopened hatches let in the sweet smell of the land, bras-coupé had come to the upper--the favored--the buttered side of the world; the anchor slid with a rumble of relief down through the muddy fathoms of the mississippi, and the prince could hear through the schooner's side the savage current of the river, leaping and licking about the bows, and whimpering low welcomes home. a splendid picture to the eyes of the royal captive, as his head came up out of the hatchway, was the little franco-spanish-american city that lay on the low, brimming bank. there were little forts that showed their whitewashed teeth; there was a green parade-ground, and yellow barracks, and cabildo, and hospital, and cavalry stables, and custom-house, and a most inviting jail, convenient to the cathedral--all of dazzling white and yellow, with a black stripe marking the track of the conflagration of , and here and there among the low roofs a lofty one with round-topped dormer windows and a breezy belvidere looking out upon the plantations of coffee and indigo beyond the town. when bras-coupé staggered ashore, he stood but a moment among a drove of "likely boys," before agricola fusilier, managing the business adventures of the grandissime estate, as well as the residents thereon, and struck with admiration for the physical beauties of the chieftain (a man may even fancy a negro--as a negro), bought the lot, and, both to resell him with the rest to some unappreciative 'cadian, induced don josé martinez' overseer to become his purchaser. down in the rich parish of st. bernard (whose boundary line now touches that of the distended city) lay the plantation, known before bras-coupé passed away as la renaissance. here it was that he entered at once upon a chapter of agreeable surprises. he was humanely met, presented with a clean garment, lifted into a cart drawn by oxen, taken to a whitewashed cabin of logs, finer than his palace at home, and made to comprehend that it was a free gift. he was also given some clean food, whereupon he fell sick. at home it would have been the part of piety for the magnate next the throne to launch him heavenward at once; but now, healing doses were administered, and to his amazement he recovered. it reminded him that he was no longer king. his name, he replied to an inquiry touching that subject, was --------, something in the jaloff tongue, which he by and by condescended to render into congo: mioko-koanga; in french bras-coupé; the arm cut off. truly it would have been easy to admit, had this been his meaning, that his tribe, in losing him, had lost its strong right arm close off at the shoulder; not so easy for his high-paying purchaser to allow, if this other was his intent: that the arm which might no longer shake the spear or swing the wooden sword was no better than a useless stump never to be lifted for aught else. but whether easy to allow or not, that was his meaning. he made himself a type of all slavery, turning into flesh and blood the truth that all slavery is maiming. he beheld more luxury in a week than all his subjects had seen in a century. here congo girls were dressed in cottons and flannels worth, where he came from, an elephant's tusk apiece. everybody wore clothes--children and lads alone excepted. not a lion had invaded the settlement since his immigration. the serpents were as nothing; an occasional one coming up through the floor--that was all. true, there was more emaciation than unassisted conjecture could explain--a profusion of enlarged joints and diminished muscles, which, thank god, was even then confined to a narrow section and disappeared with spanish rule. he had no experimental knowledge of it; nay, regular meals, on the contrary, gave him anxious concern, yet had the effect--spite of his apprehension that he was being fattened for a purpose--of restoring the herculean puissance which formerly in africa had made him the terror of the battle. when one day he had come to be quite himself, he was invited out into the sunshine, and escorted by the driver (a sort of foreman to the overseer), went forth dimly wondering. they reached a field where some men and women were hoeing. he had seen men and women--subjects of his--labor--a little--in africa. the driver handed him a hoe; he examined it with silent interest--until by signs he was requested to join the pastime. "what?" he spoke, not with his lips, but with the recoil of his splendid frame and the ferocious expansion of his eyes. this invitation was a cataract of lightning leaping down an ink-black sky. in one instant of all-pervading clearness he read his sentence--work. bras-coupé was six feet five. with a sweep as quick as instinct the back of the hoe smote the driver full in the head. next, the prince lifted the nearest congo crosswise, brought thirty-two teeth together in his wildly kicking leg and cast him away as a bad morsel; then, throwing another into the branches of a willow, and a woman over his head into a draining-ditch, he made one bound for freedom, and fell to his knees, rocking from side to side under the effect of a pistol-ball from the overseer. it had struck him in the forehead, and running around the skull in search of a penetrable spot, tradition--which sometimes jests--says came out despairingly, exactly where it had entered. it so happened that, except the overseer, the whole company were black. why should the trivial scandal be blabbed? a plaster or two made everything even in a short time, except in the driver's case--for the driver died. the woman whom bras-coupé had thrown over his head lived to sell _calas_ to joseph frowenfeld. don josé, young and austere, knew nothing about agriculture and cared as much about human nature. the overseer often thought this, but never said it; he would not trust even himself with the dangerous criticism. when he ventured to reveal the foregoing incidents to the señor he laid all the blame possible upon the man whom death had removed beyond the reach of correction, and brought his account to a climax by hazarding the asserting that bras-coupé was an animal that could not be whipped. "caramba!" exclaimed the master, with gentle emphasis, "how so?" "perhaps señor had better ride down to the quarters," replied the overseer. it was a great sacrifice of dignity, but the master made it. "bring him out." they brought him out--chains on his feet, chains on his wrists, an iron yoke on his neck. the spanish creole master had often seen the bull, with his long, keen horns and blazing eye, standing in the arena; but this was as though he had come face to face with a rhinoceros. "this man is not a congo," he said. "he is a jaloff," replied the encouraged overseer. "see his fine, straight nose; moreover, he is a _candio_--a prince. if i whip him he will die." the dauntless captive and fearless master stood looking into each other's eyes until each recognized in the other his peer in physical courage, and each was struck with an admiration for the other which no after difference was sufficient entirely to destroy. had bras-coupé's eye quailed but once--just for one little instant--he would have got the lash; but, as it was-- "get an interpreter," said don josé; then, more privately, "and come to an understanding. i shall require it of you." where might one find an interpreter--one not merely able to render a jaloff's meaning into creole french, or spanish, but with such a turn for diplomatic correspondence as would bring about an "understanding" with this african buffalo? the overseer was left standing and thinking, and clemence, who had not forgotten who threw her into the draining-ditch, cunningly passed by. "ah, clemence--" "_mo pas capabe! mo pas capabe!_ (i cannot, i cannot!) _ya, ya, ya! 'oir miché agricol' fusilier! ouala yune bon monture, oui!_"--which was to signify that agricola could interpret the very papa lébat. "agricola fusilier! the last man on earth to make peace." but there seemed to be no choice, and to agricola the overseer went. it was but a little ride to the grandissime place. "i, agricola fusilier, stand as an interpreter to a negro? h-sir!" "but i thought you might know of some person," said the weakening applicant, rubbing his ear with his hand. "ah!" replied agricola, addressing the surrounding scenery, "if i did not--who would? you may take palmyre." the overseer softly smote his hands together at the happy thought. "yes," said agricola, "take palmyre; she has picked up as many negro dialects as i know european languages." and she went to the don's plantation as interpreter, followed by agricola's prayer to fate that she might in some way be overtaken by disaster. the two hated each other with all the strength they had. he knew not only her pride, but her passion for the absent honoré. he hated her, also, for her intelligence, for the high favor in which she stood with her mistress, and for her invincible spirit, which was more offensively patent to him than to others, since he was himself the chief object of her silent detestation. it was palmyre's habit to do nothing without painstaking. "when mademoiselle comes to be señora," thought she--she knew that her mistress and the don were affianced--"it will be well to have a señor's esteem. i shall endeavor to succeed." it was from this motive, then, that with the aid of her mistress she attired herself in a resplendence of scarlet and beads and feathers that could not fail the double purpose of connecting her with the children of ethiopia and commanding the captive's instant admiration. alas for those who succeed too well! no sooner did the african turn his tiger glance upon her than the fire of his eyes died out; and when she spoke to him in the dear accents of his native tongue, the matter of strife vanished from his mind. he loved. he sat down tamely in his irons and listened to palmyre's argument as a wrecked mariner would listen to ghostly church-bells. he would give a short assent, feast his eyes, again assent, and feast his ears; but when at length she made bold to approach the actual issue, and finally uttered the loathed word, _work_, he rose up, six feet five, a statue of indignation in black marble. and then palmyre, too, rose up, glorying in him, and went to explain to master and overseer. bras-coupé understood, she said, that he was a slave--it was the fortune of war, and he was a warrior; but, according to a generally recognized principle in african international law, he could not reasonably be expected to work. "as señor will remember i told him," remarked the overseer; "how can a man expect to plow with a zebra?" here he recalled a fact in his earlier experience. an african of this stripe had been found to answer admirably as a "driver" to make others work. a second and third parley, extending through two or three days, were held with the prince, looking to his appointment to the vacant office of driver; yet what was the master's amazement to learn at length that his highness declined the proffered honor. "stop!" spoke the overseer again, detecting a look of alarm in palmyre's face as she turned away, "he doesn't do any such thing. if señor will let me take the man to agricola--" "no!" cried palmyre, with an agonized look, "i will tell. he will take the place and fill it if you will give me to him for his own--but oh, messieurs, for the love of god--i do not want to be his wife!" the overseer looked at the señor, ready to approve whatever he should decide. bras-coupé's intrepid audacity took the spaniard's heart by irresistible assault. "i leave it entirely with señor fusilier," he said. "but he is not my master; he has no right--" "silence!" and she was silent; and so, sometimes, is fire in the wall. agricola's consent was given with malicious promptness, and as bras-coupé's fetters fell off it was decreed that, should he fill his office efficiently, there should be a wedding on the rear veranda of the grandissime mansion simultaneously with the one already appointed to take place in the grand hall of the same house six months from that present day. in the meanwhile palmyre should remain with mademoiselle, who had promptly but quietly made up her mind that palmyre should not be wed unless she wished to be. bras-coupé made no objection, was royally worthless for a time, but learned fast, mastered the "gumbo" dialect in a few weeks, and in six months was the most valuable man ever bought for gourde dollars. nevertheless, there were but three persons within as many square miles who were not most vividly afraid of him. the first was palmyre. his bearing in her presence was ever one of solemn, exalted respect, which, whether from pure magnanimity in himself, or by reason of her magnetic eye, was something worth being there to see. "it was royal!" said the overseer. the second was not that official. when bras-coupé said--as, at stated intervals, he did say--"_mo courri c'ez agricole fusilier pou' 'oir 'namourouse_ (i go to agricola fusilier to see my betrothed,)" the overseer would sooner have intercepted a score of painted chickasaws than that one lover. he would look after him and shake a prophetic head. "trouble coming; better not deceive that fellow;" yet that was the very thing palmyre dared do. her admiration for bras-coupé was almost boundless. she rejoiced in his stature; she revelled in the contemplation of his untamable spirit; he seemed to her the gigantic embodiment of her own dark, fierce will, the expanded realization of her lifetime longing for terrible strength. but the single deficiency in all this impassioned regard was--what so many fairer loves have found impossible to explain to so many gentler lovers--an entire absence of preference; her heart she could not give him--she did not have it. yet after her first prayer to the spaniard and his overseer for deliverance, to the secret surprise and chagrin of her young mistress, she simulated content. it was artifice; she knew agricola's power, and to seem to consent was her one chance with him. he might thus be beguiled into withdrawing his own consent. that failing, she had mademoiselle's promise to come to the rescue, which she could use at the last moment; and that failing, there was a dirk in her bosom, for which a certain hard breast was not too hard. another element of safety, of which she knew nothing, was a letter from the cannes brulée. the word had reached there that love had conquered--that, despite all hard words, and rancor, and positive injury, the grandissime hand--the fairest of grandissime hands--was about to be laid into that of one who without much stretch might be called a de grapion; that there was, moreover, positive effort being made to induce a restitution of old gaming-table spoils. honoré and mademoiselle, his sister, one on each side of the atlantic, were striving for this end. don josé sent this intelligence to his kinsman as glad tidings (a lover never imagines there are two sides to that which makes him happy), and, to add a touch of humor, told how palmyre, also, was given to the chieftain. the letter that came back to the young spaniard did not blame him so much: _he_ was ignorant of all the facts; but a very formal one to agricola begged to notify him that if palmyre's union with bras-coupé should be completed, as sure as there was a god in heaven, the writer would have the life of the man who knowingly had thus endeavored to dishonor one who _shared the blood of the de grapions_. thereupon agricola, contrary to his general character, began to drop hints to don josé that the engagement of bras-coupé and palmyre need not be considered irreversible; but the don was not desirous of disappointing his terrible pet. palmyre, unluckily, played her game a little too deeply. she thought the moment had come for herself to insist on the match, and thus provoke agricola to forbid it. to her incalculable dismay she saw him a second time reconsider and become silent. the second person who did not fear bras-coupé was mademoiselle. on one of the giant's earliest visits to see palmyre he obeyed the summons which she brought him, to appear before the lady. a more artificial man might have objected on the score of dress, his attire being a single gaudy garment tightly enveloping the waist and thighs. as his eyes fell upon the beautiful white lady he prostrated himself upon the ground, his arms outstretched before him. he would not move till she was gone. then he arose like a hermit who has seen a vision. "_bras-coupé n' pas oulé oir zombis_ (bras-coupé dares not look upon a spirit)." from that hour he worshipped. he saw her often; every time, after one glance at her countenance, he would prostrate his gigantic length with his face in the dust. the third person who did not fear him was--agricola? nay, it was the spaniard--a man whose capability to fear anything in nature or beyond had never been discovered. long before the end of his probation bras-coupé would have slipped the entanglements of bondage, though as yet he felt them only as one feels a spider's web across the face, had not the master, according to a little affectation of the times, promoted him to be his game-keeper. many a day did these two living magazines of wrath spend together in the dismal swamps and on the meagre intersecting ridges, making war upon deer and bear and wildcat; or on the mississippi after wild goose and pelican; when even a word misplaced would have made either the slayer of the other. yet the months ran smoothly round and the wedding night drew nigh[ ]. a goodly company had assembled. all things were ready. the bride was dressed, the bridegroom had come. on the great back piazza, which had been inclosed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, was palmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her deceit to the last, robed in costly garments to whose beauty was added the charm of their having been worn once, and once only, by her beloved mademoiselle. [footnote : an over-zealous franciscan once complained bitterly to the bishop of havana, that people were being married in louisiana in their own houses after dark and thinking nothing of it. it is not certain that he had reference to the grandissime mansion; at any rate he was tittered down by the whole community.] but where was bras-coupé? the question was asked of palmyre by agricola with a gaze that meant in english, "no tricks, girl!" among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper was already going round. "we have made a sad discovery, miché fusilier," said the overseer. "bras-coupé is here; we have him in a room just yonder. but--the truth is, sir, bras-coupé is a voudou." "well, and suppose he is; what of it? only hush; do not let his master know it. it is nothing; all the blacks are voudous, more or less." "but he declines to dress himself--has painted himself all rings and stripes, antelope fashion." "tell him agricola fusilier says, 'dress immediately!'" "oh, miché, we have said that five times already, and his answer--you will pardon me--his answer is--spitting on the ground--that you are a contemptible _dotchian_ (white trash)." there is nothing to do but privily to call the very bride--the lady herself. she comes forth in all her glory, small, but oh, so beautiful! slam! bras-coupé is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips of her snowy slippers. she gently bids him go and dress, and at once he goes. ah! now the question may be answered without whispering. there is bras-coupé, towering above all heads, in ridiculous red and blue regimentals, but with a look of savage dignity upon him that keeps every one from laughing. the murmur of admiration that passed along the thronged gallery leaped up into a shout in the bosom of palmyre. oh, bras-coupé--heroic soul! she would not falter. she would let the silly priest say his say--then her cunning should help her _not to be_ his wife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to strike. "he is looking for palmyre," said some, and at that moment he saw her. "ho-o-o-o-o!" agricola's best roar was a penny trumpet to bras-coupé's note of joy. the whole masculine half of the indoor company flocked out to see what the matter was. bras-coupé was taking her hand in one of his and laying his other upon her head; and as some one made an unnecessary gesture for silence, he sang, beating slow and solemn time with his naked foot and with the hand that dropped hers to smite his breast: "'_en haut la montagne, zami, mo pé coupé canne, zami, pou' fé l'a'zen' zami, pou' mo baille palmyre. ah! palmyre, palmyre mo c'ere, mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé 'ou'_.'" "_montagne?_" asked one slave of another, "_qui est çà, montagne? gnia pas quiç 'ose comme çà dans la louisiana?_ (what's a mountain?" we haven't such things in louisiana.)" "_mein ye gagnein plein montagnes dans l'afrique_, listen!" "'_ah! palmyre, palmyre, mo' piti zozo,' mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé, l'aimé 'ou'_.'" "bravissimo!--" but just then a counter-attraction drew the white company back into the house. an old french priest with sandalled feet and a dirty face had arrived. there was a moment of handshaking with the good father, then a moment of palpitation and holding of the breath, and then--you would have known it by the turning away of two or three feminine heads in tears--the lily hand became the don's, to have and to hold, by authority of the church and the spanish king. and all was merry, save that outside there was coming up as villanous a night as ever cast black looks in through snug windows. it was just as the newly-wed spaniard, with agricola and all the guests, were concluding the byplay of marrying the darker couple, that the hurricane struck the dwelling. the holy and jovial father had made faint pretence of kissing this second bride; the ladies, colonels, dons, etc.,--though the joke struck them as a trifle coarse--were beginning to laugh and clap hands again and the gowned jester to bow to right and left, when bras-coupé, tardily realizing the consummation of his hopes, stepped forward to embrace his wife. "bras-coupé!" the voice was that of palmyre's mistress. she had not been able to comprehend her maid's behavior, but now palmyre had darted upon her an appealing look. the warrior stopped as if a javelin had flashed over his head and stuck in the wall. "bras-coupé must wait till i give him his wife." he sank, with hidden face, slowly to the floor. "bras-coupé hears the voice of zombis; the voice is sweet, but the words are very strong; from the same sugar-cane comes _sirop_ and _tafia_; bras-coupé says to zombis, 'bras-coupé will wait; but if the _dotchians_ deceive bras-coupé--" he rose to his feet with his eyes closed and his great black fist lifted over his head--"bras-coupé will call voudou-magnan!" the crowd retreated and the storm fell like a burst of infernal applause. a whiff like fifty witches flouted up the canvas curtain of the gallery and a fierce black cloud, drawing the moon under its cloak, belched forth a stream of fire that seemed to flood the ground; a peal of thunder followed as if the sky had fallen in, the house quivered, the great oaks groaned, and every lesser thing bowed down before the awful blast. every lip held its breath for a minute--or an hour, no one knew--there was a sudden lull of the wind, and the floods came down. have you heard it thunder and rain in those louisiana lowlands? every clap seems to crack the world. it has rained a moment; you peer through the black pane--your house is an island, all the land is sea. however, the supper was spread in the hall and in due time the guests were filled. then a supper was spread in the big hall in the basement, below stairs, the sons and daughters of ham came down like the fowls of the air upon a rice-field, and bras-coupé, throwing his heels about with the joyous carelessness of a smutted mercury, for the first time in his life tasted the blood of the grape. a second, a fifth, a tenth time he tasted it, drinking more deeply each time, and would have taken it ten times more had not his bride cunningly concealed it. it was like stealing a tiger's kittens. the moment quickly came when he wanted his eleventh bumper. as he presented his request a silent shiver of consternation ran through the dark company; and when, in what the prince meant as a remonstrative tone, he repeated the petition--splitting the table with his fist by way of punctuation--there ensued a hustling up staircases and a cramming into dim corners that left him alone at the banquet. leaving the table, he strode upstairs and into the chirruping and dancing of the grand salon. there was a halt in the cotillion and a hush of amazement like the shutting off of steam. bras-coupé strode straight to his master, laid his paw upon his fellow-bridegroom's shoulder and in a thunder-tone demanded: "more!" the master swore a spanish oath, lifted his hand and--fell, beneath the terrific fist of his slave, with a bang that jingled the candelabra. dolorous stroke!--for the dealer of it. given, apparently to him--poor, tipsy savage--in self-defence, punishable, in a white offender, by a small fine or a few days' imprisonment, it assured bras-coupé the death of a felon; such was the old _code noir_. (we have a _code noir_ now, but the new one is a mental reservation, not an enactment.) the guests stood for an instant as if frozen, smitten stiff with the instant expectation of insurrection, conflagration and rapine (just as we do to-day whenever some poor swaggering pompey rolls up his fist and gets a ball through his body), while, single-handed and naked-fisted in a room full of swords, the giant stood over his master, making strange signs and passes and rolling out in wrathful words of his mother tongue what it needed no interpreter to tell his swarming enemies was a voudou malediction. "_nous sommes grigis!_" screamed two or three ladies, "we are bewitched!" "look to your wives and daughters!" shouted a brahmin-mandarin. "shoot the black devils without mercy!" cried a mandarin-fusilier, unconsciously putting into a single outflash of words the whole creole treatment of race troubles. with a single bound bras-coupé reached the drawing-room door; his gaudy regimentals made a red and blue streak down the hall; there was a rush of frilled and powdered gentlemen to the rear veranda, an avalanche of lightning with bras-coupé in the midst making for the swamp, and then all without was blackness of darkness and all within was a wild commingled chatter of creole, french, and spanish tongues,--in the midst of which the reluctant agricola returned his dresssword to its scabbard. while the wet lanterns swung on crazily in the trees along the way by which the bridegroom was to have borne his bride; while madame grandissime prepared an impromptu bridalchamber; while the spaniard bathed his eye and the blue gash on his cheek-bone; while palmyre paced her room in a fever and wild tremor of conflicting emotions throughout the night, and the guests splashed home after the storm as best they could, bras-coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost depths of the swamp. and amid what surroundings! endless colonnades of cypresses; long, motionless drapings of gray moss; broad sheets of noisome waters, pitchy black, resting on bottomless ooze; cypress knees studding the surface; patches of floating green, gleaming brilliantly here and there; yonder where the sunbeams wedge themselves in, constellations of water-lilies, the many-hued iris, and a multitude of flowers that no man had named; here, too, serpents great and small, of wonderful colorings, and the dull and loathsome moccasin sliding warily off the dead tree; in dimmer recesses the cow alligator, with her nest hard by; turtles a century old; owls and bats, raccoons, opossums, rats, centipedes and creatures of like vileness; great vines of beautiful leaf and scarlet fruit in deadly clusters; maddening mosquitoes, parasitic insects, gorgeous dragon-flies and pretty water-lizards: the blue heron, the snowy crane, the red-bird, the moss-bird, the night-hawk and the chuckwill's-widow; a solemn stillness and stifled air only now and then disturbed by the call or whir of the summer duck, the dismal ventriloquous note of the rain-crow, or the splash of a dead branch falling into the clear but lifeless bayou. the pack of cuban hounds that howl from don josé's kennels cannot snuff the trail of the stolen canoe that glides through the sombre blue vapors of the african's fastnesses. his arrows send no telltale reverberations to the distant clearing. many a wretch in his native wilderness has bras-coupé himself, in palmier days, driven to just such an existence, to escape the chains and horrors of the barracoons; therefore not a whit broods he over man's inhumanity, but, taking the affair as a matter of course, casts about him for a future. chapter xxix the story of bras-coupÉ, continued bras-coupé let the autumn pass, and wintered in his den. don josé, in a majestic way, endeavored to be happy. he took his señora to his hall, and under her rule it took on for a while a look and feeling which turned it from a hunting-lodge into a home. wherever the lady's steps turned--or it is as correct to say wherever the proud tread of palmyre turned--the features of bachelor's-hall disappeared; guns, dogs, oars, saddles, nets, went their way into proper banishment, and the broad halls and lofty chambers--the floors now muffled with mats of palmetto-leaf--no longer re-echoed the tread of a lonely master, but breathed a redolence of flowers and a rippling murmur of well-contented song. but the song was not from the throat of bras-coupé's "_piti zozo_." silent and severe by day, she moaned away whole nights heaping reproaches upon herself for the impulse--now to her, because it had failed, inexplicable in its folly--which had permitted her hand to lie in bras-coupé's and the priest to bind them together. for in the audacity of her pride, or, as agricola would have said, in the immensity of her impudence, she had held herself consecrate to a hopeless love. but now she was a black man's wife! and even he unable to sit at her feet and learn the lesson she had hoped to teach him. she had heard of san domingo; for months the fierce heart within her silent bosom had been leaping and shouting and seeing visions of fire and blood, and when she brooded over the nearness of agricola and the remoteness of honoré these visions got from her a sort of mad consent. the lesson she would have taught the giant was insurrection. but it was too late. letting her dagger sleep in her bosom, and with an undefined belief in imaginary resources, she had consented to join hands with her giant hero before the priest; and when the wedding had come and gone like a white sail, she was seized with a lasting, fierce despair. a wild aggressiveness that had formerly characterized her glance in moments of anger--moments which had grown more and more infrequent under the softening influence of her mademoiselle's nature--now came back intensified, and blazed in her eye perpetually. whatever her secret love may have been in kind, its sinking beyond hope below the horizon had left her fifty times the mutineer she had been before--the mutineer who has nothing to lose. "she loves her _candio_" said the negroes. "simple creatures!" said the overseer, who prided himself on his discernment, "she loves nothing; she hates agricola; it's a case of hate at first sight--the strongest kind." both were partly right; her feelings were wonderfully knit to the african; and she now dedicated herself to agricola's ruin. the señor, it has been said, endeavored to be happy; but now his heart conceived and brought forth its first-born fear, sired by superstition--the fear that he was bewitched. the negroes said that bras-coupé had cursed the land. morning after morning the master looked out with apprehension toward the fields, until one night the worm came upon the indigo, and between sunset and sunrise every green leaf had been eaten up and there was nothing left for either insect or apprehension to feed upon. and then he said--and the echo came back from the cannes brulées--that the very bottom culpability of this thing rested on the grandissimes, and specifically on their fugleman agricola, through his putting the hellish african upon him. moreover, fever and death, to a degree unknown before, fell upon his slaves. those to whom life was spared--but to whom strength did not return--wandered about the place like scarecrows, looking for shelter, and made the very air dismal with the reiteration, "_no' ouanga_ (we are bewitched), _bras-coupé fé moi des grigis_ (the voudou's spells are on me)." the ripple of song was hushed and the flowers fell upon the floor. "i have heard an english maxim," wrote colonel de grapion to his kinsman, "which i would recommend you to put into practice--'fight the devil with fire.'" no, he would not recognize devils as belligerents. but if rome commissioned exorcists, could not he employ one? no, he would not! if his hounds could not catch bras-coupé, why, let him go. the overseer tried the hounds once more and came home with the best one across his saddle-bow, an arrow run half through its side. once the blacks attempted by certain familiar rum-pourings and nocturnal charm-singing to lift the curse; but the moment the master heard the wild monotone of their infernal worship, he stopped it with a word. early in february came the spring, and with it some resurrection of hope and courage. it may have been--it certainly was, in part--because young honoré grandissime had returned. he was like the sun's warmth wherever he went; and the other honoré was like his shadow. the fairer one quickly saw the meaning of these things, hastened to cheer the young don with hopes of a better future, and to effect, if he could, the restoration of bras-coupé to his master's favor. but this latter effort was an idle one. he had long sittings with his uncle agricola to the same end, but they always ended fruitless and often angrily. his dark half-brother had seen palmyre and loved her. honoré would gladly have solved one or two riddles by effecting their honorable union in marriage. the previous ceremony on the grandissime back piazza need be no impediment; all slave-owners understood those things. following honoré's advice, the f.m.c., who had come into possession of his paternal portion, sent to cannes brulées a written offer, to buy palmyre at any price that her master might name, stating his intention to free her and make her his wife. colonel de grapion could hardly hope to settle palmyre's fate more satisfactorily, yet he could not forego an opportunity to indulge his pride by following up the threat he had hung over agricola to kill whosoever should give palmyre to a black man. he referred the subject and the would-be purchaser to him. it would open up to the old braggart a line of retreat, thought the planter of the cannes brulées. but the idea of retreat had left citizen fusilier. "she is already married," said he to m. honoré grandissime, f.m.c. "she is the lawful wife of bras-coupé; and what god has joined together let no man put asunder. you know it, sirrah. you did this for impudence, to make a show of your wealth. you intended it as an insinuation of equality. i overlook the impertinence for the sake of the man whose white blood you carry; but h-mark you, if ever you bring your parisian airs and self-sufficient face on a level with mine again, h-i will slap it." the quadroon, three nights after, was so indiscreet as to give him the opportunity, and he did it--at that quadroon ball to which dr. keene alluded in talking to frowenfeld. but don josé, we say, plucked up new spirit.. "last year's disasters were but fortune's freaks," he said. "see, others' crops have failed all about us." the overseer shook his head. "_c'est ce maudit cocodri' là bas_ (it is that accursed alligator, bras-coupé, down yonder in the swamp)." and by and by the master was again smitten with the same belief. he and his neighbors put in their crops afresh. the spring waned, summer passed, the fevers returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled. "alas!" cried the planters, "we are all poor men!" the worst among the worst were the fields of bras-coupé's master--parched and shrivelled. "he does not understand planting," said his neighbors; "neither does his overseer. maybe, too, it is true as he says, that he is voudoued." one day at high noon the master was taken sick with fever. the third noon after--the sad wife sitting by the bedside--suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with the door open behind him, stood the magnificent, half-nude form of bras-coupé. he did not fall down as the mistress's eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered. the master was lying with his eyes closed. the fever had done a fearful three days' work. "_mioko-koanga oulé so' femme_ (bras-coupé wants his wife)." the master started wildly and stared upon his slave. "_bras-coupé oulé so' femme_!" repeated the black. "seize him!" cried the sick man, trying to rise. but, though several servants had ventured in with frightened faces, none dared molest the giant. the master turned his entreating eyes upon his wife, but she seemed stunned, and only covered her face with her hands and sat as if paralyzed by a foreknowledge of what was coming. bras-coupé lifted his great black palm and commenced: "_mo cé voudrai que la maison ci là, et tout ça qui pas femme' ici, s'raient encore maudits_! (may this house, and all in it who are not women, be accursed)." the master fell back upon his pillow with a groan of helpless wrath. the african pointed his finger through the open window. "may its fields not know the plough nor nourish the herds that overrun it." the domestics, who had thus far stood their ground, suddenly rushed from the room like stampeded cattle, and at that moment appeared palmyre. "speak to him," faintly cried the panting invalid. she went firmly up to her husband and lifted her hand. with an easy motion, but quick as lightning, as a lion sets foot on a dog, he caught her by the arm. "_bras-coupé oulé so' femme_," he said, and just then palmyre would have gone with him to the equator. "you shall not have her!" gasped the master. the african seemed to rise in height, and still holding his wife at arm's length, resumed his malediction: "may weeds cover the ground until the air is full of their odor and the wild beasts of the forest come and lie down under their cover." with a frantic effort the master lifted himself upon his elbow and extended his clenched fist in speechless defiance; but his brain reeled, his sight went out, and when again he saw, palmyre and her mistress were bending over him, the overseer stood awkwardly by, and bras-coupé was gone. the plantation became an invalid camp. the words of the voudou found fulfilment on every side. the plough went not out; the herds wandered through broken hedges from field to field and came up with staring bones and shrunken sides; a frenzied mob of weeds and thorns wrestled and throttled each other in a struggle for standing-room--rag-weed, smart-weed, sneeze-weed, bindweed, iron-weed--until the burning skies of midsummer checked their growth and crowned their unshorn tops with rank and dingy flowers. "why in the name of--st. francis," asked the priest of the overseer, "didn't the señora use her power over the black scoundrel when he stood and cursed, that day?" "why, to tell you the truth, father," said the overseer, in a discreet whisper, "i can only suppose she thought bras-coupé had half a right to do it." "ah, ah, i see; like her brother honoré--looks at both sides of a question--a miserable practice; but why couldn't palmyre use _her_ eyes? they would have stopped him." "palmyre? why palmyre has become the best _monture_ (plutonian medium) in the parish. agricola fusilier himself is afraid of her. sir, i think sometimes bras-coupé is dead and his spirit has gone into palmyre. she would rather add to his curse than take from it." "ah!" said the jovial divine, with a fat smile, "castigation would help her case; the whip is a great sanctifier. i fancy it would even make a christian of the inexpugnable bras-coupé." but bras-coupé kept beyond the reach alike of the lash and of the latin bible. by and by came a man with a rumor, whom the overseer brought to the master's sick-room, to tell that an enterprising frenchman was attempting to produce a new staple in louisiana, one that worms would not annihilate. it was that year of history when the despairing planters saw ruin hovering so close over them that they cried to heaven for succor. providence raised up Étienne de boré. "and if Étienne is successful," cried the news-bearer, "and gets the juice of the sugar-cane to crystallize, so shall all of us, after him, and shall yet save our lands and homes. oh, señor, it will make you strong again to see these fields all cane and the long rows of negroes and negresses cutting it, while they sing their song of those droll african numerals, counting the canes they cut," and the bearer of good tidings sang them for very joy: [illustration: music] an-o-qué, an-o-bia, bia-tail-la, qué-re-qué, nal-le-oua, au-mon-dé, au-tap-o-té, au-pé-to-té, au-qué-ré-qué, bo. "and honoré grandissime is going to introduce it on his lands," said don josé. "that is true," said agricola fusilier, coming in. honoré, the indefatigable peacemaker, had brought his uncle and his brother-in-law for the moment not only to speaking, but to friendly, terms. the señor smiled. "i have some good tidings, too," he said; "my beloved lady has borne me a son." "another scion of the house of grand--i mean martinez!" exclaimed agricola. "and now, don josé, let me say that _i_ have an item of rare intelligence!" the don lifted his feeble head and opened his inquiring eyes with a sudden, savage light in them. "no," said agricola, "he is not exactly taken yet, but they are on his track." "who?" "the police. we may say he is virtually in our grasp." * * * * * it was on a sabbath afternoon that a band of choctaws having just played a game of racquette behind the city and a similar game being about to end between the white champions of two rival faubourgs, the beating of tom-toms, rattling of mules' jawbones and sounding of wooden horns drew the populace across the fields to a spot whose present name of congo square still preserves a reminder of its old barbaric pastimes. on a grassy plain under the ramparts, the performers of these hideous discords sat upon the ground facing each other, and in their midst the dancers danced. they gyrated in couples, a few at a time, throwing their bodies into the most startling attitudes and the wildest contortions, while the whole company of black lookers-on, incited by the tones of the weird music and the violent posturing of the dancers, swayed and writhed in passionate sympathy, beating their breasts, palms and thighs in time with the bones and drums, and at frequent intervals lifting, in that wild african unison no more to be described than forgotten, the unutterable songs of the babouille and counjaille dances, with their ejaculatory burdens of "_aie! aie! voudou magnan!_" and "_aie calinda! dancé calinda!_" the volume of sound rose and fell with the augmentation or diminution of the dancers' extravagances. now a fresh man, young and supple, bounding into the ring, revived the flagging rattlers, drummers and trumpeters; now a wearied dancer, finding his strength going, gathered all his force at the cry of "_dancé zisqu'a mort!_" rallied to a grand finale and with one magnificent antic fell, foaming at the mouth. the amusement had reached its height. many participants had been lugged out by the neck to avoid their being danced on, and the enthusiasm had risen to a frenzy, when there bounded into the ring the blackest of black men, an athlete of superb figure, in breeches of "indienne"--the stuff used for slave women's best dresses--jingling with bells, his feet in moccasins, his tight, crisp hair decked out with feathers, a necklace of alligator's teeth rattling on his breast and a living serpent twined about his neck. it chanced that but one couple was dancing. whether they had been sent there by advice of agricola is not certain. snatching a tambourine from a bystander as he entered, the stranger thrust the male dancer aside, faced the woman and began a series of saturnalian antics, compared with which all that had gone before was tame and sluggish; and as he finally leaped, with tinkling heels, clean over his bewildered partner's head, the multitude howled with rapture. ill-starred bras-coupé. he was in that extra-hazardous and irresponsible condition of mind and body known in the undignified present as "drunk again." by the strangest fortune, if not, as we have just hinted, by some design, the man whom he had once deposited in the willow bushes, and the woman clemence, were the very two dancers, and no other, whom he had interrupted. the man first stupidly regarded, next admiringly gazed upon, and then distinctly recognized, his whilom driver. five minutes later the spanish police were putting their heads together to devise a quick and permanent capture; and in the midst of the sixth minute, as the wonderful fellow was rising in a yet more astounding leap than his last, a lasso fell about his neck and brought him, crashing like a burnt tree, face upward upon the turf. "the runaway slave," said the old french code, continued in force by the spaniards, "the runaway slave who shall continue to be so for one month from the day of his being denounced to the officers of justice shall have his ears cut off and shall be branded with the flower de luce on the shoulder; and on a second offence of the same nature, persisted in during one month of his being denounced, he shall be hamstrung, and be marked with the flower de luce on the other shoulder. on the third offence he shall die." bras-coupé had run away only twice. "but," said agricola, "these 'bossals' must be taught their place. besides, there is article of the same code: 'the slave who, having struck his master, shall have produced a bruise, shall suffer capital punishment'--a very necessary law!" he concluded with a scowl upon palmyre, who shot back a glance which he never forgot. the spaniard showed himself very merciful--for a spaniard; he spared the captive's life. he might have been more merciful still; but honoré grandissime said some indignant things in the african's favor, and as much to teach the grandissimes a lesson as to punish the runaway, he would have repented his clemency, as he repented the momentary truce with agricola, but for the tearful pleading of the señora and the hot, dry eyes of her maid. because of these he overlooked the offence against his person and estate, and delivered bras-coupé to the law to suffer only the penalties of the crime he had committed against society by attempting to be a free man. we repeat it for the credit of palmyre, that she pleaded for bras-coupé. but what it cost her to make that intercession, knowing that his death would leave her free, and that if he lived she must be his wife, let us not attempt to say. in the midst of the ancient town, in a part which is now crumbling away, stood the calaboza, with its humid vaults and grated cells, its iron cages and its whips; and there, soon enough, they strapped bras-coupé face downward and laid on the lash. and yet not a sound came from the mutilated but unconquered african to annoy the ear of the sleeping city. ("and you suffered this thing to take place?" asked joseph frowenfeld of honoré grandissime. "my-de'-seh!" exclaimed the creole, "they lied to me--said they would not harm him!") he was brought at sunrise to the plantation. the air was sweet with the smell of the weed-grown fields. the long-horned oxen that drew him and the naked boy that drove the team stopped before his cabin. "you cannot put that creature in there," said the thoughtful overseer. "he would suffocate under a roof--he has been too long out-of-doors for that. put him on my cottage porch." there, at last, palmyre burst into tears and sank down, while before her, on a soft bed of dry grass, rested the helpless form of the captive giant, a cloth thrown over his galled back, his ears shorn from his head, and the tendons behind his knees severed. his eyes were dry, but there was in them that unspeakable despair that fills the eye of the charger when, fallen in battle, he gazes with sidewise-bended neck on the ruin wrought upon him. his eye turned sometimes slowly to his wife. he need not demand her now--she was always by him. there was much talk over him--much idle talk. he merely lay still under it with a fixed frown; but once some incautious tongue dropped the name of agricola. the black man's eyes came so quickly round to palmyre that she thought he would speak; but no; his words were all in his eyes. she answered their gleam with a fierce affirmative glance, whereupon he slowly bent his head and spat upon the floor. there was yet one more trial of his wild nature. the mandate came from his master's sick-bed that he must lift the curse. bras-coupé merely smiled. god keep thy enemy from such a smile! the overseer, with a policy less spanish than his master's, endeavored to use persuasion. but the fallen prince would not so much as turn one glance from his parted hamstrings. palmyre was then besought to intercede. she made one poor attempt, but her husband was nearer doing her an unkindness than ever he had been before; he made a slow sign for silence--with his fist; and every mouth was stopped. at midnight following, there came, on the breeze that blew from the mansion, a sound of running here and there, of wailing and sobbing--another bridegroom was coming, and the spaniard, with much such a lamp in hand as most of us shall be found with, neither burning brightly nor wholly gone out, went forth to meet him. "bras-coupé," said palmyre, next evening, speaking low in his mangled ear, "the master is dead; he is just buried. as he was dying, bras-coupé, he asked that you would forgive him." the maimed man looked steadfastly at his wife. he had not spoken since the lash struck him, and he spoke not now; but in those large, clear eyes, where his remaining strength seemed to have taken refuge as in a citadel, the old fierceness flared up for a moment, and then, like an expiring beacon, went out. "is your mistress well enough by this time to venture here?" whispered the overseer to palmyre. "let her come. tell her not to fear, but to bring the babe--in her own arms, tell her--quickly!" the lady came, her infant boy in her arms, knelt down beside the bed of sweet grass and set the child within the hollow of the african's arm. bras-coupé turned his gaze upon it; it smiled, its mother's smile, and put its hand upon the runaway's face, and the first tears of bras-coupé's life, the dying testimony of his humanity, gushed from his eyes and rolled down his cheek upon the infant's hand. he laid his own tenderly upon the babe's forehead, then removing it, waved it abroad, inaudibly moved his lips, dropped his arm, and closed his eyes. the curse was lifted. "_le pauv' dgiab'_!" said the overseer, wiping his eyes and looking fieldward. "palmyre, you must get the priest." the priest came, in the identical gown in which he had appeared the night of the two weddings. to the good father's many tender questions bras-coupé turned a failing eye that gave no answers; until, at length: "do you know where you are going?" asked the holy man. "yes," answered his eyes, brightening. "where?" he did not reply; he was lost in contemplation, and seemed looking far away. so the question was repeated. "do you know where you are going?" and again the answer of the eyes. he knew. "where?" the overseer at the edge of the porch, the widow with her babe, and palmyre and the priest bending over the dying bed, turned an eager ear to catch the answer. "to--" the voice failed a moment; the departing hero essayed again; again it failed; he tried once more, lifted his hand, and with an ecstatic, upward smile, whispered, "to--africa"--and was gone. chapter xxx paralysis as we have said, the story of bras-coupé was told that day three times: to the grandissime beauties once, to frowenfeld twice. the fair grandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. specially, that it was a great pity to have hamstrung bras-coupé, a man who even in his cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. true, they could suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved his fate; still, it seemed a pity. they dispersed, retired and went to sleep confirmed in this sentiment. in frowenfeld the story stirred deeper feelings. on this same day, while it was still early morning, honoré grandissime, f.m.c., with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety of rich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue royale. he did not need to say he desired another private interview. frowenfeld ushered him silently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which he accepted), and sat down before him. in his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that frowenfeld had been three times to the dwelling of palmyre philosophe. why, he further intimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ had applied for admission--had been refused. he had laid open his heart to the apothecary's eyes--"it may have been unwisely--" frowenfeld interrupted him; palmyre had been ill for several days; doctor keene--who, mr. grandissime probably knew, was her physician-- the landlord bowed, and frowenfeld went on to explain that doctor keene, while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take the care of this one case until he could himself resume it. so there, in a word, was the reason why joseph had, and others had not, been admitted to her presence. as obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, a load of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as this explanation was concluded. yet he only sat in meditation before his tenant, who regarded him long and sadly. then, seized with one of his energetic impulses, he suddenly said: "mr. grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments, leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning), "why do you not give yourself--your time--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of the downtrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels you to rank yourself?" the quadroon did not meet frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, and when he did, it was slowly and dejectedly. "he canno' be," he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood, he added: "he 'ave no cause. dad peop' 'ave no cause." he went on from this with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, with a plaintiveness that seemed to frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasons why the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast his life, would never be free by the force of their own arm. reduced to the meanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement was this: that that people was not a people. their cause--was in africa. they upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war. "you speak of them in the third person," said frowenfeld. "ah ham nod a slev." "are you certain of that?" asked the tenant. his landlord looked at him. "it seems to me," said frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the free quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. your men, for a little property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens them into the dirt like grass under a slab. i would rather be a runaway in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. as your class stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you are--i do not know but i was almost ready to say--a warning to philanthropists!" the free man of color slowly arose. "i trust you know," said frowenfeld, "that i say nothing in offence." "havery word is tru'," replied the sad man. "mr. grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again into his seat, "i know you are a broken-hearted man." the quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up. "and being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice. you have only those things to lose which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. give yourself to your people--to those, i mean, who groan, or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common." the quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered: "ah cannod be one toussaint l'ouverture. ah cannod trah to be. hiv i trah, i h-only s'all soogceed to be one bras-coupé." "you entirely misunderstand me," said frowenfeld in quick response. "i have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. i believe that to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and the way of peace. i can imagine a man in your place, going about among his people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying out his means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case might seem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, their training in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the prouder caste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevail with them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all his cunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great and petty--" the quadroon motioned "enough." there was a heat in his eyes which frowenfeld had never seen before. "m'sieu'," he said, "waid till agricola fusilier ees keel." "do you mean 'dies'?" "no," insisted the quadroon; "listen." and with slow, painstaking phrase this man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste) told--as frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said "listen"--such part of the story of bras-coupé as showed how he came by his deadly hatred of agricola. "tale me," said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, "w'y deen bras coupé mague dad curze on agricola fusilier? becoze agricola ees one sorcier! elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm." the speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pass. as he rose to say adieu, frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid a hand upon his visitor's arm. "is there no one who can make peace between you?" the landlord shook his head. "'tis impossib'. we don' wand." "i mean," insisted frowenfeld, "is there no man who can stand between you and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?" the landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, but each knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possible peacemaker, was honoré grandissime. "should the opportunity offer," continued joseph, "may i speak a word for you myself?" the quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, and departed repeating again: "'tis impossib'. we don' wand." "palsied," murmured frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--"like all of them." frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having passed, the hour was approaching wherein innerarity was exhorted to tell his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant grandissime mansion. as the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the fairer honoré called him out into the moonlight. "withered," the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in the shadow of the ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man." "who is withered?" pleasantly demanded honoré. the apothecary started slightly. "did i speak? how do you do, sir? i meant the free quadroons." "including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?" "yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of bras-coupé." m. grandissime laughed. joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine. "do not open the door, mr frowenfeld," said the creole, "get your greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; i will tell you the same story." it was two hours before they approached this door again on their return. just before they reached it, honoré stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street. there was a tall, unfinished building at his back. "mr frowenfeld,"--he struck the stone with his cane,--"this stone is bras-coupé--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools." he laughed. he had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man of frowenfeld's quiet mind. as the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could be--for m. grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill and dangerous hours. "what does he want with me?" the thought was so natural that it was no miracle the creole read it. "well," said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great man for causes, mr. frowenfeld; but me, i am for results, ha, ha! you may ponder the philosophy of bras-coupé in your study, but _i_ have got to get rid of his results, me. you know them." "you tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace," said frowenfeld. "yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, mr. frowenfeld." "good night, sir." chapter xxxi another wound in a new place each day found doctor keene's strength increasing, and on the morning following the incidents last recorded he was imprudently projecting an outdoor promenade. an announcement from honoré grandissime, who had paid an early call, had, to that gentleman's no small surprise, produced a sudden and violent effect on the little man's temper. he was sitting alone by his window, looking out upon the levee, when the apothecary entered the apartment. "frowenfeld," he instantly began, with evident displeasure most unaccountable to joseph, "i hear you have been visiting the nancanous." "yes, i have been there." "well, you had no business to go!" doctor keene smote the arm of his chair with his fist. frowenfeld reddened with indignation, but suppressed his retort. he stood still in the middle of the floor, and doctor keene looked out of the window. "doctor keene," said the visitor, when his attitude was no longer tolerable, "have you anything more to say to me before i leave you?" "no, sir." "it is necessary for me, then, to say that in fulfilment of my promise, i am going from here to the house of palmyre, and that she will need no further attention after to-day. as to your present manner toward me, i shall endeavor to suspend judgment until i have some knowledge of its cause." the doctor made no reply, but went on looking out of the window, and frowenfeld turned and left him. as he arrived in the philosophe's sick-chamber--where he found her sitting in a chair set well back from a small fire--she half-whispered "miché" with a fine, greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week's absence. to a person forced to lie abed, shut away from occupation and events, a day is ten, three are a month: not merely in the wear and tear upon the patience, but also in the amount of thinking and recollecting done. it was to be expected, then, that on this, the apothecary's fourth visit, palmyre would have learned to take pleasure in his coming. but the smile was followed by a faint, momentary frown, as if frowenfeld had hardly returned it in kind. likely enough, he had not. he was not distinctively a man of smiles; and as he engaged in his appointed task she presently thought of this. "this wound is doing so well," said joseph, still engaged with the bandages, "that i shall not need to come again." he was not looking at her as he spoke, but he felt her give a sudden start. "what is this?" he thought, but presently said very quietly: "with the assistance of your slave woman, you can now attend to it yourself." she made no answer. when, with a bow, he would have bade her good morning, she held out her hand for his. after a barely perceptible hesitation, he gave it, whereupon she held it fast, in a way to indicate that there was something to be said which he must stay and hear. she looked up into his face. she may have been merely framing in her mind the word or two of english she was about to utter; but an excitement shone through her eyes and reddened her lips, and something sent out from her countenance a look of wild distress. "you goin' tell 'im?" she asked. "who? agricola?" "_non_!" he spoke the next name more softly. "honoré?" her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then dropped, and she made a sign of assent. he was about to say that honoré knew already, but saw no necessity for doing so, and changed his answer. "i will never tell any one." "you know?" she asked, lifting her eyes for an instant. she meant to ask if he knew the motive that had prompted her murderous intent. "i know your whole sad history." she looked at him for a moment, fixedly; then, still holding his hand with one of hers, she threw the other to her face and turned away her head. he thought she moaned. thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly she turned, clasped both hands about his, her face flamed up and she opened her lips to speak, but speech failed. an expression of pain and supplication came upon her countenance, and the cry burst from her: "meg 'im to love me!" he tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, and, looking up imploringly with her wide, electric eyes, cried: "_vous pouvez le faire, vous pouvez le faire_ (you can do it, you can do it); _vous êtes sorcier, mo conné bien vous êtes sorcier_ (you are a sorcerer, i know)." however harmless or healthful joseph's touch might be to the philosophe, he felt now that hers, to him, was poisonous. he dared encounter her eyes, her touch, her voice, no longer. the better man in him was suffocating. he scarce had power left to liberate his right hand with his left, to seize his hat and go. instantly she rose from her chair, threw herself on her knees in his path, and found command of his language sufficient to cry as she lifted her arms, bared of their drapery: "oh, my god! don' rif-used me--don' rif-used me!" there was no time to know whether frowenfeld wavered or not. the thought flashed into his mind that in all probability all the care and skill he had spent upon the wound was being brought to naught in this moment of wild posturing and excitement; but before it could have effect upon his movements, a stunning blow fell upon the back of his head, and palmyre's slave woman, the congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the most timely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine and preparing to repeat the blow. he hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, against the farther wall, cast the bar from the street door and plunged out, hatless, bleeding and stunned. chapter xxxii interrupted preliminaries about the same time of day, three gentlemen (we use the term gentlemen in its petrified state) were walking down the rue royale from the direction of the faubourg ste. marie. they were coming down toward palmyre's corner. the middle one, tall and shapely, might have been mistaken at first glance for honoré grandissime, but was taller and broader, and wore a cocked hat, which honoré did not. it was valentine. the short, black-bearded man in buckskin breeches on his right was jean-baptiste grandissime, and the slight one on the left, who, with the prettiest and most graceful gestures and balancings, was leading the conversation, was hippolyte brahmin-mandarin, a cousin and counterpart of that sturdy-hearted challenger of agricola, sylvestre. "but after all," he was saying in louisiana french, "there is no spot comparable, for comfortable seclusion, to the old orange grove under the levee on the point; twenty minutes in a skiff, five minutes for preliminaries--you would not want more, the ground has been measured off five hundred times--'are you ready?'--" "ah, bah!" said valentine, tossing his head, "the yankees would be down on us before you could count one." "well, then, behind the jesuits' warehouses, if you insist. i don't care. perdition take such a government! i am almost sorry i went to the governor's reception." "it was quiet, i hear; a sort of quiet ball, all promenading and no contra-dances. one quadroon ball is worth five of such." this was the opinion of jean-baptiste. "no, it was fine, anyhow. there was a contra-dance. the music was--tárata joonc, tará, tará--tárata joonc, tarárata joonc, tará--oh! it was the finest thing--and composed here. they compose as fine things here as they do anywhere in the--look there! that man came out of palmyre's house; see how he staggered just then!" "drunk," said jean-baptiste. "no, he seems to be hurt. he has been struck on the head. oho, i tell you, gentlemen, that same palmyre is a wonderful animal! do you see? she not only defends herself and ejects the wretch, but she puts her mark upon him; she identifies him, ha, ha, ha! look at the high art of the thing; she keeps his hat as a small souvenir and gives him a receipt for it on the back of his head. ah! but hasn't she taught him a lesson? why, gentlemen,--it is--if it isn't that sorcerer of an apothecary!" "what?" exclaimed the other two; "well, well, but this is too good! caught at last, ha, ha, ha, the saintly villain! ah, ha, ha! will not honoré be proud of him now? _ah! voilà un joli joseph!_ what did i tell you? didn't i _always_ tell you so?" "but the beauty of it is, he is caught so cleverly. no escape--no possible explanation. there he is, gentlemen, as plain as a rat in a barrel, and with as plain a case. ha, ha, ha! isn't it just glorious?" and all three laughed in such an ecstasy of glee that frowenfeld looked back, saw them, and knew forthwith that his good name was gone. the three gentlemen, with tears of merriment still in their eyes, reached a corner and disappeared. "mister," said a child, trotting along under frowenfeld's elbow,--the odd english of the new orleans street-urchin was at that day just beginning to be heard--"mister, dey got some blood on de back of you' hade!" but frowenfeld hurried on groaning with mental anguish. chapter xxxiii unkindest cut of all it was the year . the world was trembling under the tread of the dread corsican. it was but now that he had tossed away the whole valley of the mississippi, dropping it overboard as a little sand from a balloon, and christendom in a pale agony of suspense was watching the turn of his eye; yet when a gibbering black fool here on the edge of civilization merely swings a pine-knot, the swinging of that pine-knot becomes to joseph frowenfeld, student of man, a matter of greater moment than the destination of the boulogne flotilla. for it now became for the moment the foremost necessity of his life to show, to that minute fraction of the earth's population which our terror misnames "the world," that a man may leap forth hatless and bleeding from the house of a new orleans quadroon into the open street and yet be pure white within. would it answer to tell the truth? parts of that truth he was pledged not to tell; and even if he could tell it all it was incredible--bore all the features of a flimsy lie. "mister," repeated the same child who had spoken before, reinforced by another under the other elbow, "dey got some _blood_ on de back of you' hade." and the other added the suggestion: "dey got one drug-sto', yondah." frowenfeld groaned again. the knock had been a hard one, the ground and sky went round not a little, but he retained withal a white-hot process of thought that kept before him his hopeless inability to explain. he was coffined alive. the world (so-called) would bury him in utter loathing, and write on his headstone the one word--hypocrite. and he should lie there and helplessly contemplate honoré pushing forward those purposes which he had begun to hope he was to have had the honor of furthering. but instead of so doing he would now be the by-word of the street. "mister," interposed the child once more, spokesman this time for a dozen blacks and whites of all sizes trailing along before and behind, "_dey got some blood_ on de back of you' _hade_." * * * * * that same morning clotilde had given a music-scholar her appointed lesson, and at its conclusion had borrowed of her patroness (how pleasant it must have been to have such things to lend!) a little yellow maid, in order that, with more propriety, she might make a business call. it was that matter of the rent--one that had of late occasioned her great secret distress. "it is plain," she had begun to say to herself, unable to comprehend aurora's peculiar trust in providence, "that if the money is to be got i must get it." a possibility had flashed upon her mind; she had nurtured it into a project, had submitted it to her father-confessor in the cathedral, and received his unqualified approval of it, and was ready this morning to put it into execution. a great merit of the plan was its simplicity. it was merely to find for her heaviest bracelet a purchaser in time, and a price sufficient, to pay to-morrow's "maturities." see there again!--to her, her little secret was of greater import than the collision of almost any pine-knot with almost any head. it must not be accepted as evidence either of her unwillingness to sell or of the amount of gold in the bracelet, that it took the total of clotilde's moral and physical strength to carry it to the shop where she hoped--against hope--to dispose of it. 'sieur frowenfeld, m. innerarity said, was out, but would certainly be in in a few minutes, and she was persuaded to take a chair against the half-hidden door at the bottom of the shop with the little borrowed maid crouched at her feet. she had twice or thrice felt a regret that she had undertaken to wait, and was about to rise and go, when suddenly she saw before her joseph frowenfeld, wiping the sweat of anguish from his brow and smeared with blood from his forehead down. she rose quickly and silently, turned sick and blind, and laid her hand upon the back of the chair for support. frowenfeld stood an instant before her, groaned, and disappeared through the door. the little maid, retreating backward against her from the direction of the street-door, drew to her attention a crowd of sight-seers which had rushed up to the doors and against which raoul was hurriedly closing the shop. chapter xxxiv clotilde as a surgeon was it worse to stay, or to fly? the decision must be instantaneous. but raoul made it easy by crying in their common tongue, as he slammed a massive shutter and shot its bolt: "go to him! he is down--i heard him fall. go to him!" at this rallying cry she seized her shield--that is to say, the little yellow attendant--and hurried into the room. joseph lay just beyond the middle of the apartment, face downward. she found water and a basin, wet her own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees beside his head; but the moment he felt the small feminine hands he stood up. she took him by the arm. "_asseyez-vous, monsieu'_--pliz to give you'sev de pens to seet down, 'sieu' frowenfel'." she spoke with a nervous tenderness in contrast with her alarmed and entreating expression of face, and gently pushed him into a chair. the child ran behind the bed and burst into frightened sobs, but ceased when clotilde turned for an instant and glared at her. "mague yo' 'ead back," said clotilde, and with tremulous tenderness she softly pressed back his brow and began wiping off the blood. "w'ere you is 'urted?" but while she was asking her question she had found the gash and was growing alarmed at its ugliness, when raoul, having made everything fast, came in with: "wat's de mattah, 'sieur frowenfel'? w'at's de mattah wid you? oo done dat, 'sieur frowen fel'?" joseph lifted his head and drew away from it the small hand and wet handkerchief, and without letting go the hand, looked again into clotilde's eyes, and said: "go home; oh, go home!" "oh! no," protested raoul, whereupon clotilde turned upon him with a perfectly amiable, nurse's grimace for silence. "i goin' rad now," she said. raoul's silence was only momentary. "were you lef you' hat, 'sieur frowenfel'?" he asked, and stole an artist's glance at clotilde, while joseph straightened up, and nerving himself to a tolerable calmness of speech, said: "i have been struck with a stick of wood by a half-witted person under a misunderstanding of my intentions; but the circumstances are such as to blacken my character hopelessly; but i am innocent!" he cried, stretching forward both arms and quite losing his momentary self-control. "'sieu' frowenfel'!" cried clotilde, tears leaping to her eyes, "i am shoe of it!" "i believe you! i believe you, 'sieur frowenfel'!" exclaimed raoul with sincerity. "you will not believe me," said joseph. "you will not; it will be impossible." "_mais_" cried clotilde, "id shall nod be impossib'!" but the apothecary shook his head. "all i can be suspected of will seem probable; the truth only is incredible." his head began to sink and a pallor to overspread his face. "_allez, monsieur, allez_," cried clotilde to raoul, a picture of beautiful terror which he tried afterward to paint from memory, "_appelez_ doctah kin!" raoul made a dash for his hat, and the next moment she heard, with unpleasant distinctness, his impetuous hand slam the shop door and lock her in. "_baille ma do l'eau_" she called to the little mulattress, who responded by searching wildly for a cup and presently bringing a measuring-glass full of water. clotilde gave it to the wounded man, and he rose at once and stood on his feet. "raoul." "'e gone at doctah kin." "i do not need doctor keene; i am not badly hurt. raoul should not have left you here in this manner. you must not stay." "bud, 'sieur frowenfel', i am afred to paz dad gangue!" a new distress seized joseph in view of this additional complication. but, unmindful of this suggestion, the fair creole suddenly exclaimed: "'sieu' frowenfel', you har a hinnocen' man! go, hopen yo' do's an' stan juz as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso! my god! 'sieu' frowenfel', iv you cannod stan' ub by you'sev--" she ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another word would have broken the levees of her eyes, and in that instant frowenfeld recovered the full stature of a man. "god bless you!" he cried. "i will do it!" he started, then turned again toward her, dumb for an instant, and said: "and god reward you! you believe in me, and you do not even know me." her eyes became wilder still as she looked up into his face with the words: "_mais_, i does know you--betteh'n you know annyt'in' boud it!" and turned away, blushing violently. frowenfeld gave a start. she had given him too much light. he recognized her, and she knew it. for another instant he gazed at her averted face, and then with forced quietness said: "please go into the shop." the whole time that had elapsed since the shutting of the doors had not exceeded five minutes; a sixth sufficed for clotilde and her attendant to resume their original position in the nook by the private door and for frowenfeld to wash his face and hands. then the alert and numerous ears without heard a drawing of bolts at the door next to that which raoul had issued, its leaves opened outward, and first the pale hands and then the white, weakened face and still bloody hair and apparel of the apothecary made their appearance. he opened a window and another door. the one locked by raoul, when unbolted, yielded without a key, and the shop stood open. "my friends," said the trembling proprietor, "if any of you wishes to buy anything, i am ready to serve him. the rest will please move away." the invitation, though probably understood, was responded to by only a few at the banquette's edge, where a respectable face or two wore scrutinizing frowns. the remainder persisted in silently standing and gazing in at the bloody man. frowenfeld bore the gaze. there was one element of emphatic satisfaction in it--it drew their observation from clotilde at the other end of the shop. he stole a glance backward; she was not there. she had watched her chance, safely escaped through the side door, and was gone. raoul returned. "'sieur frowenfel', doctor keene is took worse ag'in. 'e is in bed; but 'e say to tell you in dat lill troubl' of dis mawnin' it is himseff w'at is inti'lie wrong, an' 'e hass you poddon. 'e says sen' fo' doctor conrotte, but i din go fo' him; dat ole scoun'rel--he believe in puttin' de niggas fre'." frowenfeld said he would not consult professional advisers; with a little assistance from raoul, he could give the cut the slight attention it needed. he went back into his room, while raoul turned back to the door and addressed the public. "pray, messieurs, come in and be seated." he spoke in the creole french of the gutters. "come in. m. frowenfeld is dressing, and desires that you will have a little patience. come in. take chairs. you will not come in? no? nor you, monsieur? no? i will set some chairs outside, eh? no?" they moved by twos and threes away, and raoul, retiring, gave his employer such momentary aid as was required. when joseph, in changed dress, once more appeared, only a child or two lingered to see him, and he had nothing to do but sit down and, as far as he felt at liberty to do so, answer his assistant's questions. during the recital, raoul was obliged to exercise the severest self-restraint to avoid laughing,--a feeling which was modified by the desire to assure his employer that he understood this sort of thing perfectly, had run the same risks himself, and thought no less of a man, _providing he was a gentleman_, because of an unlucky retributive knock on the head. but he feared laughter would overclimb speech; and, indeed, with all expression of sympathy stifled, he did not succeed so completely in hiding the conflicting emotion but that joseph did once turn his pale, grave face surprisedly, hearing a snuffling sound, suddenly stifled in a drawer of corks. said raoul, with an unsteady utterance, as he slammed the drawer: "h-h-dat makes me dat i can't 'elp to laugh w'en i t'ink of dat fool yesse'dy w'at want to buy my pigshoe for honly one 'undred dolla'--ha, ha ha, ha!" he laughed almost indecorously. "raoul," said frowenfeld, rising and closing his eyes, "i am going back for my hat. it would make matters worse for that person to send it to me, and it would be something like a vindication for me to go back to the house and get it." mr. innerarity was about to make strenuous objection, when there came in one whom he recognized as an attaché of his cousin honoré's counting-room, and handed the apothecary a note. it contained honoré's request that if frowenfeld was in his shop he would have the goodness to wait there until the writer could call and see him. "i will wait," was the reply. chapter xxxv "fo' wad you cryne?" clotilde, a step or two from home, dismissed her attendant, and as aurora, with anxious haste, opened to her familiar knock, appeared before her pale and trembling. "_ah, ma fille_--" the overwrought girl dropped her head and wept without restraint upon her mother's neck. she let herself be guided to a chair, and there, while aurora nestled close to her side, yielded a few moments to reverie before she was called upon to speak. then aurora first quietly took possession of her hands, and after another tender pause asked in english, which was equivalent to whispering: "were you was, _chérie?_" "'sieur frowenfel'--" aurora straightened up with angry astonishment and drew in her breath for an emphatic speech, but clotilde, liberating her own hands, took aurora's, and hurriedly said, turning still paler as she spoke: "'e godd his 'ead strigue! 'tis all knog in be'ine! 'e come in blidding--" "in w'ere?" cried aurora. "in 'is shob." "you was in dad shob of 'sieur frowenfel'?" "i wend ad 'is shob to pay doze rend." "how--you wend ad 'is shob to pay--" clotilde produced the bracelet. the two looked at each other in silence for a moment, while aurora took in without further explanation clotilde's project and its failure. "an' 'sieur frowenfel'--dey kill 'im? ah! _ma chère_, fo' wad you mague me to hass all dose question?" clotilde gave a brief account of the matter, omitting only her conversation with frowenfeld. "_mais_, oo strigue 'im?" demanded aurora, impatiently. "addunno!" replied the other. "bud i does know 'e is hinnocen'!" a small scouting-party of tears reappeared on the edge of her eyes. "innocen' from wad?" aurora betrayed a twinkle of amusement. "hev'ryt'in', iv you pliz!" exclaimed clotilde, with most uncalled-for warmth. "an' you crah bic-ause 'e is nod guiltie?" "ah! foolish!" "ah, non, my chile, i know fo' wad you cryne: 't is h-only de sighd of de blood." "oh, sighd of blood!" clotilde let a little nervous laugh escape through her dejection. "well, then,"--aurora's eyes twinkled like stars,--"id muz be bic-ause 'sieur frowenfel' bump 'is 'ead--ha, ha, ha!" "'tis nod tru'!" cried clotilde; but, instead of laughing, as aurora had supposed she would, she sent a double flash of light from her eyes, crimsoned, and retorted, as the tears again sprang from their lurking-place, "you wand to mague ligue you don't kyah! but _i_ know! i know verrie well! you kyah fifty time' as mudge as me! i know you! i know you! i bin wadge you!" aurora was quite dumb for a moment, and gazed at clotilde, wondering what could have made her so unlike herself. then she half rose up, and, as she reached forward an arm, and laid it tenderly about her daughter's neck, said: "ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? iv you will tell me wad dad mague you cry, i will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_"--she rolled up her fist--"juz wad i thing about dad 'sieur frowenfel'!" "i don't kyah wad de whole worl' thing aboud 'im!" "_mais_, anny'ow, tell me fo' wad you cryne!" clotilde gazed aside for a moment and then confronted her questioner consentingly. "i tole 'im i knowed 'e was h-innocen'." "eh, men, dad was h-only de poli-i-idenez. wad 'e said?" "e said i din knowed 'im 'tall." "an' you," exclaimed aurora, "it is nod pozzyble dad you--" "i tole 'im i know 'im bette'n 'e know annyt'in' 'boud id!" the speaker dropped her face into her mother's lap. "ha, ha!" laughed aurora, "an' wad of dad? i would say dad, me, fo' time' a day. i gi'e you my word 'e don godd dad sens' to know wad dad mean." "ah! don godd sens'!" cried clotilde, lifting her head up suddenly with a face of agony. "'e reg--'e reggo-ni-i-ize me!" aurora caught her daughter's cheeks between her hands and laughed all over them. "_mais_, don you see 'ow dad was luggy? now, you know?--'e goin' fall in love wid you an' you goin' 'ave dad sadizfagzion to rif-use de biggis' hand in noo-'leans. an' you will be h-even, ha, ha! bud me--you wand to know wad i thing aboud 'im? i thing 'e is one--egcellen' drug-cl--ah, ha, ha!" clotilde replied with a smile of grieved incredulity. "de bez in de ciddy!" insisted the other. she crossed the forefinger of one hand upon that of the other and kissed them, reversed the cross and kissed them again. "_mais_, ad de sem tam," she added, giving her daughter time to smile, "i thing 'e is one _noble gen'leman_. nod to sood me, of coze, _mais, çà fait rien_--daz nott'n; me, i am now a h'ole woman, you know, eh? noboddie can' nevva sood me no mo', nod ivven dad govenno' cleb-orne." she tried to look old and jaded. "ah, govenno' cleb-orne!" exclaimed clotilde. "yass!--ah, you!--you thing iv a man is nod a creole 'e bown to be no 'coun'! i assu' you dey don' godd no boddy wad i fine a so nize gen'leman lag govenno' cleb-orne! ah! clotilde, you godd no lib'ral'ty!" the speaker rose, cast a discouraged parting look upon her narrow-minded companion and went to investigate the slumbrous silence of the kitchen. chapter xxxvi aurora's last picayune not often in aurora's life had joy and trembling so been mingled in one cup as on this day. clotilde wept; and certainly the mother's heart could but respond; yet clotilde's tears filled her with a secret pleasure which fought its way up into the beams of her eyes and asserted itself in the frequency and heartiness of her laugh despite her sincere participation in her companion's distresses and a fearful looking forward to to-morrow. why these flashes of gladness? if we do not know, it is because we have overlooked one of her sources of trouble. from the night of the _bal masqué_ she had--we dare say no more than that she had been haunted; she certainly would not at first have admitted even so much to herself. yet the fact was not thereby altered, and first the fact and later the feeling had given her much distress of mind. who he was whose image would not down, for a long time she did not know. this, alone, was torture; not merely because it was mystery, but because it helped to force upon her consciousness that her affections, spite of her, were ready and waiting for him and he did not come after them. that he loved her, she knew; she had achieved at the ball an overwhelming victory, to her certain knowledge, or, depend upon it, she never would have unmasked--never. but with this torture was mingled not only the ecstasy of loving, but the fear of her daughter. this is a world that allows nothing without its obverse and reverse. strange differences are often seen between the two sides; and one of the strangest and most inharmonious in this world of human relations is that coinage which a mother sometimes finds herself offering to a daughter, and which reads on one side, bridegroom, and on the other, stepfather. then, all this torture to be hidden under smiles! worse still, when by and by messieurs agoussou, assonquer, danny and others had been appealed to and a providence boundless in tender compassion had answered in their stead, she and her lover had simultaneously discovered each other's identity only to find that he was a montague to her capulet. and the source of her agony must be hidden, and falsely attributed to the rent deficiency and their unprotected lives. its true nature must be concealed even from clotilde. what a secret--for what a spirit--to keep from what a companion!--a secret yielding honey to her, but, it might be, gall to clotilde. she felt like one locked in the garden of eden all alone--alone with all the ravishing flowers, alone with all the lions and tigers. she wished she had told the secret when it was small and had let it increase by gradual accretions in clotilde's knowledge day by day. at first it had been but a garland, then it had become a chain, now it was a ball and chain; and it was oh! and oh! if clotilde would only fall in love herself! how that would simplify matters! more than twice or thrice she had tried to reveal her overstrained heart in broken sections; but on her approach to the very outer confines of the matter, clotilde had always behaved so strangely, so nervously, in short, so beyond aurora's comprehension, that she invariably failed to make any revelation. and now, here in the very central darkness of this cloud of troubles, comes in clotilde, throws herself upon the defiant little bosom so full of hidden suffering, and weeps tears of innocent confession that in a moment lay the dust of half of aurora's perplexities. strange world! the tears of the orphan making the widow weep for joy, if she only dared. the pair sat down opposite each other at their little dinner-table. they had a fixed hour for dinner. it is well to have a fixed hour; it is in the direction of system. even if you have not the dinner, there is the hour. alphonsina was not in perfect harmony with this fixed-hour idea. it was aurora's belief, often expressed in hungry moments with the laugh of a vexed creole lady (a laugh worthy of study), that on the day when dinner should really be served at the appointed hour, the cook would drop dead of apoplexy and she of fright. she said it to-day, shutting her arms down to her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised, and dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird from its perch. not that she felt particularly hungry; but there is a certain desultoriness allowable at table more than elsewhere, and which suited the hither-thither movement of her conflicting feelings. this is why she had wished for dinner. boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread--they were dining well the day before execution. dining is hardly correct, either, for clotilde, at least, did not eat; they only sat. clotilde had, too, if not her unknown, at least her unconfessed emotions. aurora's were tossed by the waves, hers were sunken beneath them. aurora had a faith that the rent would be paid--a faith which was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by the sun--that is, by apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by honoré grandissime. clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had tried to raise means wherewith to meet the dread obligation, or, rather, had tried to try and had failed. to-day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street. joseph frowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone. when she thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her as if she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; and when she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in his presence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed into the deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of blood congeal. even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than she supposed, here was aurora on the opposite side of the table, reading every thought of her inmost soul. but worst of all was 'sieur frowenfel's indifference. it is true that, as he had directed upon her that gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if she dared believe her eyes. but no, she dared not; there was nothing there for her, she thought,--probably (when this anguish of public disgrace should by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and her betrayal of interest. clotilde felt as though she had been laid entire upon a slide of his microscope. aurora at length broke her reverie. "clotilde,"--she spoke in french--"the matter with you is that you have no heart. you never did have any. really and truly, you do not care whether 'sieur frowenfel' lives or dies. you do not care how he is or where he is this minute. i wish you had some of my too large heart. i not only have the heart, as i tell you, to think kindly of our enemies, those grandissime, for example"--she waved her hand with the air of selecting at random--"but i am burning up to know what is the condition of that poor, sick, noble 'sieur frowenfel', and i am going to do it!" the heart which clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deep gratitude. dear, pretty little mother! not only knowing full well the existence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of its every warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery with make-believe reproaches. the tears started in her eyes; that was her reply. "oh, now! it is the rent again, i suppose," cried aurora, "always the rent. it is not the rent that worries _me_, it is 'sieur frowenfel', poor man. but very well, mademoiselle silence, i will match you for making me do all the talking." she was really beginning to sink under the labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. "come," she said, savagely, "propose something." "would you think well to go and inquire?" "ah, listen! go and what? no, mademoiselle, i think not." "well, send alphonsina." "what? and let him know that i am anxious about him? let me tell you, my little girl, i shall not drag upon myself the responsibility of increasing the self-conceit of any of that sex." "well, then, send to buy a picayune's worth of something." "ah, ha, ha! an emetic, for instance. tell him we are poisoned on mushrooms, ha, ha, ha!" clotilde laughed too. "ah, no," she said. "send for something he does not sell." aurora was laughing while clotilde spoke; but as she caught these words she stopped with open-mouthed astonishment, and, as clotilde blushed, laughed again. "oh, clotilde, clotilde, clotilde!"--she leaned forward over the table, her face beaming with love and laughter--"you rowdy! you rascal! you are just as bad as your mother, whom you think so wicked! i accept your advice. alphonsina!" "momselle!" the answer came from the kitchen. "come go--or, rather,--_vini 'ci courri dans boutique de l'apothecaire_. clotilde," she continued, in better french, holding up the coin to view, "look!" "what?" "the last picayune we have in the world--ha, ha, ha!" chapter xxxvii honorÉ makes some confessions "comment çà va, raoul?" said honoré grandissime; he had come to the shop according to the proposal contained in his note. "where is mr. frowenfeld?" he found the apothecary in the rear room, dressed, but just rising from the bed at sound of his voice. he closed the door after him; they shook hands and took chairs. "you have fever," said the merchant. "i have been troubled that way myself, some, lately." he rubbed his face all over, hard, with one hand,' and looked at the ceiling. "loss of sleep, i suppose, in both of us; in your case voluntary--in pursuit of study, most likely; in my case--effect of anxiety." he smiled a moment and then suddenly sobered as after a pause he said: "but i hear you are in trouble; may i ask--" frowenfeld had interrupted him with almost the same words: "may i venture to ask, mr. grandissime, what--" and both were silent for a moment. "oh," said honoré, with a gesture. "my trouble--i did not mean to mention it; 't is an old matter--in part. you know, mr. frowenfeld, there is a kind of tree not dreamed of in botany, that lets fall its fruit every day in the year--you know? we call it--with reverence--'our dead father's mistakes.' i have had to eat much of that fruit; a man who has to do that must expect to have now and then a little fever." "i have heard," replied frowenfeld, "that some of the titles under which your relatives hold their lands are found to be of the kind which the state's authorities are pronouncing worthless. i hope this is not the case." "i wish they had never been put into my custody," said m. grandissime. some new thought moved him to draw his chair closer. "mr. frowenfeld, those two ladies whom you went to see the other evening--" his listener started a little: "yes." "did they ever tell you their history?" "no, sir; but i have heard it." "and you think they have been deeply wronged, eh? come, mr. frowenfeld, take right hold of the acacia-bush." m. grandissime did not smile. frowenfeld winced. "i think they have." "and you think restitution should be made them, no doubt, eh?" "i do." "at any cost?" the questioner showed a faint, unpleasant smile, that stirred something like opposition in the breast of the apothecary. "yes," he answered. the next question had a tincture even of fierceness: "you think it right to sink fifty or a hundred people into poverty to lift one or two out?" "mr. grandissime," said frowenfeld, slowly, "you bade me study this community." "i adv--yes; what is it you find?" "i find--it may be the same with other communities, i suppose it is, more or less--that just upon the culmination of the moral issue it turns and asks the question which is behind it, instead of the question which is before it." "and what is the question before me?" "i know it only in the abstract." "well?" the apothecary looked distressed. "you should not make me say it," he objected. "nevertheless," said the creole, "i take that liberty." "well, then," said frowenfeld, "the question behind is expediency and the question in front, divine justice. you are asking yourself--" he checked himself. "which i ought to regard," said m. grandissime, quickly. "expediency, of course, and be like the rest of mankind." he put on a look of bitter humor. "it is all easy enough for you, mr. frowenfeld, my-de'-seh; you have the easy part--the theorizing." he saw the ungenerousness of his speech as soon as it was uttered, yet he did not modify it. "true, mr. grandissime," said frowenfeld; and after a pause--"but you have the noble part--the doing." "ah, my-de'-seh!" exclaimed honoré; "the noble part! there is the bitterness of the draught! the opportunity to act is pushed upon me, but the opportunity to act nobly has passed by." he again drew his chair closer, glanced behind him and spoke low: "because for years i have had a kind of custody of all my kinsmen's property interests, agricola's among them, it is supposed that he has always kept the plantation of aurore nancanou (or rather of clotilde--who, you know, by our laws is the real heir). that is a mistake. explain it as you please, call it remorse, pride, love--what you like--while i was in france and he was managing my mother's business, unknown to me he gave me that plantation. when i succeeded him i found it and all its revenues kept distinct--as was but proper--from all other accounts, and belonging to me. 'twas a fine, extensive place, had a good overseer on it and--i kept it. why? because i was a coward. i did not want it or its revenues; but, like my father, i would not offend my people. peace first and justice afterwards--that was the principle on which i quietly made myself the trustee of a plantation and income which you would have given back to their owners, eh?" frowenfeld was silent. "my-de'-seh, recollect that to us the grandissime name is a treasure. and what has preserved it so long? cherishing the unity of our family; that has done it; that is how my father did it. just or unjust, good or bad, needful or not, done elsewhere or not, i do not say; but it is a creole trait. see, even now" (the speaker smiled on one side of his mouth) "in a certain section of the territory certain men, creoles" (he whispered, gravely), "_some grandissimes among them_, evading the united states revenue laws and even beating and killing some of the officials: well! do the people at large repudiate those men? my-de'-seh, in no wise, seh! no; if they were _américains_--but a louisianian--is a louisianian; touch him not; when you touch him you touch all louisiana! so with us grandissimes; we are legion, but we are one. now, my-de'-seh, the thing you ask me to do is to cast overboard that old traditional principle which is the secret of our existence." "_i_ ask you?" "ah, bah! you know you expect it. ah! but you do not know the uproar such an action would make. and no 'noble part' in it, my-de'-seh, either. a few months ago--when we met by those graves--if i had acted then, my action would have been one of pure--even violent--_self_-sacrifice. do you remember--on the levee, by the place d'armes--me asking you to send agricola to me? i tried then to speak of it. he would not let me. then, my people felt safe in their land-titles and public offices; this restitution would have hurt nothing but pride. now, titles in doubt, government appointments uncertain, no ready capital in reach for any purpose, except that which would have to be handed over with the plantation (for to tell you the fact, my-de'-seh, no other account on my books has prospered), with matters changed in this way, i become the destroyer of my own flesh and blood! yes, seh! and lest i might still find some room to boast, another change moves me into a position where it suits me, my-de'-seh, to make the restitution so fatal to those of my name. when you and i first met, those ladies were as much strangers to me as to you--as far as i _knew_. then, if i had done this thing--but now--now, my-de'-seh, i find myself in love with one of them!" m. grandissime looked his friend straight in the eye with the frowning energy of one who asserts an ugly fact. frowenfeld, regarding the speaker with a gaze of respectful attention, did not falter; but his fevered blood, with an impulse that started him half from his seat, surged up into his head and face; and then-- m. grandissime blushed. in the few silent seconds that followed, the glances of the two friends continued to pass into each other's eyes, while about honoré's mouth hovered the smile of one who candidly surrenders his innermost secret, and the lips of the apothecary set themselves together as though he were whispering to himself behind them, "steady." "mr. frowenfeld," said the creole, taking a sudden breath and waving a hand, "i came to ask about _your_ trouble; but if you think you have any reason to withhold your confidence--" "no, sir; no! but can i be no help to you in this matter?" the creole leaned back smilingly in his chair and knit his fingers. "no, i did not intend to say all this; i came to offer my help to you; but my mind is full--what do you expect? my-de'-seh, the foam must come first out of the bottle. you see"--he leaned forward again, laid two fingers in his palm and deepened his tone--"i will tell you: this tree--'our dead father's mistakes'--is about to drop another rotten apple. i spoke just now of the uproar this restitution would make; why, my-de'-seh, just the mention of the lady's name at my house, when we lately held the _fête de grandpère_, has given rise to a quarrel which is likely to end in a duel." "raoul was telling me," said the apothecary. m. grandissime made an affirmative gesture. "mr. frowenfeld, if you--if any one--could teach my people--i mean my family--the value of peace (i do not say the duty, my-de'-seh; a merchant talks of values); if you could teach them the value of peace, i would give you, if that was your price"--he ran the edge of his left hand knife-wise around the wrist of his right--"that. and if you would teach it to the whole community--well--i think i would not give my head; maybe you would." he laughed. "there is a peace which is bad," said the contemplative apothecary. "yes," said the creole, promptly, "the very kind that i have been keeping all this time--and my father before me!" he spoke with much warmth. "yes," he said again, after a pause which was not a rest, "i often see that we grandissimes are a good example of the creoles at large; we have one element that makes for peace; that--pardon the self-consciousness--is myself; and another element that makes for strife--led by my uncle agricola; but, my-de'-seh, the peace element is that which ought to make the strife, and the strife element is that which ought to be made to keep the peace! mr. frowenfeld, i propose to become the strife-maker; how then, can i be a peacemaker at the same time? there is my diffycultie." "mr. grandissime," exclaimed frowenfeld, "if you have any design in view founded on the high principles which i know to be the foundations of all your feelings, and can make use of the aid of a disgraced man, use me." "you are very generous," said the creole, and both were silent. honoré dropped his eyes from frowenfeld's to the floor, rubbed his knee with his palm, and suddenly looked up. "you are innocent of wrong?" "before god." "i feel sure of it. tell me in a few words all about it. i ought to be able to extricate you. let me hear it." frowenfeld again told as much as he thought he could, consistently with his pledges to palmyre, touching with extreme lightness upon the part taken by clotilde. "turn around," said m. grandissime at the close; "let me see the back of your head. and it is that that is giving you this fever, eh?" "partly," replied frowenfeld; "but how shall i vindicate my innocence? i think i ought to go back openly to this woman's house and get my hat. i was about to do that when i got your note; yet it seems a feeble--even if possible--expedient." "my friend," said honoré, "leave it to me. i see your whole case, both what you tell and what you conceal. i guess it with ease. knowing palmyre so well, and knowing (what you do not) that all the voudous in town think you a sorcerer, i know just what she would drop down and beg you for--a _ouangan_, ha, ha! you see? leave it all to me--and your hat with palmyre, take a febrifuge and a nap, and await word from me." "and may i offer you no help in your difficulty?" asked the apothecary, as the two rose and grasped hands. "oh!" said the creole, with a little shrug, "you may do anything you can--which will be nothing." chapter xxxviii tests of friendship frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head between his hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within. honoré grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_? doctor keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_? and he! what meant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerable bats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarming in and out of his distempered imagination? he did not answer the question; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful. both hands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table did not steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither and thither, heedless of his call. sit down as he might, rise up, pace the room, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet the fearful disorder, until at length he recalled honoré's neglected advice and resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hoped to secure it, it came. in the distant grandissime mansion, agricola fusilier was casting about for ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever had throbbed in his bosom. he had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than sleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrow with sylvestre. he was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of his hands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms from before his inner vision. to do this he had resort to a very familiar, we may say time-honored, prescription--rum. he did not use it after the voudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground--agricola was an anti-voudou. it finally had its effect. by eleven o'clock he seemed, outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in louisiana that he considered louisianian, properly so-called; as to all else he was ready for war, as in peace one should be. while in this mood, and performing at a sideboard the solemn rite of _las onze_, news incidentally reached him, by the mouth of his busy second, hippolyte, of frowenfeld's trouble, and despite 'polyte's protestations against the principal in a pending "affair" appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage and hurried to the apothecary's. * * * * * when frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock were passing the meridan. his fever was gone, his brain was calm, his strength in good measure had returned. there had been dreams in his sleep, too; he had seen clotilde standing at the foot of his bed. he lay now, for a moment, lost in retrospection. "there can be no doubt about it," said he, as he rose up, looking back mentally at something in the past. the sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention by ceasing before his street door. a moment later the voice of agricola was heard in the shop greeting raoul. as the old man lifted the head of his staff to tap on the inner door, frowenfeld opened it. "fusilier to the rescue!" said the great louisianian, with a grasp of the apothecary's hand and a gaze of brooding admiration. joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humility he insisted on not taking it until "professor frowenfeld" had himself sat down. the apothecary was very solemn. it seemed to him as if in this little back room his dead good name was lying in state, and these visitors were coming in to take their last look. from time to time he longed for more light, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure should seem so great. "h-m-h-y dear professor!" began the old man. pages of print could not comprise all the meanings of his smile and accent; benevolence, affection, assumed knowledge of the facts, disdain of results, remembrance of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage--these were but a few. he spoke very slowly and deeply and with this smile of a hundred meanings. "why did you not send for me, joseph? sir, whenever you have occasion to make a list of the friends who will stand by you, _right or wrong_--h-write the name of citizen agricola fusilier at the top! write it large and repeat it at the bottom! you understand me, joseph?--and, mark me,--right or wrong!" "not wrong," said frowenfeld, "at least not in defence of wrong; i could not do that; but, i assure you, in this matter i have done--" "no worse than any one else would have done under the circumstances, my dear boy!--nay, nay, do not interrupt me; i understand you, i understand you. h-do you imagine there is anything strange to me in this--at my age?" "but i am--" "--all right, sir! that is _what_ you are. and you are under the wing of agricola fusilier, the old eagle; that is _where_ you are. and you are one of my brood; that is _who_ you are. professor, listen to your old father. _the--man--makes--the--crime!_ the wisdom of mankind never brought forth a maxim of more gigantic beauty. if the different grades of race and society did not have corresponding moral and civil liberties, varying in degree as they vary--h-why! _this_ community, at least, would go to pieces! see here! professor frowenfeld is charged with misdemeanor. very well, who is he? foreigner or native? foreigner by sentiment and intention, or only by accident of birth? of our mental fibre--our aspirations--our delights--our indignations? i answer for you, joseph, yes!--yes! what then? h-why, then the decision! reached how? by apologetic reasonings? by instinct, sir! h-h-that guide of the nobly proud! and what is the decision? not guilty. professor frowenfeld, _absolvo te!_" it was in vain that the apothecary repeatedly tried to interrupt this speech. "citizen fusilier, do you know me no better?"--"citizen fusilier, if you will but listen!"--such were the fragments of his efforts to explain. the old man was not so confident as he pretended to be that frowenfeld was that complete proselyte which alone satisfies a creole; but he saw him in a predicament and cast to him this life-buoy, which if a man should refuse, he would deserve to drown. frowenfeld tried again to begin. "mr. fusilier--" "citizen fusilier!" "citizen, candor demands that i undeceive--" "candor demands--h-my dear professor, let me tell you exactly what she demands. she demands that in here--within this apartment--we understand each other. that demand is met." "but--" frowenfeld frowned impatiently. "that demand, joseph, is fully met! i understand the whole matter like an eye-witness! now there is another demand to be met, the demand of friendship! in here, candor; outside, friendship; in here, one of our brethren has been adventurous and unfortunate; outside"--the old man smiled a smile of benevolent mendacity--"outside, nothing has happened." frowenfeld insisted savagely on speaking; but agricola raised his voice, and gray hairs prevailed. "at least, what _has_ happened? the most ordinary thing in the world; professor frowenfeld lost his footing on a slippery gunwale, fell, cut his head upon a protruding spike, and went into the house of palmyre to bathe his wound; but finding it worse than he had at first supposed it, immediately hurried out again and came to his store. he left his hat where it had fallen, too muddy to be worth recovery. hippolyte brahmin-mandarin and others, passing at the time, thought he had met with violence in the house of the hair-dresser, and drew some natural inferences, but have since been better informed; and the public will please understand that professor frowenfeld is a white man, a gentleman, and a louisianian, ready to vindicate his honor, and that citizen agricola fusilier is his friend!" the old man looked around with the air of a bull on a hill-top. frowenfeld, vexed beyond degree, restrained himself only for the sake of an object in view, and contented himself with repeating for the fourth or fifth time,-- "i cannot accept any such deliverance." "professor frowenfeld, friendship--society--demands it; our circle must be protected in all its members. you have nothing to do with it. you will leave it with me, joseph." "no, no," said frowenfeld, "i thank you, but--" "ah! my dear boy, thank me not; i cannot help these impulses; i belong to a warm-hearted race. but"--he drew back in his chair sidewise and made great pretence of frowning--"you decline the offices of that precious possession, a creole friend?" "i only decline to be shielded by a fiction." "ah-h!" said agricola, further nettling his victim by a gaze of stagy admiration. "'_sans peur et sans reproche_'--and yet you disappoint me. is it for naught, that i have sallied forth from home, drawing the curtains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing crowd? it was to rescue my friend--my vicar--my coadjutor--my son--from the laughs and finger-points of the vulgar mass. h-i might as well have stayed at home--or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather requires me to keep in--" "no, citizen," said frowenfeld, laying his hand upon agricola's arm, "i trust it is not in vain that you have come out. there _is_ a man in trouble whom only you can deliver." the old man began to swell with complacency. "h-why, really--" "_he_, citizen, is truly of your kind--" "he must be delivered, professor frowenfeld--" "he is a native louisianian, not only by accident of birth but by sentiment and intention," said frowenfeld. the old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had the upper hand, and would not hear him speak. "his aspirations," continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount with his people's. his pulse beats with yours, sir. he is a part of your circle. he is one of your caste." agricola could not be silent. "ha-a-a-ah! joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle! speak to the point; who--" "i believe him, moreover, citizen fusilier, innocent of the charge laid--" "h-innocent? h-of course he is innocent, sir! we will _make_ him inno--" "ah! citizen, he is already under sentence of death!" "_what?_ a creole under sentence!" agricola swore a heathen oath, set his knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle. "sir, we will liberate him if we have to overturn the government!" frowenfeld shook his head. "you have got to overturn something stronger than government." "and pray what--" "a conventionality," said frowenfeld, holding the old man's eye. "ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right. but we will overturn--eh?" "i say i fear your engagements will prevent. i hear you take part to-morrow morning in--" agricola suddenly stiffened. "professor frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of a liberty." "for which i ask pardon," exclaimed frowenfeld. "then i may not expect--" the old man melted again. "but who is this person in mortal peril?" frowenfeld hesitated. "citizen fusilier," he said, looking first down at the floor and then up into the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a native creole, but a grandissime--" "it is not possible!" exclaimed agricola. "--a grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid to liberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?" "_will_ i? h-why, certainly! who is he?" "citizen--it is sylves--" agricola sprang up with a thundering oath. the apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned. "let me go! how dare you, sir? how dare you, sir?" bellowed agricola. he started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixed on frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror. "citizen fusilier," said the apothecary, following him with one palm uplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, "don't go! i adjure you, don't go! remember your pledge, citizen fusilier!" agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the door violently open the way was still obstructed. the painter of "louisiana refusing to enter the union" stood before him, his head elevated loftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian's. "stan' bag-sah!" "let me pass! let me pass, or i will kill you!" mr. innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft. "kill me-firse an' pass aftah!" "citizen fusilier," said frowenfeld, "i beg you to hear me." "go away! go away!" the old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against the book-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night's dreams had taken bodily shape in the person of the apothecary. he trembled and stammered: "ke--keep off! keep off! my god! raoul, he has insulted me!" he made a miserable show of drawing a weapon. "no man may insult me and live! if you are a man, professor frowenfeld, you will defend yourself!" frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was drowned by raoul's vehement speech. "'tis not de trute!" cried raoul. "he try to save you from hell-'n'-damnation w'en 'e h-ought to give you a good cuss'n!"--and in the ecstasy of his anger burst into tears. frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him away and he disappeared, shutting the door. agricola, moved far more from within than from without, had sunk into a chair under the shelves. his head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. as frowenfeld, with every demonstration of beseeching kindness, began to speak, he lifted his eyes and said, piteously: "stop! stop!" "citizen fusilier, it is you who must stop. stop before god almighty stops you, i beg you. i do not presume to rebuke you. i _know_ you want a clear record. i know it better to-day than i ever did before. citizen fusilier, i honor your intentions--" agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at his habitual patronizing smile. "h-my dear boy, i overlook"--but he met in frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that the smile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory and apologetic distress. he reached up an arm. "i could easily convince you, professor, of your error"--his eyes quailed and dropped to the floor--"but i--your arm, my dear joseph; age is creeping upon me." he rose to his feet. "i am feeling really indisposed to-day--not at all bright; my solicitude for you, my dear b--" he took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung to the apothecary, moved another step or two, and grasping the edge of the table stumbled into a chair which frowenfeld thrust under him. he folded his arms on the edge of the board and rested his forehead on them, while frowenfeld sat down quickly on the opposite side, drew paper and pen across the table and wrote. "are you writing something, professor?" asked the old man, without stirring. his staff tumbled to the floor. the apothecary's answer was a low, preoccupied one. two or three times over he wrote and rejected what he had written. presently he pushed back his chair, came around the table, laid the writing he had made before the bowed head, sat down again and waited. after a long time the old man looked up, trying in vain to conceal his anguish under a smile. "i have a sad headache." he cast his eyes over the table and took mechanically the pen which frowenfeld extended toward him. "what can i do for you, professor? sign something? there is nothing i would not do for professor frowenfeld. what have you written, eh?" he felt helplessly for his spectacles. frowenfeld read: "_mr. sylvestre grandissime: i spoke in haste_." he felt himself tremble as he read. agricola fumbled with the pen, lifted his eyes with one more effort at the old look, said, "my dear boy, i do this purely to please you," and to frowenfeld's delight and astonishment wrote: "_your affectionate uncle, agricola fusilier_." chapter xxxix louisiana states her wants "'sieur frowenfel'," said raoul as that person turned in the front door of the shop after watching agricola's carriage roll away--he had intended to unburden his mind to the apothecary with all his natural impetuosity; but frowenfeld's gravity as he turned, with the paper in his hand, induced a different manner. raoul had learned, despite all the impulses of his nature, to look upon frowenfeld with a sort of enthusiastic awe. he dropped his voice and said--asking like a child a question he was perfectly able to answer-- "what de matta wid agricole?" frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which elation was oddly blended with solemnity, and replied as he walked by: "rush of truth to the heart." raoul followed a step. "'sieur frowenfel'--" the apothecary turned once more. raoul's face bore an expression of earnest practicability that invited confidence. "'sieur frowenfel', agricola writ'n' to sylvestre to stop dat dool?" "yes." "you goin' take dat lett' to sylvestre?" "yes." "'sieur frowenfel', dat de wrong g-way. you got to take it to 'polyte brahmin-mandarin, an' 'e got to take it to valentine grandissime, an' '_e_ got to take it to sylvestre. you see, you got to know de manner to make. once 'pon a time i had a diffycultie wid--" "i see," said frowenfeld; "where may i find hippolyte brahmin-mandarin at this time of day?" raoul shrugged. "if the pre-parish-ions are not complitted, you will not find 'im; but if they har complitted--you know 'im?" "by sight." "well, you may fine him at maspero's, or helse in de front of de veau-qui-tête, or helse at de café louis quatorze--mos' likely in front of de veau-qui-tête. you know, dat diffycultie i had, dat arise itseff from de discush'n of one of de mil-littery mov'ments of ca-valry; you know, i--" "yes," said the apothecary; "here, raoul, is some money; please go and buy me a good, plain hat." "all right." raoul darted behind the counter and got his hat out of a drawer. "were at you buy your hats?" "anywhere." "i will go at _my_ hatter." as the apothecary moved about his shop awaiting raoul's return, his own disaster became once more the subject of his anxiety. he noticed that almost every person who passed looked in. "this is the place,"--"that is the man,"--how plainly the glances of passers sometimes speak! the people seemed, moreover, a little nervous. could even so little a city be stirred about such a petty, private trouble as this of his? no; the city was having tribulations of its own. new orleans was in that state of suppressed excitement which, in later days, a frequent need of reassuring the outer world has caused to be described by the phrase "never more peaceable." raoul perceived it before he had left the shop twenty paces behind. by the time he reached the first corner he was in the swirl of the popular current. he enjoyed it like a strong swimmer. he even drank of it. it was better than wine and music mingled. "twelve weeks next thursday, and no sign of re-cession!" said one of two rapid walkers just in front of him. their talk was in the french of the province. "oh, re-cession!" exclaimed the other angrily. "the cession is a reality. that, at least, we have got to swallow. incredulity is dead." the first speaker's feelings could find expression only in profanity. "the cession--we wash our hands of it!" he turned partly around upon his companion, as they hurried along, and gave his hands a vehement dry washing. "if incredulity is dead, non-participation reigns in its stead, and discontent is prime minister!" he brandished his fist as they turned a corner. "if we must change, let us be subjects of the first consul!" said one of another pair whom raoul met on a crossing. there was a gathering of boys and vagabonds at the door of a gun-shop. a man inside was buying a gun. that was all. a group came out of a "coffee-house." the leader turned about upon the rest: "_ah, bah! cette_ amayrican libetty!" "see! see! it is this way!" said another of the number, taking two others by their elbows, to secure an audience, "we shall do nothing ourselves; we are just watching that vile congress. it is going to tear the country all to bits!" "ah, my friend, you haven't got the _inside_ news," said still another--raoul lingered to hear him--"louisiana is going to state her wants! we have the liberty of free speech and are going to use it!" his information was correct; louisiana, no longer incredulous of her americanization, had laid hold of her new liberties and was beginning to run with them, like a boy dragging his kite over the clods. she was about to state her wants, he said. "and her don't-wants," volunteered one whose hand raoul shook heartily. "we warn the world. if congress doesn't take heed, we will not be responsible for the consequences!" raoul's hatter was full of the subject. as mr. innerarity entered, he was saying good-day to a customer in his native tongue, english, and so continued: "yes, under spain we had a solid, quiet government--ah! mr. innerarity, overjoyed to see you! we were speaking of these political troubles. i wish we might see the last of them. it's a terrible bad mess; corruption to-day--i tell you what--it will be disruption to-morrow. well, it is no work of ours; we shall merely stand off and see it." "mi-frien'," said raoul, with mingled pity and superiority, "you haven't got doze _inside_ nooz; louisiana is goin' to state w'at she want." on his way back toward the shop mr. innerarity easily learned louisiana's wants and don't-wants by heart. she wanted a creole governor; she did not want casa calvo invited to leave the country; she wanted the provisions of the treaty of cession hurried up; "as soon as possible," that instrument said; she had waited long enough; she did not want "dat trile bi-ju'y"--execrable trash! she wanted an _unwatched import trade!_ she did not want a single additional américain appointed to office; she wanted the slave trade. just in sight of the bareheaded and anxious frowenfeld, raoul let himself be stopped by a friend. the remark was exchanged that the times were exciting. "and yet," said the friend, "the city was never more peaceable. it is exasperating to see that coward governor looking so diligently after his police and hurrying on the organization of the américain volunteer militia!" he pointed savagely here and there. "m. innerarity, i am lost in admiration at the all but craven patience with which our people endure their wrongs! do my pistols show _too_ much through my coat? well, good-day; i must go home and clean my gun; my dear friend, one don't know how soon he may have to encounter the recorder and register of land-titles." raoul finished his errand. "'sieur frowenfel', excuse me--i take dat lett' to 'polyte for you if you want." there are times when mere shopkeeping--any peaceful routine--is torture. but the apothecary felt so himself; he declined his assistant's offer and went out toward the veau-qui-tête. chapter xl frowenfeld finds sylvestre the veau-qui-tête restaurant occupied the whole ground floor of a small, low, two-story, tile-roofed, brick-and-stucco building which still stands on the corner of chartres and st. peter streets, in company with the well-preserved old cabildo and the young cathedral, reminding one of the shabby and swarthy creoles whom we sometimes see helping better-kept kinsmen to murder time on the banquettes of the old french quarter. it was a favorite rendezvous of the higher classes, convenient to the court-rooms and municipal bureaus. there you found the choicest legal and political gossips, with the best the market afforded of meat and drink. frowenfeld found a considerable number of persons there. he had to move about among them to some extent, to make sure he was not overlooking the object of his search. as he entered the door, a man sitting near it stopped talking, gazed rudely as he passed, and then leaned across the table and smiled and murmured to his companion. the subject of his jest felt their four eyes on his back. there was a loud buzz of conversation throughout the room, but wherever he went a wake of momentary silence followed him, and once or twice he saw elbows nudged. he perceived that there was something in the state of mind of these good citizens that made the present sight of him particularly discordant. four men, leaning or standing at a small bar, were talking excitedly in the creole patois. they made frequent anxious, yet amusedly defiant, mention of a certain _pointe canadienne_. it was a portion of the mississippi river "coast" not far above new orleans, where the merchants of the city met the smugglers who came up from the gulf by way of barrataria bay and bayou. these four men did not call it by the proper title just given; there were commercial gentlemen in the creole city, englishmen, scotchmen, yankees, as well as french and spanish creoles, who in public indignantly denied, and in private tittered over, their complicity with the pirates of grand isle, and who knew their trading rendezvous by the sly nickname of "little manchac." as frowenfeld passed these four men they, too, ceased speaking and looked after him, three with offensive smiles and one with a stare of contempt. farther on, some creoles were talking rapidly to an américain, in english. "and why?" one was demanding. "because money is scarce. under other governments we had any quantity!" "yes," said the venturesome américain in retort, "such as it was; _assignats, liberanzas, bons_--claiborne will give us better money than that when he starts his bank." "hah! his bank, yes! john law once had a bank, too; ask my old father. what do we want with a bank? down with banks!" the speaker ceased; he had not finished, but he saw the apothecary. frowenfeld heard a muttered curse, an inarticulate murmur, and then a loud burst of laughter. a tall, slender young creole whom he knew, and who had always been greatly pleased to exchange salutations, brushed against him without turning his eyes. "you know," he was saying to a companion, "everybody in louisiana is to be a citizen, except the negroes and mules; that is the kind of liberty they give us--all eat out of one trough." "what we want," said a dark, ill-looking, but finely-dressed man, setting his claret down, "and what we have got to have, is"--he was speaking in french, but gave the want in english--"representesh'n wizout taxa--" there his eye fell upon frowenfeld and followed him with a scowl. "mah frang," he said to his table companion, "wass you sink of a mane w'at hask-a one neegrow to 'ave-a one shair wiz 'im, eh?--in ze sem room?" the apothecary found that his fame was far wider and more general than he had supposed. he turned to go out, bowing as he did so, to an américain merchant with whom he had some acquaintance. "sir?" asked the merchant, with severe politeness, "wish to see me? i thought you--as i was saying, gentlemen, what, after all, does it sum up?" a creole interrupted him with an answer: "leetegash'n, spoleeash'n, pahtitsh'n, disintegrhash'n!" the voice was like honoré's. frowenfeld looked; it was agamemnon grandissime. "i must go to maspero's," thought the apothecary, and he started up the rue chartres. as he turned into the rue st. louis, he suddenly found himself one of a crowd standing before a newly-posted placard, and at a glance saw it to be one of the inflammatory publications which were a feature of the times, appearing both daily and nightly on walls and fences. "one amerry-can pull' it down, an' camille brahmin 'e pas'e it back," said a boy at frowenfeld's side. exchange alley was once _passage de la bourse_, and led down (as it now does to the state house--late st. louis hotel) to an establishment which seems to have served for a long term of years as a sort of merchants' and auctioneers' coffee-house, with a minimum of china and a maximum of glass: maspero's--certainly maspero's as far back as , and, we believe, maspero's the day the apothecary entered it, march , . it was a livelier spot than the veau-qui-tête; it was to that what commerce is to litigation, what standing and quaffing is to sitting and sipping. whenever the public mind approached that sad state of public sentiment in which sanctity signs politicians' memorials and chivalry breaks into the gun-shops, a good place to feel the thump of the machinery was in maspero's. the first man frowenfeld saw as he entered was m. valentine grandissime. there was a double semicircle of gazers and listeners in front of him; he was talking, with much show of unconcern, in creole french. "policy? i care little about policy." he waved his hand. "i know my rights--and louisiana's. we have a right to our opinions. we have"--with a quiet smile and an upward turn of his extended palm--"a right to protect them from the attack of interlopers, even if we have to use gunpowder. i do not propose to abridge the liberties of even this army of fortune-hunters. _let_ them think." he half laughed. "who cares whether they share our opinions or not? let them have their own. i had rather they would. but let them hold their tongues. let them remember they are yankees. let them remember they are unbidden guests." all this without the least warmth. but the answer came aglow with passion, from one of the semicircle, whom two or three seemed disposed to hold in check. it also was in french, but the apothecary was astonished to hear his own name uttered. "but this fellow frowenfeld"--the speaker did not see joseph--"has never held his tongue. he has given us good reason half a dozen times, with his too free speech and his high moral whine, to hang him with the lamppost rope! and now, when we have borne and borne and borne and borne with him, and he shows up, all at once, in all his rottenness, you say let him alone! one would think you were defending honoré grandissime!" the back of one of the speaker's hands fluttered in the palm of the other. valentine smiled. "honoré grandissime? boy, you do not know what you are talking about. not honoré, ha, ha! a man who, upon his own avowal, is guilty of affiliating with the yankees. a man whom we have good reason to suspect of meditating his family's dishonor and embarrassment!" somebody saw the apothecary and laid a cautionary touch on valentine's arm, but he brushed it off. "as for professor frowenfeld, he must defend himself." "ha-a-a-ah!"--a general cry of derision from the listeners. "defend himself!" exclaimed their spokesman; "shall i tell you again what he is?" in his vehemence, the speaker wagged his chin and held his clenched fists stiffly toward the floor. "he is--he is--he is--" he paused, breathing like a fighting dog. frowenfeld, large, white, and immovable, stood close before him. "dey 'ad no bizniz led 'im come oud to-day," said a bystander, edging toward a pillar. the creole, a small young man not unknown to us, glared upon the apothecary; but frowenfeld was far above his blushing mood, and was not disconcerted. this exasperated the creole beyond bound; he made a sudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded: "do you interrup' two gen'lemen in dey conve'sition, you yankee clown? do you igno' dad you 'ave insult me, off-scow'ing?" frowenfeld's first response was a stern gaze. when he spoke, he said: "sir, i am not aware that i have ever offered you the slightest injury or affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman, i will wait till you are through." the creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. he turned to valentine. "valentine, i was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak; i repead thad! i repead id! i spurn you! go f'om yeh!" the apothecary stood like a cliff. it was too much for creole forbearance. his adversary, with a long snarl of oaths, sprang forward and with a great sweep of his arm slapped the apothecary on the cheek. and then-- what a silence! frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent stood half turned away, but with his face toward the face he had just struck and his eyes glaring up into the eyes of the apothecary. the semicircle was dissolved, and each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless and silent. for one instant objects lost all natural proportion, and to the expectant on-lookers the largest thing in the room was the big, upraised, white fist of frowenfeld. but in the next--how was this? could it be that that fist had not descended? the imperturbable valentine, with one preventing arm laid across the breast of the expected victim and an open hand held restrainingly up for truce, stood between the two men and said: "professor frowenfeld--one moment--" frowenfeld's face was ashen. "don't speak, sir!" he exclaimed. "if i attempt to parley i shall break every bone in his body. don't speak! i can guess your explanation--he is drunk. but take him away." valentine, as sensible as cool, assisted by the kinsman who had laid a hand on his arm, shuffled his enraged companion out. frowenfeld's still swelling anger was so near getting the better of him that he unconsciously followed a quick step or two; but as valentine looked back and waved him to stop, he again stood still. "_professeur_--you know,--" said a stranger, "daz sylvestre grandissime." frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered: "if i had not known that, i should have--" he checked himself and left the place. * * * * * while the apothecary was gathering these experiences, the free spirit of raoul innerarity was chafing in the shop like an eagle in a hen-coop. one moment after another brought him straggling evidences, now of one sort, now of another, of the "never more peaceable" state of affairs without. if only some pretext could be conjured up, plausible or flimsy, no matter; if only some man would pass with a gun on his shoulder, were it only a blow-gun; or if his employer were any one but his beloved frowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as quickly as he had already done once to-day, and be off to the wars. he was just trying to hear imaginary pistol-shots down toward the place d'armes, when the apothecary returned. "d' you fin' him?" "i found sylvestre." "'e took de lett'?" "i did not offer it." frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told his adventure. raoul was ablaze with indignation. "'sieur frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!" he extended his pretty hand. frowenfeld pondered. "gimmy 'er!" persisted the artist; "befo' i lose de sight from dat lett' she goin' to be hanswer by sylvestre grandissime, an' 'e goin' to wrat you one appo-logie! oh! i goin' mek 'im crah fo' shem!" "if i could know you would do only as i--" "i do it!" cried raoul, and sprang for his hat; and in the end frowenfeld let him have his way. "i had intended seeing him--" the apothecary said. "nevvamine to see; i goin' tell him!" cried raoul, as he crowded his hat fiercely down over his curls and plunged out. chapter xli to come to the point it was equally a part of honoré grandissime's nature and of his art as a merchant to wear a look of serene leisure. with this look on his face he reëntered his counting-room after his morning visit to frowenfeld's shop. he paused a moment outside the rail, gave the weak-eyed gentleman who presided there a quiet glance equivalent to a beckon, and, as that person came near, communicated two or three items of intelligence or instruction concerning office details, by which that invaluable diviner of business meanings understood that he wished to be let alone for an hour. then m. grandissime passed on into his private office, and, shutting the door behind him, walked briskly to his desk and sat down. he dropped his elbows upon a broad paper containing some recently written, unfinished memoranda that included figures in column, cast his eyes quite around the apartment, and then covered his face with his palms--a gesture common enough for a tired man of business in a moment of seclusion; but just as the face disappeared in the hands, the look of serene leisure gave place to one of great mental distress. the paper under his elbows, to the consideration of which he seemed about to return, was in the handwriting of his manager, with additions by his own pen. earlier in the day he had come to a pause in the making of these additions, and, after one or two vain efforts to proceed, had laid down his pen, taken his hat, and gone to see the unlucky apothecary. now he took up the broken thread. to come to a decision; that was the task which forced from him his look of distress. he drew his face slowly through his palms, set his lips, cast up his eyes, knit his knuckles, and then opened and struck his palms together, as if to say: "now, come; let me make up my mind." there may be men who take every moral height at a dash; but to the most of us there must come moments when our wills can but just rise and walk in their sleep. those who in such moments wait for clear views find, when the issue is past, that they were only yielding to the devil's chloroform. honoré grandissme bent his eyes upon the paper. but he saw neither its figures nor its words. the interrogation, "surrender fausse rivière?" appeared to hang between his eyes and the paper, and when his resolution tried to answer "yes," he saw red flags; he heard the auctioneer's drum; he saw his kinsmen handing house-keys to strangers; he saw the old servants of the great family standing in the marketplace; he saw kinswomen pawning their plate; he saw his clerks (brahmins, mandarins, grandissimes) standing idle and shabby in the arcade of the cabildo and on the banquettes of maspero's and the veau-qui-tête; he saw red-eyed young men in the exchange denouncing a man who, they said, had, ostensibly for conscience's sake, but really for love, forced upon the woman he had hoped to marry a fortune filched from his own kindred. he saw the junto of doctors in frowenfeld's door charitably deciding him insane; he saw the more vengeful of his family seeking him with half-concealed weapons; he saw himself shot at in the rue royale, in the rue toulouse, and in the place d'armes: and, worst of all, missed. but he wiped his forehead, and the writing on the paper became, in a measure, visible. he read: total mortgages on the lands of all the grandissimes $-- total present value of same, titles at buyers' risk -- cash, goods, and accounts -- fausse rivière plantation account -- there were other items, but he took up the edge of the paper mechanically, pushed it slowly away from him, leaned back in his chair and again laid his hands upon his face. "suppose i retain fausse rivière," he said to himself, as if he had not said it many times before. then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper before him--such a mortgage to be met on such a date; so much from fausse rivière plantation account retained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure; such another to be met on such a date--so much more of same account to protect it. he saw aurora and clotilde nancanou, with anguished faces, offering woman's pleadings to deaf constables. he saw the remainder of aurora's plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the question of the grandissime titles languishing in the courts. he saw the fortunes of his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself and kindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even fausse rivière plantation account restored, but aurora and clotilde nowhere to be found. and then he saw the grave, pale face of joseph frowenfeld. he threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, and stared at the figures. he began at the first item and went over the whole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving every addition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been made and overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been added. it was like a prisoner trying the bars of his cell. was there no way to make things happen differently? had he not overlooked some expedient? was not some financial manoeuvre possible which might compass both desired ends? he left his chair and walked up and down, as joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where he had left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up and down. he murmured now and then to himself: "_self_-denial--that is not the hard work. penniless myself--_that_ is play," and so on. he turned by and by and stood looking up at that picture of the man in the cuirass which aurora had once noticed. he looked at it, but he did not see it. he was thinking--"her rent is due to-morrow. she will never believe i am not her landlord. she will never go to my half-brother." he turned once more and mentally beat his breast as he muttered: "why do i not decide?" somebody touched the doorknob. honoré stepped forward and opened it. it was a mortgager. "_ah! entrez, monsieur_." he retained the visitor's hand, leading him in and talking pleasantly in french until both had found chairs. the conversation continued in that tongue through such pointless commercial gossip as this: "so the brig _equinox_ is aground at the head of the passes," said m. grandissime. "i have just heard she is off again." "aha?" "yes; the fort plaquemine canoe is just up from below. i understand john mcdonough has bought the entire cargo of the schooner _freedom_." "no, not all; blanque et fils bought some twenty boys and women out of the lot. where is she lying?" "right at the head of the basin." and much more like this; but by and by the mortgager came to the point with the casual remark: "the excitement concerning land titles seems to increase rather than subside." "they must have _something_ to be excited about, i suppose," said m. grandissime, crossing his legs and smiling. it was tradesman's talk. "yes," replied the other; "there seems to be an idea current to-day that all holders under spanish titles are to be immediately dispossessed, without even process of court. i believe a very slight indiscretion on the part of the governor-general would precipitate a riot." "he will not commit any," said m. grandissime with a quiet gravity, changing his manner to that of one who draws upon a reserve of private information. "there will be no outbreak." "i suppose not. we do not know, really, that the american congress will throw any question upon titles; but still--" "what are some of the shrewdest americans among us doing?" asked m. grandissime. "yes," replied the mortgager, "it is true they are buying these very titles; but they may be making a mistake?" unfortunately for the speaker, he allowed his face an expression of argumentative shrewdness as he completed this sentence, and m. grandissime, the merchant, caught an instantaneous full view of his motive; he wanted to buy. he was a man whose known speculative policy was to "go in" in moments of panic. m. grandissime was again face to face with the question of the morning. to commence selling must be to go on selling. this, as a plan, included restitution to aurora; but it meant also dissolution to the grandissimes, for should their _sold_ titles be pronounced bad, then the titles of other lands would be bad; many an asset among m. grandissime's memoranda would shrink into nothing, and the meagre proceeds of the grandissime estates, left to meet the strain without the aid of aurora's accumulated fortune, would founder in a sea of liabilities; while should these titles, after being parted with, turn out good, his incensed kindred, shutting their eyes to his memoranda and despising his exhibits, would see in him only the family traitor, and he would go about the streets of his town the subject of their implacable denunciation, the community's obloquy, and aurora's cold evasion. so much, should he sell. on the other hand, to decline to sell was to enter upon that disingenuous scheme of delays which would enable him to avail himself and his people of that favorable wind and tide of fortune which the cession had brought. thus the estates would be lost, if lost at all, only when the family could afford to lose them, and honoré grandissime would continue to be honoré the magnificent, the admiration of the city and the idol of his clan. but aurora--and clotilde--would have to eat the crust of poverty, while their fortunes, even in his hands, must bear all the jeopardy of the scheme. that was all. retain fausse rivière and its wealth, and save the grandissimes; surrender fausse rivière, let the grandissime estates go, and save the nancanous. that was the whole dilemma. "let me see," said m. grandissime. "you have a mortgage on one of our golden coast plantations. well, to be frank with you, i was thinking of that when you came in. you know i am partial to prompt transactions--i thought of offering you either to take up that mortgage or to sell you the plantation, as you may prefer. i have ventured to guess that it would suit you to own it." and the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in the idea that he had succeeded in throwing the issue off upon a providence that could control this mortgager's choice. "i would prefer to leave that choice with you," said the coy would-be purchaser; and then the two went coquetting again for another moment. "i understand that nicholas girod is proposing to erect a four-story brick building on the corner of royale and st. pierre. do you think it practicable? do you think our soil will support such a structure?" "pitot thinks it will. boré says it is perfectly feasible." so they dallied. "well," said the mortgager, presently rising, "you will make up your mind and let me know, will you?" the chance repetition of those words "make up your mind" touched honoré grandissime like a hot iron. he rose with the visitor. "well, sir, what would you give us for our title in case we should decide to part with it?" the two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the door, and in the half-open doorway, after a little further trifling, the title was sold. "well, good-day," said m. grandissime. "m. de brahmin will arrange the papers for us to-morrow." he turned back toward his private desk. "and now," thought he, "i am acting without resolving. no merit; no strength of will; no clearness of purpose; no emphatic decision; nothing but a yielding to temptation." and m. grandissime spoke truly; but it is only whole men who so yield--yielding to the temptation to do right. he passed into the counting-room, to m. de brahmin, and standing there talked in an inaudible tone, leaning over the upturned spectacles of his manager, for nearly an hour. then, saying he would go to dinner, he went out. he did not dine at home nor at the veau-qui-tête, nor at any of the clubs; so much is known; he merely disappeared for two or three hours and was not seen again until late in the afternoon, when two or three brahmins and grandissimes, wandering about in search of him, met him on the levee near the head of the rue bienville, and with an exclamation of wonder and a look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to know where he had hid himself while they had been ransacking the town in search of him. "we want you to tell us what you will do about our titles." he smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and replied: "i have not fully made up my mind yet; as soon as i do so i will let you know." there was a word or two more exchanged, and then, after a moment of silence, with a gentle "eh, bien," and a gesture to which they were accustomed, he stepped away backward, they resumed their hurried walk and talk, and he turned into the rue bienville. chapter xlii an inheritance of wrong "i tell you," doctor keene used to say, "that old woman's a thinker." his allusion was to clemence, the _marchande des calas_. her mental activity was evinced not more in the cunning aptness of her songs than in the droll wisdom of her sayings. not the melody only, but the often audacious, epigrammatic philosophy of her tongue as well, sold her _calas_ and gingercakes. but in one direction her wisdom proved scant. she presumed too much on her insignificance. she was a "study," the gossiping circle at frowenfeld's used to say; and any observant hearer of her odd aphorisms could see that she herself had made a life-study of herself and her conditions; but she little thought that others--some with wits and some with none--young hare-brained grandissimes, mandarins and the like--were silently, and for her most unluckily, charging their memories with her knowing speeches; and that of every one of those speeches she would ultimately have to give account. doctor keene, in the old days of his health, used to enjoy an occasional skirmish with her. once, in the course of chaffering over the price of _calas_, he enounced an old current conviction which is not without holders even to this day; for we may still hear it said by those who will not be decoyed down from the mountain fastnesses of the old southern doctrines, that their slaves were "the happiest people under the sun." clemence had made bold to deny this with argumentative indignation, and was courteously informed in retort that she had promulgated a falsehood of magnitude. "w'y, mawse chawlie," she replied, "does you s'pose one po' nigga kin tell a big lie? no, sah! but w'en de whole people tell w'at ain' so--if dey know it, aw if dey don' know it--den dat _is_ a big lie!" and she laughed to contortion. "what is that you say?" he demanded, with mock ferocity. "you charge white people with lying?" "oh, sakes, mawse chawlie, no! de people don't mek up dat ah; de debble pass it on 'em. don' you know de debble ah de grett cyount'-feiteh? ev'y piece o' money he mek he tek an' put some debblemen' on de under side, an' one o' his pootiess lies on top; an' 'e gilt dat lie, and 'e rub dat lie on 'is elbow, an' 'e shine dat lie, an' 'e put 'is bess licks on dat lie; entel ev'ybody say: 'oh, how pooty!' an' dey tek it fo' good money, yass--and pass it! dey b'lieb it!" "oh," said some one at doctor keene's side, disposed to quiz, "you niggers don't know when you are happy." "dass so, mawse--_c'est vrai, oui_!" she answered quickly: "we donno no mo'n white folks!" the laugh was against him. "mawse chawlie," she said again, "w'a's dis i yeh 'bout dat eu'ope country? 's dat true de niggas is all free in eu'ope!" doctor keene replied that something like that was true. "well, now, mawse chawlie, i gwan t' ass you a riddle. if dat is _so_, den fo' w'y i yeh folks bragg'n 'bout de 'stayt o' s'iety in eu'ope'?" the mincing drollery with which she used this fine phrase brought another peal of laughter. nobody tried to guess. "i gwan tell you," said the _marchande_; "'t is becyaze dey got a 'fixed wuckin' class.'" she sputtered and giggled with the general ha, ha. "oh, ole clemence kin talk proctah, yass!" she made a gesture for attention. "d' y' ebber yeh w'at de cya'ge-hoss say w'en 'e see de cyaht-hoss tu'n loose in de sem pawstu'e wid he, an' knowed dat some'ow de cyaht gotteh be haul'? w'y 'e jiz snawt an' kick up 'is heel'"--she suited the action to the word--"an' tah' roun' de fiel' an' prance up to de fence an' say: 'whoopy! shoo! shoo! dis yeh country gittin' _too_ free!'" "oh," she resumed, as soon as she could be heard, "white folks is werry kine. dey wants us to b'lieb we happy--dey _wants to b'lieb_ we is. w'y, you know, dey 'bleeged to b'lieb it--fo' dey own cyumfut. 'tis de sem weh wid de preache's; dey buil' we ow own sep'ate meet'n-houses; dey b'liebs us lak it de bess, an' dey _knows_ dey lak it de bess." the laugh at this was mostly her own. it is not a laughable sight to see the comfortable fractions of christian communities everywhere striving, with sincere, pious, well-meant, criminal benevolence, to make their poor brethren contented with the ditch. nor does it become so to see these efforts meet, or seem to meet, some degree of success. happily man cannot so place his brother that his misery will continue unmitigated. you may dwarf a man to the mere stump of what he ought to be, and yet he will put out green leaves. "free from care," we benignly observe of the dwarfed classes of society; but we forget, or have never thought, what a crime we commit when we rob men and women of their cares. to clemence the order of society was nothing. no upheaval could reach to the depth to which she was sunk. it is true, she was one of the population. she had certain affections toward people and places; but they were not of a consuming sort. as for us, our feelings, our sentiments, affections, etc., are fine and keen, delicate and many; what we call refined. why? because we get them as we get our old swords and gems and laces--from our grandsires, mothers, and all. refined they are--after centuries of refining. but the feelings handed down to clemence had come through ages of african savagery; through fires that do not refine, but that blunt and blast and blacken and char; starvation, gluttony, drunkenness, thirst, drowning, nakedness, dirt, fetichism, debauchery, slaughter, pestilence and the rest--she was their heiress; they left her the cinders of human feelings. she remembered her mother. they had been separated in her childhood, in virginia when it was a province. she remembered, with pride, the price her mother had brought at auction, and remarked, as an additional interesting item, that she had never seen or heard of her since. she had had children, assorted colors--had one with her now, the black boy that brought the basil to joseph; the others were here and there, some in the grandissime households or field-gangs, some elsewhere within occasional sight, some dead, some not accounted for. husbands--like the samaritan woman's. we know she was a constant singer and laugher. and so on that day, when honoré grandissime had advised the governor-general of louisiana to be very careful to avoid demonstration of any sort if he wished to avert a street war in his little capital, clemence went up one street and down another, singing her song and laughing her professional merry laugh. how could it be otherwise? let events take any possible turn, how could it make any difference to clemence? what could she hope to gain? what could she fear to lose? she sold some of her goods to casa calvo's spanish guard and sang them a spanish song; some to claiborne's soldiers and sang them yankee doodle with unclean words of her own inspiration, which evoked true soldiers' laughter; some to a priest at his window, exchanging with him a pious comment or two upon the wickedness of the times generally and their américain protestant-poisoned community in particular; and (after going home to dinner and coming out newly furnished) she sold some more of her wares to the excited groups of creoles to which we have had occasion to allude, and from whom, insensible as she was to ribaldry, she was glad to escape. the day now drawing to a close, she turned her steps toward her wonted crouching-place, the willow avenue on the levee, near the place d'armes. but she had hardly defined this decision clearly in her mind, and had but just turned out of the rue st. louis, when her song attracted an ear in a second-story room under whose window she was passing. as usual, it was fitted to the passing event: "_apportez moi mo' sabre, ba boum, ba boum, boum, boum_." "run, fetch that girl here," said dr. keene to the slave woman who had just entered his room with a pitcher of water. "well, old eavesdropper," he said, as clemence came, "what is the scandal to-day?" clemence laughed. "you know, mawse chawlie, i dunno noth'n' 'tall 'bout nobody. i'se a nigga w'at mine my own business." "sit down there on that stool, and tell me what is going on outside." "i d' no noth'n' 'bout no goin's on; got no time fo' sit down, me; got sell my cakes. i don't goin' git mix' in wid no white folks's doin's." "hush, you old hypocrite; i will buy all your cakes. put them out there on the table." the invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from behind his pillow and tossed her a large price. she tittered, courtesied and received the money. "well, well, mawse chawlie, 'f you ain' de funni'st gen'leman i knows, to be sho!" "have you seen joseph frowenfeld to-day?" he asked. "he, he, he! w'at i got do wid mawse frowenfel'? i goes on de off side o' sich folks--folks w'at cann' 'have deyself no bette'n dat--he, he, he! at de same time i did happen, jis chancin' by accident, to see 'im." "how is he?" dr. keene made plain by his manner that any sensational account would receive his instantaneous contempt, and she answered within bounds. "well, now, tellin' the simple trufe, he ain' much hurt." the doctor turned slowly and cautiously in bed. "have you seen honoré grandissime?" "w'y--das funny you ass me dat. i jis now see 'im dis werry minnit." "where?" "jis gwine into de house wah dat laydy live w'at 'e runned over dat ah time." "now, you old hag," cried the sick man, his weak, husky voice trembling with passion, "you know you're telling me a lie." "no, mawse chawlie," she protested with a coward's frown, "i swah i tellin' you de god's trufe!" "hand me my clothes off that chair." "oh! but, mawse chawlie--" the little doctor cursed her. she did as she was bid, and made as if to leave the room. "don't you go away." "but mawse chawlie, you' undress'--he, he!" she was really abashed and half frightened. "i know that; and you have got to help me put my clothes on." "you gwan kill yo'se'f, mawse chawlie," she said, handling a garment. "hold your black tongue." she dressed him hastily, and he went down the stairs of his lodging-house and out into the street. clemence went in search of her master. chapter xliii the eagle visits the doves in their nest alphonsina--only living property of aurora and clotilde--was called upon to light a fire in the little parlor. elsewhere, although the day was declining, few persons felt such a need; but in no. rue bienville there were two chilling influences combined requiring an artificial offset. one was the ground under the floor, which was only three inches distant, and permanently saturated with water; the other was despair. before this fire the two ladies sat down together like watchers, in that silence and vacuity of mind which come after an exhaustive struggle ending in the recognition of the inevitable; a torpor of thought, a stupefaction of feeling, a purely negative state of joylessness sequent to the positive state of anguish. they were now both hungry, but in want of some present friend acquainted with the motions of mental distress who could guess this fact and press them to eat. by their eyes it was plain they had been weeping much; by the subdued tone, too, of their short and infrequent speeches. alphonsina, having made the fire, went out with a bundle. it was aurora's last good dress. she was going to try to sell it. "it ought not to be so hard," began clotilde, in a quiet manner of contemplating some one else's difficulty, but paused with the saying uncompleted, and sighed under her breath. "but it _is_ so hard," responded aurora. "no, it ought not to be so hard--" "how, not so hard?" "it is not so hard to live," said clotilde; "but it is hard to be ladies. you understand--" she knit her fingers, dropped them into her lap and turned her eyes toward aurora, who responded with the same motions, adding the crossing of her silk-stockinged ankles before the fire. "no," said aurora, with a scintillation of irrepressible mischief in her eyes. "after all," pursued clotilde, "what troubles us is not how to make a living, but how to get a living without making it." "ah! that would be magnificent!" said aurora, and then added, more soberly; "but we are compelled to make a living." "no." "no-o? ah! what do you mean with your 'no'?" "i mean it is just the contrary; we are compelled not to make a living. look at me: i can cook, but i must not cook; i am skillful with the needle, but i must not take in sewing; i could keep accounts; i could nurse the sick; but i must not. i could be a confectioner, a milliner, a dressmaker, a vest-maker, a cleaner of gloves and laces, a dyer, a bird-seller, a mattress-maker, an upholsterer, a dancing-teacher, a florist--" "oh!" softly exclaimed aurora, in english, "you could be--you know w'ad?--an egcellen' drug-cl'--ah, ha, ha!" "now--" but the threatened irruption was averted by a look of tender apology from aurora, in reply to one of martyrdom from clotilde. "my angel daughter," said aurora, "if society has decreed that ladies must be ladies, then that is our first duty; our second is to live. do you not see why it is that this practical world does not permit ladies to make a living? because if they could, none of them would ever consent to be married. ha! women talk about marrying for love; but society is too sharp to trust them, yet! it makes it _necessary_ to marry. i will tell you the honest truth; some days when i get very, very hungry, and we have nothing but rice--all because we are ladies without male protectors--i think society could drive even me to marriage!--for your sake, though, darling; of course, only for your sake!" "never!" replied clotilde; "for my sake, never; for your own sake if you choose. i should not care. i should be glad to see you do so if it would make you happy; but never for my sake and never for hunger's sake; but for love's sake, yes; and god bless thee, pretty maman." "clotilde, dear," said the unconscionable widow, "let me assure you, once for all,--starvation is preferable. i mean for me, you understand, simply for me; that is my feeling on the subject." clotilde turned her saddened eyes with a steady scrutiny upon her deceiver, who gazed upward in apparently unconscious reverie, and sighed softly as she laid her head upon the high chair-back and stretched out her feet. "i wish alphonsina would come back," she said. "ah!" she added, hearing a footfall on the step outside the street door, "there she is." she arose and drew the bolt. unseen to her, the person whose footsteps she had heard stood upon the doorstep with a hand lifted to knock, but pausing to "makeup his mind." he heard the bolt shoot back, recognized the nature of the mistake, and, feeling that here again he was robbed of volition, rapped. "that is not alphonsina!" the two ladies looked at each other and turned pale. "but you must open it," whispered clotilde, half rising. aurora opened the door, and changed from white to crimson. clotilde rose up quickly. the gentleman lifted his hat. "madame nancanou." "m. grandissime?" "oui, madame." for once, aurora was in an uncontrollable flutter. she stammered, lost her breath, and even spoke worse french than she needed to have done. "be pl--pleased, sir--to enter. clotilde, my daughter--monsieur grandissime. p-please be seated, sir. monsieur grandissime,"--she dropped into a chair with an air of vivacity pitiful to behold,--"i suppose you have come for the rent." she blushed even more violently than before, and her hand stole upward upon her heart to stay its violent beating. "clotilde, dear, i should be glad if you would put the fire before the screen; it is so much too warm." she pushed her chair back and shaded her face with her hand. "i think the warmer is growing weather outside, is it--is it not?" the struggles of a wounded bird could not have been more piteous. monsieur grandissime sought to speak. clotilde, too, nerved by the sight of her mother's embarrassment, came to her support, and she and the visitor spoke in one breath. "maman, if monsieur--pardon--" "madame nancanou, the--pardon, mademoiselle--" "i have presumed to call upon you," resumed m. grandissime, addressing himself now to both ladies at once, "to see if i may enlist you in a purely benevolent undertaking in the interest of one who has been unfortunate--a common acquaintance--" "common acquaint--" interrupted aurora, with a hostile lighting of her eyes. "i believe so--professor frowenfeld." m. grandissme saw clotilde start, and in her turn falsely accuse the fire by shading her face: but it was no time to stop. "ladies," he continued, "please allow me, for the sake of the good it may effect, to speak plainly and to the point." the ladies expressed acquiescence by settling themselves to hear. "professor frowenfeld had the extraordinary misfortune this morning to incur the suspicion of having entered a house for the purpose of--at least, for a bad design--" "he is innocent!" came from clotilde, against her intention; aurora covertly put out a hand, and clotilde clutched it nervously. "as, for example, robbery," said the self-recovered aurora, ignoring clotilde's look of protestation. "call it so," responded m. grandissime. "have you heard at whose house this was?" "no, sir." "it was at the house of palmyre philosophe." "palmyre philosophe!" exclaimed aurora, in low astonishment. clotilde let slip, in a tone of indignant incredulity, a soft "ah!" aurora turned, and with some hope that m. grandissime would not understand, ventured to say in spanish, quietly: "come, come, this will never do." and clotilde replied in the same tongue: "i know it, but he is innocent." "let us understand each other," said their visitor. "there is not the faintest idea in the mind of one of us that professor frowenfeld is guilty of even an intention of wrong; otherwise i should not be here. he is a man simply incapable of anything ignoble." clotilde was silent. aurora answered promptly, with the air of one not to be excelled in generosity: "certainly, he is very incapabl'." "still," resumed the visitor, turning especially to clotilde, "the known facts are these, according to his own statement: he was in the house of palmyre on some legitimate business which, unhappily, he considers himself on some account bound not to disclose, and by some mistake of palmyre's old congo woman, was set upon by her and wounded, barely escaping with a whole skull into the street, an object of public scandal. laying aside the consideration of his feelings, his reputation is at stake and likely to be ruined unless the affair can be explained clearly and satisfactorily, and at once, by his friends." "and you undertake--" began aurora. "madame nancanou," said honoré grandissime, leaning toward her earnestly, "you know--i must beg leave to appeal to your candor and confidence--you know everything concerning palmyre that i know. you know me, and who i am; you know it is not for me to undertake to confer with palmyre. i know, too, her old affection for you; she lives but a little way down this street upon which you live; there is still daylight enough at your disposal; if you will, you can go to see her, and get from her a full and complete exoneration of this young man. she cannot come to you; she is not fit to leave her room." "cannot leave her room?" "i am, possibly, violating confidence in this disclosure, but it is unavoidable--you have to know: she is not fully recovered from a pistol-shot wound received between two and three weeks ago." "pistol-shot wound!" both ladies started forward with open lips and exclamations of amazement. "received from a third person--not myself and not professor frowenfeld--in a desperate attempt made by her to avenge the wrongs which she has suffered, as you, madam, as well as i, are aware, at the hands of--" aurora rose up with a majestic motion for the speaker to desist. "if it is to mention the person of whom your allusion reminds me, that you have honored us with a call this evening, monsieur--" her eyes were flashing as he had seen them flash in front of the place d'armes. "i beg you not to suspect me of meanness," he answered, gently, and with a remonstrative smile. "i have been trying all day, in a way unnecessary to explain, to be generous." "i suppose you are incapabl'," said aurora, following her double meaning with that combination of mischievous eyes and unsmiling face of which she was master. she resumed her seat, adding: "it is generous for you to admit that palmyre has suffered wrongs." "it _would_ be," he replied, "to attempt to repair them, seeing that i am not responsible for them, but this i cannot claim yet to have done. i have asked of you, madam, a generous act. i might ask another of you both jointly. it is to permit me to say without offence, that there is one man, at least, of the name of grandissime who views with regret and mortification the yet deeper wrongs which you are even now suffering." "oh!" exclaimed aurora, inwardly ready for fierce tears, but with no outward betrayal save a trifle too much grace and an over-bright smile, "monsieur is much mistaken; we are quite comfortable and happy, wanting nothing, eh, clotilde?--not even our rights, ha, ha!" she rose and let alphonsina in. the bundle was still in the negress's arms. she passed through the room and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "oh! no, sir, not at all," repeated aurora, as she once more sat down. "you ought to want your rights," said m. grandissime. "you ought to have them." "you think so?" aurora was really finding it hard to conceal her growing excitement, and turned, with a faint hope of relief, toward clotilde. clotilde, looking only at their visitor, but feeling her mother's glance, with a tremulous and half-choked voice, said eagerly: "then why do you not give them to us?" "ah!" interposed aurora, "we shall get them to-morrow, when the sheriff comes." and, thereupon what did clotilde do but sit bolt upright, with her hands in her lap, and let the tears roll, tear after tear, down her cheeks. "yes, monsieur," said aurora, smiling still, "those that you see are really tears. ha, ha, ha! excuse me, i really have to laugh; for i just happened to remember our meeting at the masked ball last september. we had such a pleasant evening and were so much indebted to you for our enjoyment,--particularly myself,--little thinking, you know, that you were one of that great family which believes we ought to have our rights, you know. there are many people who ought to have their rights. there was bras-coupé; indeed, he got them--found them in the swamp. maybe clotilde and i shall find ours in the street. when we unmasked in the theatre, you know, i did not know you were my landlord, and you did not know that i could not pay a few picayunes of rent. but you must excuse those tears; clotilde is generally a brave little woman, and would not be so rude as to weep before a stranger; but she is weak to-day--we are both weak to-day, from the fact that we have eaten nothing since early morning, although we have abundance of food--for want of appetite, you understand. you must sometimes be affected the same way, having the care of so much wealth _of all sorts_." honoré grandissime had risen to his feet and was standing with one hand on the edge of the lofty mantel, his hat in the other dropped at his side and his eye fixed upon aurora's beautiful face, whence her small nervous hand kept dashing aside the tears through which she defiantly talked and smiled. clotilde sat with clenched hands buried in her lap, looking at aurora and still weeping. and m. grandissime was saying to himself: "if i do this thing now--if i do it here--i do it on an impulse; i do it under constraint of woman's tears; i do it because i love this woman; i do it to get out of a corner; i do it in weakness, not in strength; i do it without having made up my mind whether or not it is the best thing to do." and then, without intention, with scarcely more consciousness of movement than belongs to the undermined tree which settles, roots and all, into the swollen stream, he turned and moved toward the door. clotilde rose. "monsieur grandissime." he stopped and looked back. "we will see palmyre at once, according to your request." he turned his eyes toward aurora. "yes," said she, and she buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed aloud. she heard his footstep again; it reached the door; the door opened--closed; she heard his footstep again; was he gone? he was gone. the two women threw themselves into each other's arms and wept. presently clotilde left the room. she came back in a moment from the rear apartment, with a bonnet and veil in her hands. "no," said aurora, rising quickly, "i must do it." "there is no time to lose," said clotilde. "it will soon be dark." it was hardly a minute before aurora was ready to start. a kiss, a sorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil dropped over the swollen eyes, and aurora was gone. a minute passed, hardly more, and--what was this?--the soft patter of aurora's knuckles on the door. "just here at the corner i saw palmyre leaving her house and walking down the rue royale. we must wait until morn--" again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which was standing ajar, was pushed slightly by the force of the masculine knock which followed. "allow me," said the voice of honoré grandissime, as aurora bowed at the door. "i should have handed you this; good-day." she received a missive. it was long, like an official document; it bore evidence of having been carried for some hours in a coat-pocket, and was folded in one of those old, troublesome ways in use before the days of envelopes. aurora pulled it open. "it is all figures; light a candle." the candle was lighted by clotilde and held over aurora's shoulder; they saw a heading and footing more conspicuous than the rest of the writing. the heading read: "_aurora and clotilde nancanou, owners of fausse rivière plantation, in account with honoré grandissime_." the footing read: _ "balance at credit, subject to order of aurora and clotilde nancanou, $ , . _." the date followed: "_march_ , ." and the signature: "_h. grandissime_." a small piece of torn white paper slipped from the account to the floor. clotilde's eye followed it, but aurora, without acknowledgement of having seen it, covered it with her foot. in the morning aurora awoke first. she drew from under her pillow this slip of paper. she had not dared look at it until now. the writing on it had been roughly scratched down with a pencil. it read: "_not for love of woman, but in the name of justice and the fear of god_." "and i was so cruel," she whispered. ah! honoré grandissime, she was kind to that little writing! she did not put it back under her pillow; she _kept it warm_, honoré grandissime, from that time forth. chapter xliv bad for charlie keene on the same evening of which we have been telling, about the time that aurora and clotilde were dropping their last tear of joy over the document of restitution, a noticeable figure stood alone at the corner of the rue du canal and the rue chartres. he had reached there and paused, just as the brighter glare of the set sun was growing dim above the tops of the cypresses. after walking with some rapidity of step, he had stopped aimlessly, and laid his hand with an air of weariness upon a rotting china-tree that leaned over the ditch at the edge of the unpaved walk. "setting in cypress," he murmured. we need not concern ourselves as to his meaning. one could think aloud there with impunity. in , canal street was the upper boundary of new orleans. beyond it, to southward, the open plain was dotted with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live-oak and groves of pecan. at the hour mentioned the outlines of these objects were already darkening. at one or two points the sky was reflected from marshy ponds. out to westward rose conspicuously the old house and willow-copse of jean poquelin. down the empty street or road, which stretched with arrow-like straightness toward the northwest, the draining-canal that gave it its name tapered away between occasional overhanging willows and beside broken ranks of rotting palisades, its foul, crawling waters blushing, gilding and purpling under the swiftly waning light, and ending suddenly in the black shadow of the swamp. the observer of this dismal prospect leaned heavily on his arm, and cast his glance out along the beautified corruption of the canal. his eye seemed quickened to detect the smallest repellant details of the scene; every cypress stump that stood in, or overhung, the slimy water; every ruined indigo-vat or blasted tree, every broken thing, every bleached bone of ox or horse--and they were many--for roods around. as his eye passed them slowly over and swept back again around the dreary view, he sighed heavily and said: "dissolution," and then again--"dissolution! order of the day--" a secret overhearer might have followed, by these occasional exclamatory utterances, the course of a devouring trouble prowling up and down through his thoughts, as one's eye tracks the shark by the occasional cutting of his fin above the water. he spoke again: "it is in such moods as this that fools drown themselves." his speech was french. he straightened up, smote the tree softly with his palm, and breathed a long, deep sigh--such a sigh, if the very truth be told, as belongs by right to a lover. and yet his mind did not dwell on love. he turned and left the place; but the trouble that was plowing hither and thither through the deep of his meditations went with him. as he turned into the rue chartres it showed itself thus: "right; it is but right;" he shook his head slowly--"it is but right." in the rue douane he spoke again: "ah! frowenfeld"--and smiled unpleasantly, with his head down. and as he made yet another turn, and took his meditative way down the city's front, along the blacksmith's shops in the street afterward called old levee, he resumed, in english, and with a distinctness that made a staggering sailor halt and look after him: "there are but two steps to civilization, the first easy, the second difficult; to construct--to reconstruct--ah! there it is! the tearing down! the tear'--" he was still, but repeated the thought by a gesture of distress turned into a slow stroke of the forehead. "monsieur honoré grandissime," said a voice just ahead. "_eh, bien_?" at the mouth of an alley, in the dim light of the streep lamp, stood the dark figure of honoré grandissime, f.m.c., holding up the loosely hanging form of a small man, the whole front of whose clothing was saturated with blood. "why, charlie keene! let him down again, quickly--quickly; do not hold him so!" "hands off," came in a ghastly whisper from the shape. "oh, chahlie, my boy--" "go and finish your courtship," whispered the doctor. "oh charlie, i have just made it forever impossible!" "then help me back to my bed; i don't care to die in the street." chapter xlv more reparation "that is all," said the fairer honoré, outside doctor keene's sick-room about ten o'clock at night. he was speaking to the black son of clemence, who had been serving as errand-boy for some hours. he spoke in a low tone just without the half-open door, folding again a paper which the lad had lately borne to the apothecary of the rue royale, and had now brought back with joseph's answer written under honoré's inquiry. "that is all," said the other honoré, standing partly behind the first, as the eyes of his little menial turned upon him that deprecatory glance of inquiry so common to slave children. the lad went a little way down the corridor, curled up upon the floor against the wall, and was soon asleep. the fairer honoré handed the darker the slip of paper; it was received and returned in silence. the question was: "_can you state anything positive concerning the duel_?" and the reply: "_positively there will be none. sylvestre my sworn friend for life_." the half-brothers sat down under a dim hanging lamp in the corridor, and except that every now and then one or the other stepped noiselessly to the door to look in upon the sleeping sick man, or in the opposite direction to moderate by a push with the foot the snoring of clemence's "boy," they sat the whole night through in whispered counsel. the one, at the request of the other, explained how he had come to be with the little doctor in such extremity. it seems that clemence, seeing and understanding the doctor's imprudence, had sallied out with the resolve to set some person on his track. we have said that she went in search of her master. him she met, and though she could not really count him one of the doctor's friends, yet, rightly believing in his humanity, she told him the matter. he set off in what was for him a quick pace in search of the rash invalid, was misdirected by a too confident child and had given up the hope of finding him, when a faint sound of distress just at hand drew him into an alley, where, close down against a wall, with his face to the earth, lay doctor keene. the f.m.c. had just raised him and borne him out of the alley when honoré came up. "and you say that, when you would have inquired for him at frowenfeld's, you saw palmyre there, standing and talking with frowenfeld? tell me more exactly." and the other, with that grave and gentle economy of words which made his speech so unique, recounted what we amplify: palmyre had needed no pleading to induce her to exonerate joseph. the doctors were present at frowenfeld's in more than usual number. there was unusualness, too, in their manner and their talk. they were not entirely free from the excitement of the day, and as they talked--with an air of superiority, of creole inflammability, and with some contempt--concerning camille brahmin's and charlie mandarin's efforts to precipitate a war, they were yet visibly in a state of expectation. frowenfeld, they softly said, had in his odd way been indiscreet among these inflammables at maspero's just when he could least afford to be so, and there was no telling what they might take the notion to do to him before bedtime. all that over and above the independent, unexplained scandal of the early morning. so joseph and his friends this evening, like aurora and clotilde in the morning, were, as we nowadays say of buyers and sellers, "apart," when suddenly and unannounced, palmyre presented herself among them. when the f.m.c. saw her, she had already handed joseph his hat and with much sober grace was apologizing for her slave's mistake. all evidence of her being wounded was concealed. the extraordinary excitement of the morning had not hurt her, and she seemed in perfect health. the doctors sat or stood around and gave rapt attention to her patois, one or two translating it for joseph, and he blushing to the hair, but standing erect and receiving it at second hand with silent bows. the f.m.c. had gazed on her for a moment, and then forced himself away. he was among the few who had not heard the morning scandal, and he did not comprehend the evening scene. he now asked honoré concerning it, and quietly showed great relief when it was explained. then honoré, breaking a silence, called the attention of the f.m.c. to the fact that the latter had two tenants at number rue bienville. honoré became the narrator now and told all, finally stating that the die was cast--restitution made. and then the darker honoré made a proposition to the other, which, it is little to say, was startling. they discussed it for hours. "so just a condition," said the merchant, raising his whisper so much that the rentier laid a hand in his elbow,--"such mere justice," he said, more softly, "ought to be an easy condition. god knows"--he lifted his glance reverently--"my very right to exist comes after yours. you are the elder." the solemn man offered no disclaimer. what could the proposition be which involved so grave an issue, and to which m. grandissime's final answer was "i will do it"? it was that honoré f.m.c. should become a member of the mercantile house of h. grandissime, enlisting in its capital all his wealth. and the one condition was that the new style should be _grandissime brothers_. chapter xlvi the pique-en-terre loses one of her crew ask the average resident of new orleans if his town is on an island, and he will tell you no. he will also wonder how any one could have got that notion,--so completely has orleans island, whose name at the beginning of the present century was in everybody's mouth, been forgotten. it was once a question of national policy, a point of difference between republican and federalist, whether the united states ought to buy this little strip of semi-submerged land, or whether it would not be more righteous to steal it. the kentuckians kept the question at a red heat by threatening to become an empire by themselves if one course or the other was not taken; but when the first consul offered to sell all louisiana, our commissioners were quite robbed of breath. they had approached to ask a hair from the elephant's tail, and were offered the elephant. for orleans island--island it certainly was until general jackson closed bayou manchac--is a narrow, irregular, flat tract of forest, swamp, city, prairie and sea-marsh, lying east and west, with the mississippi, trending southeastward, for its southern boundary, and for its northern, a parallel and contiguous chain of alternate lakes and bayous, opening into the river through bayou manchac, and into the gulf through the passes of the malheureuse islands. on the narrowest part of it stands new orleans. turning and looking back over the rear of the town, one may easily see from her steeples lake pontchartrain glistening away to the northern horizon, and in his fancy extend the picture to right and left till pontchartrain is linked in the west by pass manchac to lake maurepas, and in the east by the rigolets and chef menteur to lake borgne. an oddity of the mississippi delta is the habit the little streams have of running away from the big ones. the river makes its own bed and its own banks, and continuing season after season, through ages of alternate overflow and subsidence, to elevate those banks, creates a ridge which thus becomes a natural elevated aqueduct. other slightly elevated ridges mark the present or former courses of minor outlets, by which the waters of the mississippi have found the sea. between these ridges lie the cypress swamps, through whose profound shades the clear, dark, deep bayous creep noiselessly away into the tall grasses of the shaking prairies. the original new orleans was built on the mississippi ridge, with one of these forest-and-water-covered basins stretching back behind her to westward and northward, closed in by metairie ridge and lake pontchartrain. local engineers preserve the tradition that the bayou sauvage once had its rise, so to speak, in toulouse street. though depleted by the city's present drainage system and most likely poisoned by it as well, its waters still move seaward in a course almost due easterly, and empty into chef menteur, one of the watery threads of a tangled skein of "passes" between the lakes and the open gulf. three-quarters of a century ago this bayou sauvage (or gentilly--corruption of chantilly) was a navigable stream of wild and sombre beauty. on a certain morning in august, , and consequently some five months after the events last mentioned, there emerged from the darkness of bayou sauvage into the prairie-bordered waters of chef menteur, while the morning star was still luminous in the sky above and in the water below, and only the practised eye could detect the first glimmer of day, a small, stanch, single-masted, broad and very light-draught boat, whose innocent character, primarily indicated in its coat of many colors,--the hull being yellow below the water line and white above, with tasteful stripings of blue and red,--was further accentuated by the peaceful name of _pique-en-terre_ (the sandpiper). she seemed, too, as she entered the chef menteur, as if she would have liked to turn southward; but the wind did not permit this, and in a moment more the water was rippling after her swift rudder, as she glided away in the direction of pointe aux herbes. but when she had left behind her the mouth of the passage, she changed her course and, leaving the pointe on her left, bore down toward petites coquilles, obviously bent upon passing through the rigolets. we know not how to describe the joyousness of the effect when at length one leaves behind him the shadow and gloom of the swamp, and there bursts upon his sight the widespread, flower-decked, bird-haunted prairies of lake catharine. the inside and outside of a prison scarcely furnish a greater contrast; and on this fair august morning the contrast was at its strongest. the day broke across a glad expanse of cool and fragrant green, silver-laced with a network of crisp salt pools and passes, lakes, bayous and lagoons, that gave a good smell, the inspiring odor of interclasped sea and shore, and both beautified and perfumed the happy earth, laid bare to the rising sun. waving marshes of wild oats, drooping like sated youth from too much pleasure; watery acres hid under crisp-growing greenth starred with pond-lilies and rippled by water-fowl; broad stretches of high grass, with thousands of ecstatic wings palpitating above them; hundreds of thousands of white and pink mallows clapping their hands in voiceless rapture, and that amazon queen of the wild flowers, the morning-glory, stretching her myriad lines, lifting up the trumpet and waving her colors, white, azure and pink, with lacings of spider's web, heavy with pearls and diamonds--the gifts of the summer night. the crew of the _pique-en-terre_ saw all these and felt them; for, whatever they may have been or failed to be, they were men whose heartstrings responded to the touches of nature. one alone of their company, and he the one who should have felt them most, showed insensibility, sighed laughingly and then laughed sighingly, in the face of his fellows and of all this beauty, and profanely confessed that his heart's desire was to get back to his wife. he had been absent from her now for nine hours! but the sun is getting high; petites coquilles has been passed and left astern, the eastern end of las conchas is on the after-larboard-quarter, the briny waters of lake borgne flash far and wide their dazzling white and blue, and, as the little boat issues from the deep channel of the rigolets, the white-armed waves catch her and toss her like a merry babe. a triumph for the helmsman--he it is who sighs, at intervals of tiresome frequency, for his wife. he had, from the very starting-place in the upper waters of bayou sauvage, declared in favor of the rigolets as--wind and tide considered--the most practicable of all the passes. now that they were out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaint of conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph. would any one hereafter dispute with him on the subject of louisiana sea-coast navigation? he knew every pass and piece of water like a, b, c, and could tell, faster, much faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon which he was a little slow and doubtful), the amount of water in each at ebb tide--pass jean or petit pass, unknown pass, petit rigolet, chef menteur,-- out on the far southern horizon, in the gulf--the gulf of mexico--there appears a speck of white. it is known to those on board the _pique-en-terre_, the moment it is descried, as the canvas of a large schooner. the opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, who still reclines with the tiller held firmly under his arm, and then by another member of the company who sits on the centreboard-well, is unanimously adopted, that she is making for the rigolets, will pass petites coquilles by eleven o'clock, and will tie up at the little port of st. jean, on the bayou of the same name, before sundown, if the wind holds anywise as it is. on the other hand, the master of the distant schooner shuts his glass, and says to the single passenger whom he has aboard that the little sail just visible toward the rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well filled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to the chandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and passes into comments on the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of small sailing craft. by and by the two vessels near each other. they approach within hailing distance, and are announcing each to each their identity, when the young man at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from under a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner's one passenger: "hello, challie keene." and the passenger more quietly answers back: "hello, raoul, is that you?" m. innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he. "you kin hask sylvestre!" he concluded. the doctor's eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark négligé of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in their handsome faces which characterizes the creole with his collar off. the mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange of greetings. "ola, dawctah!" "_hé_, doctah, _que-ce qui t'après fé?_" "_ho, ho, compère noyo!_" "_comment va_, docta?" a light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute. the doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names: "'polyte--sylvestre--achille--Émile--ah! agamemnon." the doctor and agamemnon raised their hats. as agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drowned his voice. the _pique-en-terre_ was going about close abreast of the schooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at raoul's head like a volley of eggs. "messieurs," said raoul, partially rising but still stooping over the tiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, "i am going back to new orleans. i would not give _that_ for all the fish in the sea; i want to see my wife. i am going back to new orleans to see my wife--and to congratulate the city upon your absence." incredulity, expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction--he smiled unmoved upon them all. "messieurs, i _must_ go and see my wife." amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to camille brahmin, and fighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throw him overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master's hand, he reached the deck of the larger vessel. the _pique-en-terre_ turned, and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and skimmed away. "doctah keene, look yeh!" m. innerarity held up a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of the creole bridegroom. "w'at you got to say to dat?" the little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins, and a thrill of anger follow it. the poor man could not imagine a love affair that did not include clotilde nancanou. "whom have you married?" "de pritties' gal in de citty." the questioner controlled himself. "m-hum," he responded, with a contraction of the eyes. raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, and finding the hope vain, suddenly assumed a look of delighted admiration. "hi, yi, yi! doctah, 'ow you har lookingue fine." the true look of the doctor was that he had not much longer to live. a smile of bitter humor passed over his face, and he looked for a near seat, saying: "how's frowenfeld?" raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth his hand as if the doctor could not fail to grasp it. the invalid's heart sank like lead. "frowenfeld has got her," he thought. "well?" said he with a frown of impatience and restraint; and raoul cried: "i sole my pigshoe!" the doctor could not help but laugh. "shades of the masters!" "no; 'louizyanna rif-using to hantre de h-union.'" the doctor stood corrected. the two walked across the deck, following the shadow of the swinging sail. the doctor lay down in a low-swung hammock, and raoul sat upon the deck _à la turque_. "come, come, raoul, tell me, what is the news?" "news? oh, i donno. you 'eard concernin' the dool?" "you don't mean to say--" "yesseh!" "agricola and sylvestre?" "w'at de dev'! no! burr an' 'ammiltong; in noo-juzzy-las-june. collonnel burr, 'e--" "oh, fudge! yes. how is frowenfeld?" "'e's well. guess 'ow much i sole my pigshoe." "well, how much?" "two 'ondred fifty." he laid himself out at length, his elbow on the deck, his head in his hand. "i believe i'm sorry i sole 'er." "i don't wonder. how's honoré? tell me what has happened. remember, i've been away five months." "no; i am verrie glad dat i sole 'er. what? ha! i should think so! if it have not had been fo' dat i would not be married to-day. you think i would get married on dat sal'rie w'at proffis-or frowenfel' was payin' me? twenty-five dolla' de mont'? docta keene, no gen'leman h-ought to git married if 'e 'ave not anny'ow fifty dolla' de mont'! if i wasn' a h-artiz i wouldn' git married; i gie you my word!" "yes," said the little doctor, "you are right. now tell me the news." "well, dat cong-ress gone an' make--" "raoul, stop. i know that congress has divided the province into two territories; i know you creoles think all your liberties are lost; i know the people are in a great stew because they are not allowed to elect their own officers and legislatures, and that in opelousas and attakapas they are as wild as their cattle about it--" "we 'ad two big mitting' about it," interrupted raoul; "my bro'r-in-law speak at both of them!" "who?" "chahlie mandarin." "glad to hear it," said doctor keene,--which was the truth. "besides that, i know laussat has gone to martinique; that the américains have a newspaper, and that cotton is two-bits a pound. now what i want to know is, how are my friends? what has honoré done? what has frowenfeld done? and palmyre,--and agricole? they hustled me away from here as if i had been caught trying to cut my throat. tell me everything." and raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him. chapter xlvii the news "my cousin honoré,--well, you kin jus' say 'e bitray' 'is 'ole fam'ly." "how so?" asked doctor keene, with a handkerchief over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. "well,--ce't'nly 'e did! di'n' 'e gave dat money to aurora de grapion?--one 'undred five t'ousan' dolla'? jis' as if to say, 'yeh's de money my h-uncle stole from you' 'usban'.' hah! w'en i will swear on a stack of bible' as 'igh as yo' head, dat agricole win dat 'abitation fair!--if i see it? no, sir; i don't 'ave to see it! i'll swear to it! hah!" "and have she and her daughter actually got the money?" "she--an'--heh--daughtah--ac--shilly--got-'at-money-sir! w'at? dey livin' in de rue royale in mag-_niff_ycen' style on top de drug-sto' of proffis-or frowenfel'." "but how, over frowenfeld's, when frowenfeld's is a one-story--" "my dear frien'! proffis-or frowenfel' is _moove!_ you rickleck dat big new t'ree-story buildin' w'at jus' finished in de rue royale, a lill mo' farther up town from his old shop? well, we open dare _a big sto'!_ an' listen! you think honoré di'n' bitrayed' 'is family? madame nancanou an' heh daughtah livin' upstair an' rissy-ving de finess soci'ty in de province!--an' _me?_--downstair' meckin' pill! you call dat justice?" but doctor keene, without waiting for this question, had asked one: "does frowenfeld board with them?" "psh-sh-sh! board! dey woon board de marquis of casa calvo! i don't b'lieve dey would board honoré grandissime! all de king' an' queen' in de worl' couldn' board dare! no, sir!--'owever, you know, i think dey are splendid ladies. me an' my wife, we know them well. an' honoré--i think my cousin honoré's a splendid gen'leman, too." after a moment's pause he resumed, with a happy sigh, "well, i don' care, i'm married. a man w'at's married, 'e don' care. "but i di'n' t'ink honoré could ever do lak dat odder t'ing." "do he and joe frowenfeld visit there?" "doctah keene," demanded raoul, ignoring the question, "i hask you now, plain, don' you find dat mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak honoré?" "what way?" "w'at? you dunno? you don' yeh 'ow 'e gone partner' wid a nigga?" "what do you mean?" doctor keene drew the handkerchief off his face and half lifted his feeble head. "yesseh! 'e gone partner' wid dat quadroon w'at call 'imself honoré grandissime, seh!" the doctor dropped his head again and laid the handkerchief back on his face. "what do the family say to that?" "but w'at _can_ dey say? it save dem from ruin! at de sem time, me, i think it is a disgress. not dat he h-use de money, but it is dat name w'at 'e give de h-establishmen'--grandissime frères! h-only for 'is money we would 'ave catch' dat quadroon gen'leman an' put some tar and fedder. grandissime frères! agricole don' spik to my cousin honoré no mo'. but i t'ink dass wrong. w'at you t'ink, doctah?" that evening, at candle-light, raoul got the right arm of his slender, laughing wife about his neck; but doctor keene tarried all night in suburb st. jean. he hardly felt the moral courage to face the results of the last five months. let us understand them better ourselves. chapter xlviii an indignant family and a smashed shop it was indeed a fierce storm that had passed over the head of honoré grandissime. taken up and carried by it, as it seemed to him, without volition, he had felt himself thrown here and there, wrenched, torn, gasping for moral breath, speaking the right word as if in delirium, doing the right deed as if by helpless instinct, and seeing himself in every case, at every turn, tricked by circumstance out of every vestige of merit. so it seemed to him. the long contemplated restitution was accomplished. on the morning when aurora and clotilde had expected to be turned shelterless into the open air, they had called upon him in his private office and presented the account of which he had put them in possession the evening before. he had honored it on the spot. to the two ladies who felt their own hearts stirred almost to tears of gratitude, he was--as he sat before them calm, unmoved, handling keen-edged facts with the easy rapidity of one accustomed to use them, smiling courteously and collectedly, parrying their expressions of appreciation--to them, we say, at least to one of them, he was "the prince of gentlemen." but, at the same time, there was within him, unseen, a surge of emotions, leaping, lashing, whirling, yet ever hurrying onward along the hidden, rugged bed of his honest intention. the other restitution, which even twenty-four hours earlier might have seemed a pure self-sacrifice, became a self-rescue. the f.m.c. was the elder brother. a remark of honoré made the night they watched in the corridor by doctor keene's door, about the younger's "right to exist," was but the echo of a conversation they had once had together in europe. there they had practised a familiarity of intercourse which louisiana would not have endured, and once, when speaking upon the subject of their common fatherhood, the f.m.c., prone to melancholy speech, had said: "you are the lawful son of numa grandissime; i had no right to be born." but honoré quickly answered: "by the laws of men, it may be; but by the law of god's justice, you are the lawful son, and it is i who should not have been born." but, returned to louisiana, accepting with the amiable, old-fashioned philosophy of conservatism the sins of the community, he had forgotten the unchampioned rights of his passive half-brother. contact with frowenfeld had robbed him of his pleasant mental drowsiness, and the oft-encountered apparition of the dark sharer of his name had become a slow-stepping, silent embodiment of reproach. the turn of events had brought him face to face with the problem of restitution, and he had solved it. but where had he come out? he had come out the beneficiary of this restitution, extricated from bankruptcy by an agreement which gave the f.m.c. only a public recognition of kinship which had always been his due. bitter cup of humiliation! such was the stress within. then there was the storm without. the grandissimes were in a high state of excitement. the news had reached them all that honoré had met the question of titles by selling one of their largest estates. it was received with wincing frowns, indrawn breath, and lifted feet, but without protest, and presently with a smile of returning confidence. "honoré knew; honoré was informed; they had all authorized honoré; and honoré, though he might have his odd ways and notions, picked up during that unfortunate stay abroad, might safely be trusted to stand by the interests of his people." after the first shock some of them even raised a laugh: "ha, ha, ha! honoré would show those yankees!" they went to his counting-room and elsewhere, in search of him, to smite their hands into the hands of their far-seeing young champion. but, as we have seen, they did not find him; none dreamed of looking for him in an enemy's camp ( bienville) or on the lonely suburban commons, talking to himself in the ghostly twilight; and the next morning, while aurora and clotilde were seated before him in his private office, looking first at the face and then at the back of two mighty drafts of equal amount on philadelphia, the cry of treason flew forth to these astounded grandissimes, followed by the word that the sacred fire was gone out in the grandissime temple (counting-room), that delilahs in duplicate were carrying off the holy treasures, and that the uncircumcised and unclean--even an f.m.c.--was about to be inducted into the grandissime priesthood. aurora and clotilde were still there, when the various members of the family began to arrive and display their outlines in impatient shadow-play upon the glass door of the private office; now one, and now another, dallied with the doorknob and by and by obtruded their lifted hats and urgent, anxious faces half into the apartment; but honoré would only glance toward them, and with a smile equally courteous, authoritative and fleeting, say: "good-morning, camille" (or charlie--or agamemnon, as the case might be); "i will see you later; let me trouble you to close the door." to add yet another strain, the two ladies, like frightened, rescued children, would cling to their deliverer. they wished him to become the custodian and investor of their wealth. ah, woman! who is a tempter like thee? but honoré said no, and showed them the danger of such a course. "suppose i should die suddenly. you might have trouble with my executors." the two beauties assented pensively; but in aurora's bosom a great throb secretly responded that as for her, in that case, she should have no use for money--in a nunnery. "would not monsieur at least consent to be their financial adviser?" he hemmed, commenced a sentence twice, and finally said: "you will need an agent; some one to take full charge of your affairs; some person on whose sagacity and integrity you can place the fullest dependence." "who, for instance?" asked aurora. "i should say, without hesitation, professor frowenfeld, the apothecary. you know his trouble of yesterday is quite cleared up. you had not heard? yes. he is not what we call an enterprising man, but--so much the better. take him all in all, i would choose him above all others; if you--" aurora interrupted him. there was an ill-concealed wildness in her eye and a slight tremor in her voice, as she spoke, which she had not expected to betray. the quick, though quiet eye of honoré grandissime saw it, and it thrilled him through. "'sieur grandissime, i take the risk; i wish you to take care of my money." "but, maman," said clotilde, turning with a timid look to her mother, "if monsieur grandissime would rather not--" aurora, feeling alarmed at what she had said, rose up. clotilde and honoré did the same, and he said: "with professor frowenfeld in charge of your affairs, i shall feel them not entirely removed from my care also. we are very good friends." clotilde looked at her mother. the three exchanged glances. the ladies signified their assent and turned to go, but m. grandissime stopped them. "by your leave, i will send for him. if you will be seated again--" they thanked him and resumed their seats; he excused himself, passed into the counting-room, and sent a messenger for the apothecary. m. grandissime's meeting with his kinsmen was a stormy one. aurora and clotilde heard the strife begin, increase, subside, rise again and decrease. they heard men stride heavily to and fro, they heard hands smite together, palms fall upon tables and fists upon desks, heard half-understood statement and unintelligible counter-statement and derisive laughter; and, in the midst of all, like the voice of a man who rules himself, the clear-noted, unimpassioned speech of honoré, sounding so loftily beautiful in the ear of aurora that when clotilde looked at her, sitting motionless with her rapt eyes lifted up, those eyes came down to her own with a sparkle of enthusiasm, and she softly said: "it sounds like st. gabriel!" and then blushed. clotilde answered with a happy, meaning look, which intensified the blush, and then leaning affectionately forward and holding the maman's eyes with her own, she said: "you have my consent." "saucy!" said aurora. "wait till i get my own." some of his kinsmen honoré pacified; some he silenced. he invited all to withdraw their lands and moneys from his charge, and some accepted the invitation. they spurned his parting advice to sell, and the policy they then adopted, and never afterward modified, was that "all or nothing" attitude which, as years rolled by, bled them to penury in those famous cupping-leeching-and-bleeding establishments, the courts of louisiana. you may see their grandchildren, to-day, anywhere within the angle of the old rues esplanade and rampart, holding up their heads in unspeakable poverty, their nobility kept green by unflinching self-respect, and their poetic and pathetic pride revelling in ancestral, perennial rebellion against common sense. "that is agricola," whispered aurora, with lifted head and eyes dilated and askance, as one deep-chested voice roared above all others. agricola stormed. "uncle," aurora by and by heard honoré say, "shall i leave my own counting-room?" at that moment joseph frowenfeld entered, pausing with one hand on the outer rail. no one noticed him but honoré, who was watching for him, and who, by a silent motion, directed him into the private office. "h-whe shake its dust from our feet!" said agricola, gathering some young retainers by a sweep of his glance and going out down the stair in the arched way, unmoved by the fragrance of warm bread. on the banquette he harangued his followers. he said that in such times as these every lover of liberty should go armed; that the age of trickery had come; that by trickery louisianians had been sold, like cattle, to a nation of parvenues, to be dragged before juries for asserting the human right of free trade or ridding the earth of sneaks in the pay of the government; that laws, so-called, had been forged into thumbscrews, and a congress which had bound itself to give them all the rights of american citizens--sorry boon!--was preparing to slip their birthright acres from under their feet, and leave them hanging, a bait to the vultures of the américain immigration. yes; the age of trickery! its apostles, he said, were even then at work among their fellow-citizens, warping, distorting, blasting, corrupting, poisoning the noble, unsuspecting, confiding creole mind. for months the devilish work had been allowed, by a patient, peace-loving people, to go on. but shall it go on forever? (cries of "no!" "no!") the smell of white blood comes on the south breeze. dessalines and christophe had recommenced their hellish work. virginia, too, trembles for the safety of her fair mothers and daughters. we know not what is being plotted in the canebrakes of louisiana. but we know that in the face of these things the prelates of trickery are sitting in washington allowing throats to go unthrottled that talked tenderly about the "negro slave;" we know worse: we know that mixed blood has asked for equal rights from a son of the louisiana noblesse, and that those sacred rights have been treacherously, pusillanimously surrendered into its possession. why did we not rise yesterday, when the public heart was stirred? the forbearance of this people would be absurd if it were not saintly. but the time has, come when louisiana must protect herself! if there is one here who will not strike for his lands, his rights and the purity of his race, let him speak! (cries of "we will rise now!" "give us a leader!" "lead the way!") "kinsmen, friends," continued agricola, "meet me at nightfall before the house of this too-long-spared mulatto. come armed. bring a few feet of stout rope. by morning the gentlemen of color will know their places better than they do to-day; h-whe shall understand each other! h-whe shall set the negrophiles to meditating." he waved them away. with a huzza the accumulated crowd moved off. chance carried them up the rue royale; they sang a song; they came to frowenfeld's. it was an américain establishment; that was against it. it was a gossiping place of américain evening loungers; that was against it. it was a sorcerer's den--(we are on an ascending scale); its proprietor had refused employment to some there present, had refused credit to others, was an impudent condemner of the most approved creole sins, had been beaten over the head only the day before; all these were against it. but, worse still, the building was owned by the f.m.c., and unluckiest of all, raoul stood in the door and some of his kinsmen in the crowd stopped to have a word with him. the crowd stopped. a nameless fellow in the throng--he was still singing--said: "here's the place," and dropped two bricks through the glass of the show-window. raoul, with a cry of retaliative rage, drew and lifted a pistol; but a kinsman jerked it from him and three others quickly pinioned him and bore him off struggling, pleased to get him away unhurt. in ten minutes, frowenfeld's was a broken-windowed, open-doored house, full of unrecognizable rubbish that had escaped the torch only through a chance rumor that the governor's police were coming, and the consequent stampede of the mob. joseph was sitting in m. grandissime's private office, in council with him and the ladies, and aurora was just saying: "well, anny'ow, 'sieur frowenfel', ad laz you consen'!" and gathering her veil from her lap, when raoul burst in, all sweat and rage. "'sieur frowenfel', we ruin'! ow pharmacie knock all in pieces! my pigshoe is los'!" he dropped into a chair and burst into tears. shall we never learn to withhold our tears until we are sure of our trouble? raoul little knew the joy in store for him. 'polyte, it transpired the next day, had rushed in after the first volley of missiles, and while others were gleefully making off with jars of asafoetida and decanters of distilled water, lifted in his arms and bore away unharmed "louisiana" firmly refusing to the last to enter the union. it may not be premature to add that about four weeks later honoré grandissime, upon raoul's announcement that he was "betrothed," purchased this painting and presented it to a club of _natural connoisseurs_. chapter xlix over the new store the accident of the ladies nancanou making their new home over frowenfeld's drug-store occurred in the following rather amusing way. it chanced that the building was about completed at the time that the apothecary's stock in trade was destroyed; frowenfeld leased the lower floor. honoré grandissime f.m.c. was the owner. he being concealed from his enemies, joseph treated with that person's inadequately remunerated employé. in those days, as still in the old french quarter, it was not uncommon for persons, even of wealth, to make their homes over stores, and buildings were constructed with a view to their partition in this way. hence, in chartres and decatur streets, to-day--and in the cross-streets between--so many store-buildings with balconies, dormer windows, and sometimes even belvideres. this new building caught the eye and fancy of aurora and clotilde. the apartments for the store were entirely isolated. through a large _porte-cochère_, opening upon the banquette immediately beside and abreast of the store-front, one entered a high, covered carriage-way with a tessellated pavement and green plastered walls, and reached,--just where this way (corridor, the creoles always called it) opened into a sunny court surrounded with narrow parterres,--a broad stairway leading to a hall over the "corridor" and to the drawing-rooms over the store. they liked it! aurora would find out at once what sort of an establishment was likely to be opened below, and if that proved unexceptionable she would lease the upper part without more ado. next day she said: "clotilde, thou beautiful, i have signed the lease!" "then the store below is to be occupied by a--what?" "guess!" "ah!" "guess a pharmacien!" clotilde's lips parted, she was going to smile, when her thought changed and she blushed offendedly. "not--" "'sieur frowenf--ah, ha, ha, ha!--_ha, ha, ha_!" clotilde burst into tears. still they moved in--it was written in the bond; and so did the apothecary; and probably two sensible young lovers never before nor since behaved with such abject fear of each other--for a time. later, and after much oft-repeated good advice given to each separately and to both together, honoré grandissime persuaded them that clotilde could make excellent use of a portion of her means by reenforcing frowenfeld's very slender stock and well filling his rather empty-looking store, and so they signed regular articles of copartnership, blushing frightfully. frowenfeld became a visitor, honoré not; once honoré had seen the ladies' moneys satisfactorily invested, he kept aloof. it is pleasant here to remark that neither aurora nor clotilde made any waste of their sudden acquisitions; they furnished their rooms with much beauty at moderate cost, and their _salon_ with artistic, not extravagant, elegance, and, for the sake of greater propriety, employed a decayed lady as housekeeper; but, being discreet in all other directions, they agreed upon one bold outlay--a volante. almost any afternoon you might have seen this vehicle on the terre aux boeuf, or bayou, or tchoupitoulas road; and because of the brilliant beauty of its occupants it became known from all other volantes as the "meteor." frowenfeld's visits were not infrequent; he insisted on clotdlde's knowing just what was being done with her money. without indulging ourselves in the pleasure of contemplating his continued mental unfolding, we may say that his growth became more rapid in this season of universal expansion; love had entered into his still compacted soul like a cupid into a rose, and was crowding it wide open. however, as yet, it had not made him brave. aurora used to slip out of the drawing-room, and in some secluded nook of the hall throw up her clasped hands and go through all the motions of screaming merriment. "the little fool!"--it was of her own daughter she whispered this complimentary remark--"the little fool is afraid of the fish!" "you!" she said to clotilde, one evening after joseph had gone, "you call yourself a creole girl!" but she expected too much. nothing so terrorizes a blushing girl as a blushing man. and then--though they did sometimes digress--clotilde and her partner met to talk "business" in a purely literal sense. aurora, after a time, had taken her money into her own keeping. "you mighd gid robb' ag'in, you know, 'sieur frowenfel'," she said. but when he mentioned clotilde's fortune as subject to the same contingency, aurora replied: "ah! bud clotilde mighd gid robb'!" but for all the exuberance of aurora's spirits, there was a cloud in her sky. indeed, we know it is only when clouds are in the sky that we get the rosiest tints; and so it was with aurora. one night, when she had heard the wicket in the _porte-cochère_ shut behind three evening callers, one of whom she had rejected a week before, another of whom she expected to dispose of similarly, and the last of whom was joseph frowenfeld, she began such a merry raillery at clotilde and such a hilarious ridicule of the "professor" that clotilde would have wept again had not aurora, all at once, in the midst of a laugh, dropped her face in her hands and run from the room in tears. it is one of the penalties we pay for being joyous, that nobody thinks us capable of care or the victim of trouble until, in some moment of extraordinary expansion, our bubble of gayety bursts. aurora had been crying of nights. even that same night, clotilde awoke, opened her eyes and beheld her mother risen from the pillow and sitting upright in the bed beside her; the moon, shining brightly through the mosquito-bar revealed with distinctness her head slightly drooped, her face again in her hands and the dark folds of her hair falling about her shoulders, half-concealing the richly embroidered bosom of her snowy gown, and coiling in continuous abundance about her waist and on the slight summer covering of the bed. before her on the sheet lay a white paper. clotilde did not try to decipher the writing on it; she knew, at sight, the slip that had fallen from the statement of account on the evening of the ninth of march. aurora withdrew her hands from her face--clotilde shut her eyes; she heard aurora put the paper in her bosom. "clotilde," she said, very softly. "maman," the daughter replied, opening her eyes, reached up her arms and drew the dear head down. "clotilde, once upon a time i woke this way, and, while you were asleep, left the bed and made a vow to monsieur danny. oh! it was a sin! but i cannot do those things now; i have been frightened ever since. i shall never do so any more. i shall never commit another sin as long as i live!" their lips met fervently. "my sweet sweet," whispered clotilde, "you looked so beautiful sitting up with the moonlight all around you!" "clotilde, my beautiful daughter," said aurora, pushing her bedmate from her and pretending to repress a smile, "i tell you now, because you don't know, and it is my duty as your mother to tell you--the meanest wickedness a woman can do in all this bad, bad world is to look ugly in bed!" clotilde answered nothing, and aurora dropped her outstretched arms, turned away with an involuntary, tremulous sigh, and after two or three hours of patient wakefulness, fell asleep. but at daybreak next morning, he that wrote the paper had not closed his eyes. chapter l a proposal of marriage there was always some flutter among frowenfeld's employés when he was asked for, and this time it was the more pronounced because he was sought by a housemaid from the upper floor. it was hard for these two or three young ariels to keep their creole feet to the ground when it was presently revealed to their sharp ears that the "prof-fis-or" was requested to come upstairs. the new store was an extremely neat, bright, and well-ordered establishment; yet to ascend into the drawing-rooms seemed to the apothecary like going from the hold of one of those smart old packet-ships of his day into the cabin. aurora came forward, with the slippers of a cinderella twinkling at the edge of her robe. it seemed unfit that the floor under them should not be clouds. "proffis-or frowenfel', good-day! teg a cha'." she laughed. it was the pure joy of existence. "you's well? you lookin' verrie well! halways bizzie? you fine dad agriz wid you' healt', 'sieur frowenfel'? yes? ha, ha, ha!" she suddenly leaned toward him across the arm of her chair, with an earnest face. "'sieur frowenfel', palmyre wand see you. you don' wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh?--an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo' bureau. you know, 'sieur frowenfel', she drez the hair of clotilde an' mieself. so w'en she tell me dad, i juz say, 'palmyre, i will sen' for proffis-or frowenfel' to come yeh; but i don' thing 'e comin'.' you know, i din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but clotilde--ha, ha, ha! clotilde is sudge a foolish--she nevva thing of dad troub' to you--she say she thing you was too kine-'arted to call dad troub'--ha, ha, ha! so anny'ow we sen' for you, eh!" frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon aurora rose lightly, saying: "i go an' sen' her." she started away, but turned back to add: "you know, 'sieur frowenfel', she say she cann' truz nobody bud y'u." she ended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon the apothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heart of flint. she turned and passed through a door, and by the same way palmyre entered. the philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subdued expression, different from any frowenfeld had ever before seen. at the first sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he was instantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bow and the silent tender of a chair. she sat down, and, after a moment's pause, handed him a sealed letter. he turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelish return, and said: "this is addressed to yourself." she bowed. "do you know who wrote it?" he asked. she bowed again. "_oui, miché_." "you wish me to open it? i cannot read french." she seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command the necessary english; however, with the aid of frowenfeld's limited guessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letter to her had brought word from the writer that it was written in english purposely that m. frowenfeld--the only person he was willing should see it--might read it. frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over the writing, but remained silent. the woman stirred, as if to say "well?" but he hesitated. "palmyre," he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, "it would be a profanation for me to read this." she bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbows with an expression of dubiety, and said: "'e hask you--" "yes," murmured the apothecary. he shook his head as if to protest to himself, and read in a low but audible voice: "star of my soul, i approach to die. it is not for me possible to live without palmyre. long time have i so done, but now, cut off from to see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death. oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but forget heaven and earth for you. now in the peril of the life, hidden away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse than death. halas! i pine! not other ten years of despair can i commence. accept this love. if so i will live for you, but if to the contraire, i must die for you. is there anything at all what i will not give or even do if palmyre will be my wife? ah, no, far otherwise, there is nothing!" ... frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter. palmyre sat with her eyes cast down, slowly shaking her head. he returned his glance to the page, coloring somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing medium. "the english is very faulty here," he said, without looking up. "he mentions bras-coupé." palmyre started and turned toward him; but he went on without lifting his eyes. "he speaks of your old pride and affection toward him as one who with your aid might have been a leader and deliverer of his people." frowenfeld looked up. "do you under--" "_allez, miché_" said she, leaning forward, her great eyes fixed on the apothecary and her face full of distress. "_mo comprend bien_." "he asks you to let him be to you in the place of bras-coupé." the eyes of the philosophe, probably for the first time since the death of the giant, lost their pride. they gazed upon frowenfeld almost with piteousness; but she compressed her lips and again slowly shook her head. "you see," said frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new interest, "he understands their wants. he knows their wrongs. he is acquainted with laws and men. he could speak for them. it would not be insurrection--it would be advocacy. he would give his time, his pen, his speech, his means, to get them justice--to get them their rights." she hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad and bitter smile and essayed to speak, studied as if for english words, and, suddenly abandoning that attempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in the creole patois: "what is all that? what i want is vengeance!" "i will finish reading," said frowenfeld, quickly, not caring to understand the passionate speech. "ah, palmyre! palmyre! what you love and hope to love you because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!" _"qui ci ça, miché?"_ frowenfeld was loth to repeat. she had understood, as her face showed; but she dared not believe. he made it shorter: "he means that honoré grandissime loves another woman." "'tis a lie!" she exclaimed, a better command of english coming with the momentary loss of restraint. the apothecary thought a moment and then decided to speak. "i do not think so," he quietly said. "'ow you know dat?" she, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. she had thrown herself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat. "he told me so himself." the tall figure of palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. she seemed to have lost all knowledge of place or of human presence. she walked down the drawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her face turned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of a chair. she remained so long that frowenfeld had begun to think of leaving her so, when she turned and came back. her form was erect, her step firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easily at her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she was trembling. for a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyes gleamed with passion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in her native patois: "very well: if i cannot love i can have my revenge." she took the letter from him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, "there is now no longer anything to prevent." the apothecary understood the dark speech. she meant that, with no hope of honoré's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her from wreaking what vengeance she could upon agricola. but he saw the folly of a debate. "that is all i can do?" asked he. "_oui, merci, miché_" she said; then she added, in perfect english, "but that is not all _i_ can do," and then--laughed. the apothecary had already turned to go, and the laugh was a low one; but it chilled his blood. he was glad to get back to his employments. chapter li business changes we have now recorded some of the events which characterized the five months during which doctor keene had been vainly seeking to recover his health in the west indies. "is mr. frowenfeld in?" he asked, walking very slowly, and with a cane, into the new drug-store on the morning of his return to the city. "if professo' frowenfel' 's in?" replied a young man in shirt-sleeves, speaking rapidly, slapping a paper package which he had just tied, and sliding it smartly down the counter. "no, seh." a quick step behind the doctor caused him to turn; raoul was just entering, with a bright look of business on his face, taking his coat off as he came. "docta keene! _teck_ a chair. 'ow you like de noo sto'? see? fo' counters! t'ree clerk'! de whole interieure paint undre mie h-own direction! if dat is not a beautiful! eh? look at dat sign." he pointed to some lettering in harmonious colors near the ceiling at the farther end of the house. the doctor looked and read: mandarin, ag't, apothecary. "why not frowenfeld?" he asked. raoul shrugged. "'tis better dis way." that was his explanation. "not the de brahmin mandarin who was honoré's manager?" "yes. honoré was n' able to kip 'im no long-er. honoré is n' so rich lak befo'." "and mandarin is really in charge here?" "oh, yes. profess-or frowenfel' all de time at de ole corner, w'ere 'e _con_tinue to keep 'is private room and h-use de ole shop fo' ware'ouse. 'e h-only come yeh w'en mandarin cann' git 'long widout 'im." "what does he do there? _he's_ not rich." raoul bent down toward the doctor's chair and whispered the dark secret: "studyin'!" doctor keene went out. everything seemed changed to the returned wanderer. poor man! the changes were very slight save in their altered relation to him. to one broken in health, and still more to one with a broken heart, old scenes fall upon the sight in broken rays. a sort of vague alienation seemed to the little doctor to come like a film over the long-familiar vistas of the town where he had once walked in the vigor and complacency of strength and distinction. this was not the same new orleans. the people he met on the street were more or less familiar to his memory, but many that should have recognized him failed to do so, and others were made to notice him rather by his cough than by his face. some did not know he had been away. it made him cross. he had walked slowly down beyond the old frowenfeld corner and had just crossed the street to avoid the dust of a building which was being torn down to make place for a new one, when he saw coming toward him, unconscious of his proximity, joseph frowenfeld. "doctor keene!" said frowenfeld, with almost the enthusiasm of raoul. the doctor was very much quieter. "hello, joe." they went back to the new drug-store, sat down in a pleasant little rear corner enclosed by a railing and curtains, and talked. "and did the trip prove of no advantage to you?" "you see. but never mind me; tell me about honoré; how does that row with his family progress?" "it still continues; the most of his people hold ideas of justice and prerogative that run parallel with family and party lines, lines of caste, of custom and the like they have imparted their bad feeling against him to the community at large; very easy to do just now, for the election for president of the states comes on in the fall, and though we in louisiana have little or nothing to do with it, the people are feverish." "the country's chill-day," said doctor keene; "dumb chill, hot fever." "the excitement is intense," said frowenfeld. "it seems we are not to be granted suffrage yet; but the creoles have a way of casting votes in their mind. for example, they have voted honoré grandissime a traitor; they have voted me an encumbrance; i hear one of them casting that vote now." some one near the front of the store was talking excitedly with raoul: "an'--an'--an' w'at are the consequence? the consequence are that we smash his shop for him an' 'e 'ave to make a noo-start with a creole partner's money an' put 'is sto' in charge of creole'! if i know he is yo' frien'? yesseh! valuable citizen? an' w'at we care for valuable citizen? let him be valuable if he want; it keep' him from gettin' the neck broke; but--he mus'-tek-kyeh--'ow--he--talk'! he-mus'-tek-kyeh 'ow he stir the 'ot blood of louisyanna!" "he is perfectly right," said the little doctor, in his husky undertone; "neither you nor honoré is a bit sound, and i shouldn't wonder if they would hang you both, yet; and as for that darkey who has had the impudence to try to make a commercial white gentleman of himself--it may not be i that ought to say it, but--he will get his deserts--sure!" "there are a great many americans that think as you do," said frowenfeld, quietly. "but," said the little doctor, "what did that fellow mean by your creole partner? mandarin is in charge of your store, but he is not your partner, is he? have you one?" "a silent one," said the apothecary "so silent as to be none of my business?" "no." "well, who is it, then?" "it is mademoiselle nancanou." "your partner in business?" "yes." "well, joseph frowenfeld,--" the insinuation conveyed in the doctor's manner was very trying, but joseph merely reddened. "purely business, i suppose," presently said the doctor, with a ghastly ironical smile. "does the arrangem'--" his utterance failed him--"does it end there?" "it ends there." "and you don't see that it ought either not to have begun, or else ought not to have ended there?" frowenfeld blushed angrily. the doctor asked: "and who takes care of aurora's money?" "herself." "exclusively?" they both smiled more good-naturedly. "exclusively." "she's a coon;" and the little doctor rose up and crawled away, ostensibly to see another friend, but really to drag himself into his bedchamber and lock himself in. the next day--the yellow fever was bad again--he resumed the practice of his profession. "'twill be a sort of decent suicide without the element of pusillanimity," he thought to himself. chapter lii love lies a-bleeding when honoré grandissime heard that doctor keene had returned to the city in a very feeble state of health, he rose at once from the desk where he was sitting and went to see him; but it was on that morning when the doctor was sitting and talking with joseph, and honoré found his chamber door locked. doctor keene called twice, within the following two days, upon honoré at his counting-room; but on both occasions honoré's chair was empty. so it was several days before they met. but one hot morning in the latter part of august,--the august days were hotter before the cypress forest was cut down between the city and the lake than they are now,--as doctor keene stood in the middle of his room breathing distressedly after a sad fit of coughing, and looking toward one of his windows whose closed sash he longed to see opened, honoré knocked at the door. "well, come in!" said the fretful invalid. "why, honoré,--well, it serves you right for stopping to knock. sit down." each took a hasty, scrutinizing glance at the other; and, after a pause, doctor keene said: "honoré, you are pretty badly stove." m. grandissime smiled. "do you think so, doctor? i will be more complimentary to you; you might look more sick." "oh, i have resumed my trade," replied doctor keene. "so i have heard; but, charlie, that is all in favor of the people who want a skilful and advanced physician and do not mind killing him; i should advise you not to do it." "you mean" (the incorrigible little doctor smiled cynically) "if i should ask your advice. i am going to get well, honoré." his visitor shrugged. "so much the better. i do confess i am tempted to make use of you in your official capacity, right now. do you feel strong enough to go with me in your gig a little way?" "a professional call?" "yes, and a difficult case; also a confidential one." "ah! confidential!" said the little man, in his painful, husky irony. "you want to get me into the sort of scrape i got our 'professor' into, eh?" "possibly a worse one," replied the amiable creole. "and i must be mum, eh?" "i would prefer." "shall i need any instruments? no?"--with a shade of disappointment on his face. he pulled a bell-rope and ordered his gig to the street door. "how are affairs about town?" he asked, as he made some slight preparation for the street. "excitement continues. just as i came along, a private difficulty between a creole and an américain drew instantly half the street together to take sides strictly according to belongings and without asking a question. my-de'-seh, we are having, as frowenfeld says, a war of human acids and alkalies." they descended and drove away. at the first corner the lad who drove turned, by honoré's direction, toward the rue dauphine, entered it, passed down it to the rue dumaine, turned into this toward the river again and entered the rue condé. the route was circuitous. they stopped at the carriage-door of a large brick house. the wicket was opened by clemence. they alighted without driving in. "hey, old witch," said the doctor, with mock severity; "not hung yet?" the houses of any pretension to comfortable spaciousness in the closely built parts of the town were all of the one, general, spanish-american plan. honoré led the doctor through the cool, high, tessellated carriage-hall, on one side of which were the drawing-rooms, closed and darkened. they turned at the bottom, ascended a broad, iron-railed staircase to the floor above, and halted before the open half of a glazed double door with a clumsy iron latch. it was the entrance to two spacious chambers, which were thrown into one by folded doors. the doctor made a low, indrawn whistle and raised his eyebrows--the rooms were so sumptuously furnished; immovable largeness and heaviness, lofty sobriety, abundance of finely wrought brass mounting, motionless richness of upholstery, much silent twinkle of pendulous crystal, a soft semi-obscurity--such were the characteristics. the long windows of the farther apartment could be seen to open over the street, and the air from behind, coming in over a green mass of fig-trees that stood in the paved court below, moved through the rooms, making them cool and cavernous. "you don't call this a hiding place, do you--in his own bedchamber?" the doctor whispered. "it is necessary, now, only to keep out of sight," softly answered honoré. "agricole and some others ransacked this house one night last march--the day i announced the new firm; but of course, then, he was not here." they entered, and the figure of honoré grandissime, f.m.c., came into view in the centre of the farther room, reclining in an attitude of extreme languor on a low couch, whither he had come from the high bed near by, as the impression of his form among its pillows showed. he turned upon the two visitors his slow, melancholy eyes, and, without an attempt to rise or speak, indicated, by a feeble motion of the hand, an invitation to be seated. "good morning," said doctor keene, selecting a light chair and drawing it close to the side of the couch. the patient before him was emaciated. the limp and bloodless hand, which had not responded to the doctor's friendly pressure but sank idly back upon the edge of the couch, was cool and moist, and its nails slightly blue. "lie still," said the doctor, reassuringly, as the rentier began to lift the one knee and slippered foot which was drawn up on the couch and the hand which hung out of sight across a large, linen-covered cushion. by pleasant talk that seemed all chat, the physician soon acquainted himself with the case before him. it was a very plain one. by and by he rubbed his face and red curls and suddenly said: "you will not take my prescription." the f.m.c. did not say yes or no. "still,"--the doctor turned sideways in his chair, as was his wont, and, as he spoke, allowed the corners of his mouth to take that little satirical downward pull which his friends disliked, "i'll do my duty. i'll give honoré the details as to diet; no physic; but my prescription to you is, get up and get out. never mind the risk of rough handling; they can but kill you, and you will die anyhow if you stay here." he rose. "i'll send you a chalybeate tonic; or--i will leave it at frowenfeld's to-morrow morning, and you can call there and get it. it will give you an object for going out." the two visitors presently said adieu and retired together. reaching the bottom of the stairs in the carriage "corridor," they turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of clemence had placed glasses of lemonade. "no," said the doctor, as they sat down, "there is, as yet, no incurable organic derangement; a little heart trouble easily removed; still your--your patient--" "my half-brother," said honoré. "your patient," said doctor keene, "is an emphatic 'yes' to the question the girls sometimes ask us doctors--does love ever kill?' it will kill him _soon_, if you do not get him to rouse up. there is absolutely nothing the matter with him but his unrequited love." "fortunately, the most of us," said honoré, with something of the doctor's smile, "do not love hard enough to be killed by it." "very few." the doctor paused, and his blue eyes, distended in reverie, gazed upon the glass which he was slowly turning around with his attenuated fingers as it stood on the board, while he added: "however, one _may_ love as hopelessly and harder than that man upstairs, and yet not die." "there is comfort in that--to those who must live," said honoré with gentle gravity. "yes," said the other, still toying with his glass. he slowly lifted his glance, and the eyes of the two men met and remained steadfastly fixed each upon each. "you've got it bad," said doctor keene, mechanically. "and you?" retorted the creole. "it isn't going to kill me." "it has not killed me. and," added m. grandissime, as they passed through the carriage-way toward the street, "while i keep in mind the numberless other sorrows of life, the burials of wives and sons and daughters, the agonies and desolations, i shall never die of love, my-de'-seh, for very shame's sake." this was much sentiment to risk within doctor keene's reach; but he took no advantage of it. "honoré," said he, as they joined hands on the banquette beside the doctor's gig, to say good-day, "if you think there's a chance for you, why stickle upon such fine-drawn points as i reckon you are making? why, sir, as i understand it, this is the only weak spot your action has shown; you have taken an inoculation of quixotic conscience from our transcendental apothecary and perpetrated a lot of heroic behavior that would have done honor to four-and-twenty brutuses; and now that you have a chance to do something easy and human, you shiver and shrink at the 'looks o' the thing.' why, what do you care--" "hush!" said honoré; "do you suppose i have not temptation enough already?" he began to move away. "honoré," said the doctor, following him a step, "i couldn't have made a mistake--it's the little monk,--it's aurora, isn't it?" honoré nodded, then faced his friend more directly, with a sudden new thought. "but, doctor, why not take your own advice? i know not how you are prevented; you have as good a right as frowenfeld." "it wouldn't be honest," said the doctor; "it wouldn't be the straight up and down manly thing." "why not?" the doctor stepped into his gig-- "not till i feel all right _here_." (in his chest.) chapter liii frowenfeld at the grandissime mansion one afternoon--it seems to have been some time in june, and consequently earlier than doctor keene's return--the grandissimes were set all a-tremble with vexation by the discovery that another of their number had, to use agricola's expression, "gone over to the enemy,"--a phrase first applied by him to honoré. "what do you intend to convey by that term?" frowenfeld had asked on that earlier occasion. "gone over to the enemy means, my son, gone over to the enemy!" replied agricola. "it implies affiliation with américains in matters of business and of government! it implies the exchange of social amenities with a race of upstarts! it implies a craven consent to submit the sacredest prejudices of our fathers to the new-fangled measuring-rods of pert, imported theories upon moral and political progress! it implies a listening to, and reasoning with, the condemners of some of our most time-honored and respectable practices! reasoning with? n-a-hay! but honoré has positively sat down and eaten with them! what?--and h-walked out into the stre-heet with them, arm in arm! it implies in his case an act--two separate and distinct acts--so base that--that--i simply do not understand them! _h-you_ know, professor frowenfeld, what he has done! you know how ignominiously he has surrendered the key of a moral position which for the honor of the grandissime-fusilier name we have felt it necessary to hold against our hereditary enemies! and--you--know--" here agricola actually dropped all artificiality and spoke from the depths of his feelings, without figure--"h-h-he has joined himself in business h-with a man of negro blood! what can we do? what can we say? it is honoré grandissime. we can only say, 'farewell! he is gone over to the enemy.'" the new cause of exasperation was the defection of raoul innerarity. raoul had, somewhat from a distance, contemplated such part as he could understand of joseph frowenfeld's character with ever-broadening admiration. we know how devoted he became to the interests and fame of "frowenfeld's." it was in april he had married. not to divide his generous heart he took rooms opposite the drug-store, resolved that "frowenfeld's" should be not only the latest closed but the earliest opened of all the pharmacies in new orleans. this, it is true, was allowable. not many weeks afterward his bride fell suddenly and seriously ill. the overflowing souls of aurora and clotilde could not be so near to trouble and not know it, and before raoul was nearly enough recovered from the shock of this peril to remember that he was a grandissime, these last two of the de grapions had hastened across the street to the small, white-walled sick-room and filled it as full of universal human love as the cup of a magnolia is full of perfume. madame innerarity recovered. a warm affection was all she and her husband could pay such ministration in, and this they paid bountifully; the four became friends. the little madame found herself drawn most toward clotilde; to her she opened her heart--and her wardrobe, and showed her all her beautiful new underclothing. raoul found clotilde to be, for him, rather--what shall we say?--starry; starrily inaccessible; but aurora was emphatically after his liking; he was delighted with aurora. he told her in confidence that "profess-or frowenfel'" was the best man in the world; but she boldly said, taking pains to speak with a tear-and-a-half of genuine gratitude,--"egcep' monsieur honoré grandissime," and he assented, at first with hesitation and then with ardor. the four formed a group of their own; and it is not certain that this was not the very first specimen ever produced in the crescent city of that social variety of new orleans life now distinguished as uptown creoles. almost the first thing acquired by raoul in the camp of the enemy was a certain aurorean audacity; and on the afternoon to which we allude, having told frowenfeld a rousing fib to the effect that the multitudinous inmates of the maternal grandissime mansion had insisted on his bringing his esteemed employer to see them, he and his bride had the hardihood to present him on the front veranda. the straightforward frowenfeld was much pleased with his reception. it was not possible for such as he to guess the ire with which his presence was secretly regarded. new orleans, let us say once more, was small, and the apothecary of the rue royale locally famed; and what with curiosity and that innate politeness which it is the creole's boast that he cannot mortify, the veranda, about the top of the great front stair, was well crowded with people of both sexes and all ages. it would be most pleasant to tarry once more in description of this gathering of nobility and beauty; to recount the points of creole loveliness in midsummer dress; to tell in particular of one and another eye-kindling face, form, manner, wit; to define the subtle qualities of creole air and sky and scene, or the yet more delicate graces that characterize the music of creole voice and speech and the light of creole eyes; to set forth the gracious, unaccentuated dignity of the matrons and the ravishing archness of their daughters. to frowenfeld the experience seemed all unreal. nor was this unreality removed by conversation on grave subjects; for few among either the maturer or the younger beauty could do aught but listen to his foreign tongue like unearthly strangers in the old fairy tales. they came, however, in the course of their talk to the subject of love and marriage. it is not certain that they entered deeper into the great question than a comparison of its attendant anglo-american and franco-american conventionalities; but sure it is that somehow--let those young souls divine the method who can--every unearthly stranger on that veranda contrived to understand frowenfeld's english. suddenly the conversation began to move over the ground of inter-marriage between hostile families. then what eyes and ears! a certain suspicion had already found lodgement in the universal grandissime breast, and every one knew in a moment that, to all intents and purposes, they were about to argue the case of honoré and aurora. the conversation became discussion, frowenfeld, raoul and raoul's little seraph against the whole host, chariots, horse and archery. ah! such strokes as the apothecary dealt! and if raoul and "madame raoul" played parts most closely resembling the blowing of horns and breaking of pitchers, still they bore themselves gallantly. the engagement was short; we need not say that nobody surrendered; nobody ever gives up the ship in parlor or veranda debate: and yet--as is generally the case in such affairs--truth and justice made some unacknowledged headway. if anybody on either side came out wounded--this to the credit of the creoles as a people--the sufferer had the heroic good manners not to say so. but the results were more marked than this; indeed, in more than one or two candid young hearts and impressible minds the wrongs and rights of sovereign true love began there on the spot to be more generously conceded and allowed. "my-de'-seh," honoré had once on a time said to frowenfeld, meaning that to prevail in conversational debate one should never follow up a faltering opponent, "you mus' _crack_ the egg, not smash it!" and joseph, on rising to take his leave, could the more amiably overlook the feebleness of the invitation to call again, since he rejoiced, for honoré's sake, in the conviction that the egg was cracked. agricola, the grandissimes told the apothecary, was ill in his room, and madame de grandissime, his sister--honoré's mother--begged to be excused that she might keep him company. the fusiliers were a very close order; or one might say they garrisoned the citadel. but joseph's rising to go was not immediately upon the close of the discussion; those courtly people would not let even an unwelcome guest go with the faintest feeling of disrelish for them. they were casting about in their minds for some momentary diversion with which to add a finishing touch to their guest's entertainment, when clemence appeared in the front garden walk and was quickly surrounded by bounding children, alternately begging and demanding a song. many of even the younger adults remembered well when she had been "one of the hands on the place," and a passionate lover of the african dance. in the same instant half a dozen voices proposed that for joseph's amusement clemence should put her cakes off her head, come up on the veranda and show a few of her best steps. "but who will sing?" "raoul!" "very well; and what shall it be?" "'madame gaba.'" no, clemence objected. "well, well, stand back--something better than 'madame gaba.'" raoul began to sing and clemence instantly to pace and turn, posture, bow, respond to the song, start, swing, straighten, stamp, wheel, lift her hand, stoop, twist, walk, whirl, tiptoe with crossed ankles, smite her palms, march, circle, leap,--an endless improvisation of rhythmic motion to this modulated responsive chant: raoul. "_mo pas l'aimein ça_." clemence. "_miché igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" he. "_yé donné vingt cinq sous pou' manzé poulé_." she. "_miché igenne, dit--dit--dit--_" he. "_mo pas l'aimein ça!_" she. "_miché igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" he. "_mo pas l'aimein ça!_" she. "_miché igenne, oap! oap! oap!_" frowenfeld was not so greatly amused as the ladies thought he should have been, and was told that this was not a fair indication of what he would see if there were ten dancers instead of one. how much less was it an indication of what he would have seen in that mansion early the next morning, when there was found just outside of agricola's bedroom door a fresh egg, not cracked, according to honoré's maxim, but smashed, according to the lore of the voudous. who could have got in in the night? and did the intruder get in by magic, by outside lock-picking, or by inside collusion? later in the morning, the children playing in the basement found--it had evidently been accidentally dropped, since the true use of its contents required them to be scattered in some person's path--a small cloth bag, containing a quantity of dogs' and cats' hair, cut fine and mixed with salt and pepper. "clemence?" "pooh! clemence. no! but as sure as the sun turns around the world--palmyre philosophe!" chapter liv "cauldron bubble" the excitement and alarm produced by the practical threat of voudou curses upon agricola was one thing, creole lethargy was quite another; and when, three mornings later, a full quartette of voudou charms was found in the four corners of agricola's pillow, the great grandissime family were ignorant of how they could have come there. let us examine these terrible engines of mischief. in one corner was an acorn drilled through with two holes at right angles to each other, a small feather run through each hole; in the second a joint of cornstalk with a cavity scooped from the middle, the pith left intact at the ends, and the space filled with parings from that small callous spot near the knee of the horse, called the "nail;" in the third corner a bunch of parti-colored feathers; something equally meaningless in the fourth. no thread was used in any of them. all fastening was done with the gum of trees. it was no easy task for his kindred to prevent agricola, beside himself with rage and fright, from going straight to palmyre's house and shooting her down in open day. "we shall have to watch our house by night," said a gentleman of the household, when they had at length restored the citizen to a condition of mind which enabled them to hold him in a chair. "watch this house?" cried a chorus. "you don't suppose she comes near here, do you? she does it all from a distance. no, no; watch _her_ house." did agricola believe in the supernatural potency of these gimcracks? no, and yes. not to be foolhardy, he quietly slipped down every day to the levee, had a slave-boy row him across the river in a skiff, landed, re-embarked, and in the middle of the stream surreptitiously cast a picayune over his shoulder into the river. monsieur d'embarras, the imp of death thus placated, must have been a sort of spiritual cheap john. several more nights passed. the house of palmyre, closely watched, revealed nothing. no one came out, no one went in, no light was seen. they should have watched in broad daylight. at last, one midnight, 'polyte grandissime stepped cautiously up to one of the batten doors with an auger, and succeeded, without arousing any one, in boring a hole. he discovered a lighted candle standing in a glass of water. "nothing but a bedroom light," said one. "ah, bah!" whispered the other; "it is to make the spell work strong." "we will not tell agricola first; we had better tell honoré," said sylvestre. "you forget," said 'polyte, "that i no longer have any acquaintance with monsieur honoré grandissime." they told agamemnon; and it would have gone hard with the "_milatraise_" but for the additional fact that suspicion had fastened upon another person; but now this person in turn had to be identified. it was decided not to report progress to old agricola, but to wait and seek further developments. agricola, having lost all ability to sleep in the mansion, moved into a small cottage in a grove near the house. but the very next morning, he turned cold with horror to find on his doorstep a small black-coffined doll, with pins run through the heart, a burned-out candle at the head and another at the feet. "you know it is palmyre, do you?" asked agamemnon, seizing the old man as he was going at a headlong pace through the garden gate. "what if i should tell you that by watching the congo dancing-ground at midnight to-night, you will see the real author of this mischief--eh?" "and why to-night?" "because the moon rises at midnight." there was firing that night in the deserted congo dancing-grounds under the ruins of fort st. joseph, or, as we would say now, in congo square, from three pistols--agricola's, 'polyte's, and the weapon of an ill-defined, retreating figure answering the description of the person who had stabbed agricola the preceding february. "and yet," said 'polyte, "i would have sworn that it was palmyre doing this work." through raoul these events came to the ear of frowenfield. it was about the time that raoul's fishing party, after a few days' mishaps, had returned home. palmyre, on several later dates, had craved further audiences and shown other letters from the hidden f.m.c. she had heard them calmly, and steadfastly preserved the one attitude of refusal. but it could not escape frowenfeld's notice that she encouraged the sending of additional letters. he easily guessed the courier to be clemence; and now, as he came to ponder these revelations of raoul, he found that within twenty-four hours after every visit of clemence to the house of palmyre, agricola suffered a visitation. chapter lv caught the fig-tree, in louisiana, sometimes sheds its leaves while it is yet summer. in the rear of the grandissme mansion, about two hundred yards northwest of it and fifty northeast of the cottage in which agricola had made his new abode, on the edge of the grove of which we have spoken, stood one of these trees, whose leaves were beginning to lie thickly upon the ground beneath it. an ancient and luxuriant hedge of cherokee-rose started from this tree and stretched toward the northwest across the level country, until it merged into the green confusion of gardened homes in the vicinity of bayou st. jean, or, by night, into the common obscurity of a starlit perspective. when an unclouded moon shone upon it, it cast a shadow as black as velvet. under this fig-tree, some three hours later than that at which honoré bade joseph good-night, a man was stooping down and covering something with the broad, fallen leaves. "the moon will rise about three o'clock," thought he. "that, the hour of universal slumber, will be, by all odds, the time most likely to bring developments." he was the same person who had spent the most of the day in a blacksmith's shop in st. louis street, superintending a piece of smithing. now that he seemed to have got the thing well hid, he turned to the base of the tree and tried the security of some attachment. yes, it was firmly chained. he was not a robber; he was not an assassin; he was not an officer of police; and what is more notable, seeing he was a louisianian, he was not a soldier nor even an ex-soldier; and this although, under his clothing, he was encased from head to foot in a complete suit of mail. of steel? no. of brass? no. it was all one piece--_a white skin_; and on his head he wore an invisible helmet--the name of grandissime. as he straightened up and withdrew into the grove, you would have recognized at once--by his thick-set, powerful frame, clothed seemingly in black, but really, as you might guess, in blue cottonade, by his black beard and the general look of a seafarer--a frequent visitor at the grandissime mansion, a country member of that great family, one whom we saw at the _fête de grandpère_. capitain jean-baptiste grandissime was a man of few words, no sentiments, short methods; materialistic, we might say; quietly ferocious; indifferent as to means, positive as to ends, quick of perception, sure in matters of saltpetre, a stranger at the custom-house, and altogether--_take him right_--very much of a gentleman. he had been, for a whole day, beset with the idea that the way to catch a voudou was--to catch him; and as he had caught numbers of them on both sides of the tropical and semi-tropical atlantic, he decided to try his skill privately on the one who--his experience told him--was likely to visit agricola's doorstep to-night. all things being now prepared, he sat down at the root of a tree in the grove, where the shadow was very dark, and seemed quite comfortable. he did not strike at the mosquitoes; they appeared to understand that he did not wish to trifle. neither did his thoughts or feelings trouble him; he sat and sharpened a small penknife on his boot. his mind--his occasional transient meditation--was the more comfortable because he was one of those few who had coolly and unsentimentally allowed honoré grandissime to sell their lands. it continued to grow plainer every day that the grants with which theirs were classed--grants of old french or spanish under-officials--were bad. their sagacious cousin seemed to have struck the right standard, and while those titles which he still held on to remained unimpeached, those that he had parted with to purchasers--as, for instance, the grant held by this capitain jean-baptiste grandissime--could be bought back now for half what he had got for it. certainly, as to that, the capitain might well have that quietude of mind which enabled him to find occupation in perfecting the edge of his penknife and trimming his nails in the dark. by and by he put up the little tool and sat looking out upon the prospect. the time of greatest probability had not come, but the voudou might choose not to wait for that; and so he kept watch. there was a great stillness. the cocks had finished a round and were silent. no dog barked. a few tiny crickets made the quiet land seem the more deserted. its beauties were not entirely overlooked--the innumerable host of stars above, the twinkle of myriad fireflies on the dark earth below. between a quarter and a half-mile away, almost in a line with the cherokee hedge, was a faint rise of ground, and on it a wide-spreading live-oak. there the keen, seaman's eye of the capitain came to a stop, fixed upon a spot which he had not noticed before. he kept his eye on it, and waited for the stronger light of the moon. presently behind the grove at his back she rose; and almost the first beam that passed over the tops of the trees, and stretched across the plain, struck the object of his scrutiny. what was it? the ground, he knew; the tree, he knew; he knew there ought to be a white paling enclosure about the trunk of the tree: for there were buried--ah!--he came as near laughing at himself as ever he did in his life; the apothecary of the rue royale had lately erected some marble headstones there, and-- "oh! my god!" while capitain jean-baptiste had been trying to guess what the tombstones were, a woman had been coming toward him in the shadow of the hedge. she was not expecting to meet him; she did not know that he was there; she knew she had risks to run, but was ignorant of what they were; she did not know there was anything under the fig-tree which she so nearly and noiselessly approached. one moment her foot was lifted above the spot where the unknown object lay with wide-stretched jaws under the leaves, and the next, she uttered that cry of agony and consternation which interrupted the watcher's meditation. she was caught in a huge steel-trap. capitain jean-baptiste grandissime remained perfectly still. she fell, a snarling, struggling, groaning heap, to the ground, wild with pain and fright, and began the hopeless effort to draw the jaws of the trap apart with her fingers. "_ah! bon dieu, bon dieu!_ quit a-_bi-i-i-i-tin' me_! oh! lawd 'a' mussy! ow-ow-ow! lemme go! dey go'n' to kyetch an' hang me! oh! an' i hain' done nutt'n' 'gainst _no_body! ah! _bon dieu! ein pov' vié négresse_! oh! jemimy! i cyan' gid dis yeh t'ing loose--oh! m-m-m-m! an' dey'll tra to mek out't i voudou' mich-agricole! an' i did n' had nutt'n' do wid it! oh lawd, oh _lawd_, you'll be mighty good ef you lemme loose! i'm a po' nigga! oh! dey had n' ought to mek it so _pow_'ful!" hands, teeth, the free foot, the writhing body, every combination of available forces failed to spread the savage jaws, though she strove until hands and mouth were bleeding. suddenly she became silent; a thought of precaution came to her; she lifted from the earth a burden she had dropped there, struggled to a half-standing posture, and, with her foot still in the trap, was endeavoring to approach the end of the hedge near by, to thrust this burden under it, when she opened her throat in a speechless ecstasy of fright on feeling her arm grasped by her captor. "o-o-o-h! lawd! o-o-oh! lawd!" she cried, in a frantic, husky whisper, going down upon her knees, "_oh, miché! pou' l'amou' du bon dieu! pou' l'amou du bon dieu ayez pitié d'ein pov' négresse! pov' négresse, miché_, w'at nevva done nutt'n' to nobody on'y jis sell _calas_! i iss comin' 'long an' step inteh dis-yeh bah-trap by acci_dent_! ah! _miché, miché_, ple-e-ease be good! _ah! mon dieu_!--an' de lawd'll reward you--'deed 'e will, _miché_!" "_qui ci ça?_" asked the capitain, sternly, stooping and grasping her burden, which she had been trying to conceal under herself. "oh, miché, don' trouble dat! please jes tek dis yeh trap offen me--da's all! oh, don't, mawstah, ple-e-ease don' spill all my wash'n' t'ings! 'tain't nutt'n' but my old dress roll' up into a ball. oh, please--now, you see? nutt'n' but a po' nigga's dr--_oh! fo' de love o' god, miché jean-baptiste, don' open dat ah box! y'en a rien du tout la-dans, miché jean-baptiste; du tout, du tout_! oh, my god! _miché_, on'y jis teck dis-yeh t'ing off'n my laig, ef yo' _please_, it's bit'n' me lak a _dawg_!--if you _please, miché_! oh! you git kill' if you open dat ah box, mawse jean-baptiste! _mo' parole d'honneur le plus sacre_--i'll kiss de cross! oh, _sweet miché jean, laisse moi aller_! nutt'n' but some dutty close _la-dans_." she repeated this again and again, even after capitain jean-baptiste had disengaged a small black coffin from the old dress in which it was wrapped. "_rien du tout, miché_; nutt'n' but some wash'n' fo' one o' de boys." he removed the lid and saw within, resting on the cushioned bottom, the image, in myrtle-wax, moulded and painted with some rude skill, of a negro's bloody arm cut off near the shoulder--a _bras coupé_--with a dirk grasped in its hand. the old woman lifted her eyes to heaven; her teeth chattered; she gasped twice before she could recover utterance. "_oh, miché_ jean-baptiste, i di' n' mek dat ah! _mo' té pas fé ça_! i swea' befo' god! oh, no, no, no! 'tain' nutt'n' nohow but a lill play-toy, _miché_. oh, sweet _miché jean_, you not gwan to kill me? i di' n' mek it! it was--ef you lemme go, i tell you who mek it! sho's i live i tell you, _miché jean_--ef you lemme go! sho's god's good to me--ef you lemme go! oh, god a'mighty, _miché jean_, sho's god's good to me." she was becoming incoherent. then capitain jean-baptiste grandissime for the first time spoke at length: "do you see this?" he spoke the french of the atchafalaya. he put his long flintlock pistol close to her face. "i shall take the trap off; you will walk three feet in front of me; if you make it four i blow your brains out; we shall go to agricole. but right here, just now, before i count ten, you will tell me who sent you here; at the word ten, if i reach it, i pull the trigger. one--two--three--" "oh, _miché_, she gwan to gib me to de devil wid _houdou_ ef i tell you--oh, good _lawdy_!" but he did not pause. "four--five--six--seven--eight--" "palmyre!" gasped the negress, and grovelled on the ground. the trap was loosened from her bleeding leg, the burden placed in her arms, and they disappeared in the direction of the mansion. * * * * * a black shape, a boy, the lad who had carried the basil to frowenfeld, rose up from where he had all this time lain, close against the hedge, and glided off down its black shadow to warn the philosophe. when clemence was searched, there was found on her person an old table-knife with its end ground to a point. chapter lvi blood for a blow it seems to be one of the self-punitive characteristics of tyranny, whether the tyrant be a man, a community, or a caste, to have a pusillanimous fear of its victim. it was not when clemence lay in irons, it is barely now, that our south is casting off a certain apprehensive tremor, generally latent, but at the slightest provocation active, and now and then violent, concerning her "blacks." this fear, like others similar elsewhere in the world, has always been met by the same one antidote--terrific cruelty to the tyrant's victim. so we shall presently see the grandissime ladies, deeming themselves compassionate, urging their kinsmen to "give the poor wretch a sound whipping and let her go." ah! what atrocities are we unconsciously perpetrating north and south now, in the name of mercy or defence, which the advancing light of progressive thought will presently show out in their enormity? agricola slept late. he had gone to his room the evening before much incensed at the presumption of some younger grandissimes who had brought up the subject, and spoken in defence, of their cousin honoré. he had retired, however, not to rest, but to construct an engine of offensive warfare which would revenge him a hundred-fold upon the miserable school of imported thought which had sent its revolting influences to the very grandissime hearthstone; he wrote a "_phillipique générale contre la conduite du gouvernement de la louisiane_" and a short but vigorous chapter in english on "the insanity of educating the masses." this accomplished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peaceful elation, eager for the next day to come that he might take these mighty productions to joseph frowenfeld, and make him a present of them for insertion in his book of tables. jean-baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should rouse him; and, for a long time before the old man awoke, his younger kinsmen were stirring about unwontedly, going and coming through the hall of the mansion, along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of stairs. gates were opening and shutting, errands were being carried by negro boys on bareback horses, charlie mandarin of st. bernard parish and an armand fusilier from faubourg ste. marie had on some account come--as they told the ladies--"to take breakfast;" and the ladies, not yet informed, amusedly wondering at all this trampling and stage whispering, were up a trifle early. in those days creole society was a ship, in which the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex the crew. the ladies of the grandissime mansion this morning asked passengers' questions, got sailors' answers, retorted wittily and more or less satirically, and laughed often, feeling their constrained insignificance. however, in a house so full of bright-eyed children, with mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the secret was soon out, and before agricola had left his little cottage in the grove the topic of all tongues was the abysmal treachery and _ingratitude_ of negro slaves. the whole tribe of grandissime believed, this morning, in the doctrine of total depravity--of the negro. and right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth the generously intentioned prayer for mercy. they were answered that they little knew what frightful perils they were thus inviting upon themselves. the male grandissimes were not surprised at this exhibition of weak clemency in their lovely women; they were proud of it; it showed the magnanimity that was natural to the universal grandissime heart, when not restrained and repressed by the stern necessities of the hour. but agricola disappointed them. why should he weaken and hesitate, and suggest delays and middle courses, and stammer over their proposed measures as "extreme"? in very truth, it seemed as though that drivelling, woman-beaten deutsch apotheke--ha! ha! ha!--in the rue royale had bewitched agricola as well as honoré. the fact was, agricola had never got over the interview which had saved sylvestre his life. "here, agricole," his kinsmen at length said, "you see you are too old for this sort of thing; besides, it would be bad taste for you, who might be presumed to harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice in this council." and then they added to one another: "we will wait until 'polyte reports whether or not they have caught palmyre; much will depend on that." agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; he rolled up the "_philippique générale_" and "the insanity of educating the masses," and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, set out for frowenfeld's, not merely smarting but trembling under the humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to the rear as a non-combatant. he found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing with his own hands the "chalybeate tonic" for which the f.m.c. was expected to call. raoul innerarity stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of having been superseded for the moment by his master. "ha-ah! professor frowenfeld!" the old man nourished his scroll. frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands across the counter; but the old man's grasp was so tremulous that the apothecary looked at him again. "does my hand tremble, joseph? it is not strange; i have had much to excite me this morning." "wat's de mattah?" demanded raoul, quickly. "my life--which i admit, professor frowenfeld, is of little value compared with such a one as yours--has been--if not attempted, at least threatened." "how?" cried raoul. "h-really, professor, we must agree that a trifle like that ought not to make old agricola fusilier nervous. but i find it painful, sir, very painful. i can lift up this right hand, joseph, and swear i never gave a slave--man or woman--a blow in my life but according to my notion of justice. and now to find my life attempted by former slaves of my own household, and taunted with the righteous hamstringing of a dangerous runaway! but they have apprehended the miscreants; one is actually in hand, and justice will take its course; trust the grandissimes for that--though, really, joseph, i assure you, i counselled leniency." "do you say they have caught her?" frowenfeld's question was sudden and excited; but the next moment he had controlled himself. "h-h-my son, i did not say it was a 'her'!" "was it not clemence? have they caught her?" "h-yes--" the apothecary turned to raoul. "go tell honoré grandissime." "but, professor frowenfeld--" began agricola. frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but raoul was already leaving the store. agricola straightened up angrily. "pro-hofessor frowenfeld, by what right do you interfere?" "no matter," said the apothecary, turning half-way and pouring the tonic into a vial. "sir," thundered the old lion, "h-i demand of you to answer! how dare you insinuate that my kinsmen may deal otherwise than justly?" "will they treat her exactly as if she were white, and had threatened the life of a slave?" asked frowenfeld from behind the desk at the end of the counter. the old man concentrated all the indignation of his nature in the reply. "no-ho, sir!" as he spoke, a shadow approaching from the door caused him to turn. the tall, dark, finely clad form of the f.m.c, in its old soft-stepping dignity and its sad emaciation, came silently toward the spot where he stood. frowenfeld saw this, and hurried forward inside the counter with the preparation in his hand. "professor frowenfeld," said agricola, pointing with his ugly staff, "i demand of you, as a keeper of a white man's pharmacy, to turn that negro out." "citizen fusilier!" exclaimed the apothecary; "mister grandis--" he felt as though no price would be too dear at that moment to pay for the presence of the other honoré. he had to go clear to the end of the counter and come down the outside again to reach the two men. they did not wait for him. agricola turned upon the f.m.c. "take off your hat!" a sudden activity seized every one connected with the establishment as the quadroon let his thin right hand slowly into his bosom, and answered in french, in his soft, low voice: "i wear my hat on my head." frowenfeld was hurrying toward them; others stepped forward, and from two or three there came half-uttered exclamations of protest; but unfortunately nothing had been done or said to provoke any one to rush upon them, when agricola suddenly advanced a step and struck the f.m.c. on the head with his staff. then the general outcry and forward rush came too late; the two crashed together and fell, agricola above, the f.m.c. below, and a long knife lifted up from underneath sank to its hilt, once--twice--thrice,--in the old man's back. the two men rose, one in the arms of his friends, the other upon his own feet. while every one's attention was directed toward the wounded man, his antagonist restored his dagger to its sheath, took up his hat and walked away unmolested. when frowenfeld, with agricola still in his arms, looked around for the quadroon, he was gone. doctor keene, sent for instantly, was soon at agricola's side. "take him upstairs; he can't be moved any further." frowenfeld turned and began to instruct some one to run upstairs and ask permission, but the little doctor stopped him. "joe, for shame! you don't know those women better than that? take the old man right up!" chapter lvii voudou cured "honoré," said agricola, faintly, "where is honoré!" "he has been sent for," said doctor keene and the two ladies in a breath. raoul, bearing the word concerning clemence, and the later messenger summoning him to agricola's bedside, reached honoré within a minute of each other. his instructions were quickly given, for raoul to take his horse and ride down to the family mansion, to break gently to his mother the news of agricola's disaster, and to say to his kinsmen with imperative emphasis, not to touch the _marchande des calas_ till he should come. then he hurried to the rue royale. but when raoul arrived at the mansion he saw at a glance that the news had outrun him. the family carriage was already coming round the bottom of the front stairs for three mesdames grandissime and madame martinez. the children on all sides had dropped their play, and stood about, hushed and staring. the servants moved with quiet rapidity. in the hall he was stopped by two beautiful girls. "raoul! oh, raoul, how is he now? oh! raoul, if you could only stop them! they have taken old clemence down into the swamp--as soon as they heard about agricole--oh, raoul, surely that would be cruel! she nursed me--and me--when we were babies!" "where is agamemnon?" "gone to the city." "what did he say about it?" "he said they were doing wrong, that he did not approve their action, and that they would get themselves into trouble: that he washed his hands of it." "ah-h-h!" exclaimed raoul, "wash his hands! oh, yes, wash his hands? suppose we all wash our hands? but where is valentine? where is charlie mandarin?" "ah! valentine is gone with agamemnon, saying the same thing, and charlie mandarin is down in the swamp, the worst of all of them!" "but why did you let agamemnon and valentine go off that way, you?" "ah! listen to raoul! what can a woman do?" "what can a woman--well, even if i was a woman, i would do something!" he hurried from the house, leaped into the saddle and galloped across the fields toward the forest. some rods within the edge of the swamp, which, at this season, was quite dry in many places, on a spot where the fallen dead bodies of trees overlay one another and a dense growth of willows and vines and dwarf palmetto shut out the light of the open fields, the younger and some of the harsher senior members of the grandissime family were sitting or standing about, in an irregular circle whose centre was a big and singularly misshapen water-willow. at the base of this tree sat clemence, motionless and silent, a wan, sickly color in her face, and that vacant look in her large, white-balled, brown-veined eyes, with which hope-forsaken cowardice waits for death. somewhat apart from the rest, on an old cypress stump, half-stood, half-sat, in whispered consultation, jean-baptiste grandissime and charlie mandarin. "_eh bien_, old woman," said mandarin, turning, without rising, and speaking sharply in the negro french, "have you any reason to give why you should not be hung to that limb over your head?" she lifted her eyes slowly to his, and made a feeble gesture of deprecation. "_mo té pas fé cette bras_, mawse challie--i di'n't mek dat ahm; no 'ndeed i di'n', mawse challie. i ain' wuth hangin', gen'lemen; you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an' lemme go. i--i--i--i di'n' 'ten' no hawm to mawse-agricole; i wa'n't gwan to hu't nobody in god's worl'; 'ndeed i wasn'. i done tote dat old case-knife fo' twenty year'--_mo po'te ça dipi vingt ans_. i'm a po' ole _marchande des calas; mo courri_ 'mongs' de sojer boys to sell my cakes, you know, and da's de onyest reason why i cyah dat ah ole fool knife." she seemed to take some hope from the silence with which they heard her. her eye brightened and her voice took a tone of excitement. "you'd oughteh tek me and put me in calaboose, an' let de law tek 'is co'se. you's all nice gen'lemen--werry nice gen'lemen, an' you sorter owes it to yo'sev's fo' to not do no sich nasty wuck as hangin' a po' ole nigga wench; 'deed you does. 'tain' no use to hang me; you gwan to kyetch palmyre yit; _li courri dans marais;_ she is in de swamp yeh, sum'ers; but as concernin' me, you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an lemme go. you mus'n't b'lieve all dis-yeh nonsense 'bout insurrectionin'; all fool-nigga talk. w'at we want to be insurrectionin' faw? we de happies' people in de god's worl'!" she gave a start, and cast a furtive glance of alarm behind her. "yes, we is; you jis' oughteh gimme fawty an' lemme go! please, gen'lemen! god'll be good to you, you nice, sweet gen'lemen!" charlie mandarin made a sign to one who stood at her back, who responded by dropping a rawhide noose over her head. she bounded up with a cry of terror; it may be that she had all along hoped that all was make-believe. she caught the noose wildly with both hands and tried to lift it over her head. "ah! no, mawsteh, you cyan' do dat! it's ag'in' de law! i's 'bleeged to have my trial, yit. oh, no, no! oh, good god, no! even if i is a nigga! you cyan' jis' murdeh me hyeh in de woods! _mo dis la zize_! i tell de judge on you! you ain' got no mo' biznis to do me so 'an if i was a white 'oman! you dassent tek a white 'oman out'n de pa'sh pris'n an' do 'er so! oh, sweet mawsteh, fo' de love o' god! oh, mawse challie, _pou' l'amou' du bon dieu n'fé pas ça_! oh, mawse 'polyte, is you gwan to let 'em kill ole clemence? oh, fo' de mussy o' jesus christ, mawse 'polyte, leas' of all, _you_! you dassent help to kill me, mawse 'polyte! you knows why! oh god, mawse 'polyte, you knows why! leas' of all you, mawse 'polyte! oh, god 'a' mussy on my wicked ole soul! i aint fitt'n to die! oh, gen'lemen, i kyan' look god in de face! _oh, michés, ayez pitié de moin! oh, god a'mighty ha' mussy on my soul_! oh, gen'lemen, dough yo' kinfolks kyvvah up yo' tricks now, dey'll dwap f'um undeh you some day! _solé levé là, li couché là_! yo' tu'n will come! oh, god a'mighty! de god o' de po' nigga wench! look down, oh god, look down an' stop dis yeh foolishness! oh, god, fo' de love o' jesus! _oh, michés, y'en a ein zizement_! oh, yes, deh's a judgmen' day! den it wont be a bit o' use to you to be white! oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, fo', fo', fo', de, de, _love ' god! oh_!" they drew her up. raoul was not far off. he heard the woman's last cry, and came threshing through the bushes on foot. he saw sylvestre, unconscious of any approach, spring forward, jerk away the hands that had drawn the thong over the branch, let the strangling woman down and loosen the noose. her eyes, starting out with horror, turned to him; she fell on her knees and clasped her hands. the tears were rolling down sylvestre's face. "my friends, we must not do this! you _shall_ not do it!" he hurled away, with twice his natural strength, one who put out a hand. "no, sirs!" cried raoul, "you shall not do it! i come from honoré! touch her who dares!" he drew a weapon. "monsieur innerarity," said 'polyte, "_who is_ monsieur honoré grandissime? there are two of the name, you know,--partners--brothers. which of--but it makes no difference; before either of them sees this assassin she is going to be a lump of nothing!" the next word astonished every one. it was charlie mandarin who spoke. "let her go!" "let her go!" said jean-baptiste grandissime; "give her a run for life. old woman, rise up. we propose to let you go. can you run? never mind, we shall see. achille, put her upon her feet. now, old woman, run!" she walked rapidly, but with unsteady feet, toward the fields. "run! if you don't run i will shoot you this minute!" she ran. "faster!" she ran faster. "run!" "run!" "run, clemence! ha, ha, ha!" it was so funny to see her scuttling and tripping and stumbling. "_courri! courri, clemence! c'est pou to' vie!_ ha, ha, ha--" a pistol-shot rang out close behind raoul's ear; it was never told who fired it. the negress leaped into the air and fell at full length to the ground, stone dead. chapter lviii dying words drivers of vehicles in the rue royale turned aside before two slight barriers spanning the way, one at the corner below, the other at that above, the house where the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization lay bleeding to death. the floor of the store below, the pavement of the corridor where stood the idle volante, were covered with straw, and servants came and went by the beckoning of the hand. "this way," whispered a guide of the four ladies from the grandissime mansion. as honoré's mother turned the angle half-way up the muffled stair, she saw at the landing above, standing as if about to part, yet in grave council, a man and a woman, the fairest--she noted it even in this moment of extreme distress--she had ever looked upon. he had already set one foot down upon the stair, but at sight of the ascending group drew back and said: "it is my mother;" then turned to his mother and took her hand; they had been for months estranged, but now they silently kissed. "he is sleeping," said honoré. "maman, madame nancanou." the ladies bowed--the one looking very large and splendid, the other very sweet and small. there was a single instant of silence, and aurora burst into tears. for a moment madame grandissime assumed a frown that was almost a reminder of her brother's, and then the very pride of the fusiliers broke down. she uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly into her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet with majesty, whispered, laying her hand on aurora's head: "never mind, my child; never mind; never mind." and honoré's sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed aurora and murmured: "the good god bless thee! it is he who has brought us together." "who is with him just now?" whispered the two other ladies, while honoré and his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation. "my daughter," said aurora, "and--" "agamemnon," suggested madame martinez. "i believe so," said aurora. valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned to honoré. doctor keene did the same and continued to advance. "awake?" asked honoré. "yes." "alas! my brother!" said madame grandissime, and started forward, followed by the other women. "wait," said honoré, and they paused. "charlie," he said, as the little doctor persistently pushed by him at the head of the stair. "oh, there's no chance, honoré, you'd as well all go in there." they gathered into the room and about the bed. madame grandissime bent over it. "ah! sister," said the dying man, "is that you? i had the sweetest dream just now--just for a minute." he sighed. "i feel very weak. where is charlie keene?" he had spoken in french; he repeated his question in english. he thought he saw the doctor. "charlie, if i must meet the worst i hope you will tell me so; i am fully prepared. ah! excuse--i thought it was-- "my eyes seem dim this evening. _est-ce-vous_, honoré? ah, honoré, you went over to the enemy, did you?--well,--the fusilier blood would al--ways--do as it pleased. here's your old uncle's hand, honoré. i forgive you, honoré--my noble-hearted, foolish--boy." he spoke feebly, and with great nervousness. "water." it was given him by aurora. he looked in her face; they could not be sure whether he recognized her or not. he sank back, closed his eyes, and said, more softly and dreamily, as if to himself, "i forgive everybody. a man must die--i forgive--even the enemies--of louisiana." he lay still a few moments, and then revived excitedly. "honoré! tell professor frowenfeld to take care of that _philippique générale_. 'tis a grand thing, honoré, on a grand theme! i wrote it myself in one evening. your yankee government is a failure, honoré, a drivelling failure. it may live a year or two, not longer. truth will triumph. the old louisiana will rise again. she will get back her trampled rights. when she does, remem'--" his voice failed, but he held up one finger firmly by way of accentuation. there was a stir among the kindred. surely this was a turn for the better. the doctor ought to be brought back. a little while ago he was not nearly so strong. "ask honoré if the doctor should not come." but honoré shook his head. the old man began again. "honoré! where is honoré? stand by me, here, honoré; and sister?--on this other side. my eyes are very poor to-day. why do i perspire so? give me a drink. you see--i am better now; i have ceased--to throw up blood. nay, let me talk." he sighed, closed his eyes, and opened them again suddenly. "oh, honoré, you and the yankees--you and--all--going wrong--education--masses--weaken--caste--indiscr'--quarrels settl'--by affidav'--oh! honoré." "if he would only forget," said one, in an agonized whisper, "that _philippique générale_!" aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to madame grandissime. surely they were not going to let him go thus! a priest could at least do no harm. but when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said: "no;--no priest. you have my will, honoré,--in your iron box. professor frowenfeld,"--he changed his speech to english,--"i have written you an article on--" his words died on his lips. "joseph, son, i do not see you. beware, my son, of the doctrine of equal rights--a bottomless iniquity. master and man--arch and pier--arch above--pier below." he tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless. "society, professor,"--he addressed himself to a weeping girl,--"society has pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and nature furnishes the menials all in dark uniform. she--i cannot tell you--you will find--all in the _philippique générale_. ah! honoré, is it--" he suddenly ceased. "i have lost my glasses." beads of sweat stood out upon his face. he grew frightfully pale. there was a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant. "brother," said the sister, tenderly. he did not notice her. "agamemnon! go and tell jean-baptiste--" his eyes drooped and flashed again wildly. "i am here, agricole," said the voice of jean-baptiste, close beside the bed. "i told you to let--that negress--" "yes, we have let her go. we have let all of them go." "all of them," echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes. suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "why, there you were wrong, jean-baptiste; the community must be protected." his voice sank to a murmur. "he would not take off--'you must remem'--" he was silent. "you must remem'--those people are--are not--white people." he ceased a moment. "where am i going?" he began evidently to look, or try to look, for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteous feebleness, he called: "aurore de grapion!" so he had known her all the time. honoré's mother had dropped on her knees beside the bed, dragging aurora down with her. they rose together. the old man groped distressfully with one hand. she laid her own in it. "honoré! "what could he want?" wondered the tearful family. he was feeling about with the other hand. "hon'--honoré"--his weak clutch could scarcely close upon his nephew's hand. "put them--put--put them--" what could it mean? the four hands clasped. "ah!" said one, with fresh tears, "he is trying to speak and cannot." but he did. "aurora de gra--i pledge'--pledge'--pledged--this union--to your fa'--father--twenty--years--ago." the family looked at each other in dejected amazement. they had never known it. "he is going," said agamemnon; and indeed it seemed as though he was gone; but he rallied. "agamemnon! valentine! honoré! patriots! protect the race! beware of the"--that sentence escaped him. he seemed to fancy himself haranguing a crowd; made another struggle for intelligence, tried once, twice, to speak, and the third time succeeded: "louis'--louisian'--a--for--ever!" and lay still. they put those two words on his tomb. chapter lix where some creole money goes and yet the family committee that ordered the inscription, the mason who cut it in the marble--himself a sort of half-grandissime, half-nobody--and even the fair women who each eve of all-saints came, attended by flower-laden slave girls, to lay coronals upon the old man's tomb, felt, feebly at first, and more and more distinctly as years went by, that forever was a trifle long for one to confine one's patriotic affection to a small fraction of a great country. * * * * * "and you say your family decline to accept the assistance of the police in their endeavors to bring the killer of your uncle to justice?" asked some _américain_ or other of 'polyte grandissime. "'sir, mie fam'lie do not want to fetch him to justice!--neither palmyre! we are goin' to fetch the justice to them! and sir, when we cannot do that, sir, by ourselves, sir,--no, sir! no police!" so clemence was the only victim of the family wrath; for the other two were never taken; and it helps our good feeling for the grandissimes to know that in later times, under the gentler influences of a higher civilization, their old spanish-colonial ferocity was gradually absorbed by the growth of better traits. to-day almost all the savagery that can justly be charged against louisiana must--strange to say--be laid at the door of the _américain_. the creole character has been diluted and sweetened. one morning early in september, some two weeks after the death of agricola, the same brig which something less than a year before had brought the frowenfelds to new orleans crossed, outward bound, the sharp line dividing the sometimes tawny waters of mobile bay from the deep blue gulf, and bent her way toward europe. she had two passengers; a tall, dark, wasted yet handsome man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, and a woman seemingly some three years younger, of beautiful though severe countenance; "very elegant-looking people and evidently rich," so the brig-master described them,--"had much the look of some of the mississippi river 'lower coast' aristocracy." their appearance was the more interesting for a look of mental distress evident on the face of each. brother and sister they called themselves; but, if so, she was the most severely reserved and distant sister the master of the vessel had ever seen. they landed, if the account comes down to us right, at bordeaux. the captain, a fellow of the peeping sort, found pastime in keeping them in sight after they had passed out of his care ashore. they went to different hotels! the vessel was detained some weeks in this harbor, and her master continued to enjoy himself in the way in which he had begun. he saw his late passengers meet often, in a certain quiet path under the trees of the quinconce. their conversations were low; in the patois they used they could have afforded to speak louder; their faces were always grave and almost always troubled. the interviews seemed to give neither of them any pleasure. the monsieur grew thinner than ever, and sadly feeble. "he wants to charter her," the seaman concluded, "but she doesn't like his rates." one day, the last that he saw them together, they seemed to be, each in a way different from the other, under a great strain. he was haggard, woebegone, nervous; she high-strung, resolute,--with "eyes that shone like lamps," as said the observer. "she's a-sendin' him 'way to lew-ard," thought he. finally the monsieur handed her--or rather placed upon the seat near which she stood, what she would not receive--a folded and sealed document, seized her hand, kissed it and hurried away. she sank down upon the seat, weak and pale, and rose to go, leaving the document behind. the mariner picked it up; it was directed to _m. honoré grandissime, nouvelle orléans, États unis, amérique_. she turned suddenly, as if remembering, or possibly reconsidering, and received it from him. "it looked like a last will and testament," the seaman used to say, in telling the story. the next morning, being at the water's edge and seeing a number of persons gathering about something not far away, he sauntered down toward it to see how small a thing was required to draw a crowd of these frenchmen. it was the drowned body of the f.m.c. did the brig-master never see the woman again? he always waited for this question to be asked him, in order to state the more impressively that he did. his brig became a regular bordeaux packet, and he saw the madame twice or thrice, apparently living at great ease, but solitary, in the rue--. he was free to relate that he tried to scrape acquaintance with her, but failed ignominiously. the rents of number rue bienville and of numerous other places, including the new drug-store in the rue royale, were collected regularly by h. grandissime, successor to grandissime frères. rumor said, and tradition repeats, that neither for the advancement of a friendless people, nor even for the repair of the properties' wear and tear, did one dollar of it ever remain in new orleans; but that once a year honoré, "as instructed," remitted to madame--say madame inconnue--of bordeaux, the equivalent, in francs, of fifty thousand dollars. it is averred he did this without interruption for twenty years. "let us see: fifty times twenty--one million dollars. that is only a _part_ of the _pecuniary_ loss which this sort of thing costs louisiana." but we have wandered. chapter lx "all right" the sun is once more setting upon the place d'armes. once more the shadows of cathedral and town-hall lie athwart the pleasant grounds where again the city's fashion and beauty sit about in the sedate spanish way, or stand or slowly move in and out among the old willows and along the white walks. children are again playing on the sward; some, you may observe, are in black, for agricola. you see, too, a more peaceful river, a nearer-seeming and greener opposite shore, and many other evidences of the drowsy summer's unwillingness to leave the embrace of this seductive land; the dreamy quietude of birds; the spreading, folding, re-expanding and slow pulsating of the all-prevailing fan (how like the unfolding of an angel's wing is ofttimes the broadening of that little instrument!); the oft-drawn handkerchief; the pale, cool colors of summer costume; the swallow, circling and twittering overhead or darting across the sight; the languid movement of foot and hand; the reeking flanks and foaming bits of horses; the ear-piercing note of the cicada; the dancing butterfly; the dog, dropping upon the grass and looking up to his master with roping jaw and lolling tongue; the air sweetened with the merchandise of the flower _marchandes_. on the levee road, bridles and saddles, whips, gigs, and carriages,--what a merry coming and going! we look, perforce, toward the old bench where, six months ago, sat joseph frowenfeld. there is somebody there--a small, thin, weary-looking man, who leans his bared head slightly back against the tree, his thin fingers knit together in his lap, and his chapeau-bras pressed under his arm. you note his extreme neatness of dress, the bright, unhealthy restlessness of his eye, and--as a beam from the sun strikes them--the fineness of his short red curls. it is doctor keene. he lifts his head and looks forward. honoré and frowenfeld are walking arm-in-arm under the furthermost row of willows. honoré is speaking. how gracefully, in correspondence with his words, his free arm or hand--sometimes his head or even his lithe form--moves in quiet gesture, while the grave, receptive apothecary takes into his meditative mind, as into a large, cool cistern, the valued rain-fall of his friend's communications. they are near enough for the little doctor easily to call them; but he is silent. the unhappy feel so far away from the happy. yet--"take care!" comes suddenly to his lips, and is almost spoken; for the two, about to cross toward the place d'armes at the very spot where aurora had once made her narrow escape, draw suddenly back, while the black driver of a volante reins up the horse he bestrides, and the animal himself swerves and stops. the two friends, though startled apart, hasten with lifted hats to the side of the volante, profoundly convinced that one, at least, of its two occupants is heartily sorry that they were not rolled in the dust. ah, ah! with what a wicked, ill-stifled merriment those two ethereal women bend forward in the faintly perfumed clouds of their ravishing summer-evening garb, to express their equivocal mortification and regret. "oh! i'm so sawry, oh! almoze runned o'--ah, ha, ha, ha!" aurora could keep the laugh back no longer. "an' righd yeh befo' haivry _boddie_! ah, ha, ha! 'sieur grandissime, 'tis _me-e-e_ w'ad know 'ow dad is bad, ha, ha, ha! oh! i assu' you, gen'lemen, id is hawful!" and so on. by and by honoré seemed urging them to do something, the thought of which made them laugh, yet was entertained as not entirely absurd. it may have been that to which they presently seemed to consent; they alighted from the volante, dismissed it, and walked each at a partner's side down the grassy avenue of the levee. it was as clotilde with one hand swept her light robes into perfect adjustment for the walk, and turned to take the first step with frowenfeld, that she raised her eyes for the merest instant to his, and there passed between them an exchange of glance which made the heart of the little doctor suddenly burn like a ball of fire. "now we're all right," he murmured bitterly to himself, as, without having seen him, she took the arm of the apothecary, and they moved away. yes, if his irony was meant for this pair, he divined correctly. their hearts had found utterance across the lips, and the future stood waiting for them on the threshold of a new existence, to usher them into a perpetual copartnership in all its joys and sorrows, its disappointments, its imperishable hopes, its aims, its conflicts, its rewards; and the true--the great--the everlasting god of love was with them. yes, it had been "all right," now, for nearly twenty-four hours--an age of bliss. and now, as they walked beneath the willows where so many lovers had walked before them, they had whole histories to tell of the tremors, the dismays, the misconstructions and longings through which their hearts had come to this bliss; how at such a time, thus and so; and after such and such a meeting, so and so; no part of which was heard by alien ears, except a fragment of clotilde's speech caught by a small boy in unintentioned ambush. "--evva sinze de firze nighd w'en i big-in to nurze you wid de fivver." she was telling him, with that new, sweet boldness so wonderful to a lately accepted lover, how long she had loved him. later on they parted at the _porte-cochère_. honoré and aurora had got there before them, and were passing on up the stairs. clotilde, catching, a moment before, a glimpse of her face, had seen that there was something wrong; weather-wise as to its indications she perceived an impending shower of tears. a faint shade of anxiety rested an instant on her own face. frowenfeld could not go in. they paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure themselves that everything _was_ "all right," they-- god be praised for love's young dream! the slippered feet of the happy girl, as she slowly mounted the stair alone, overburdened with the weight of her blissful reverie, made no sound. as she turned its mid-angle she remembered aurora. she could guess pretty well the source of her trouble; honoré was trying to treat that hand-clasping at the bedside of agricola as a binding compact; "which, of course, was not fair." she supposed they would have gone into the front drawing-room; she would go into the back. but she miscalculated; as she silently entered the door she saw aurora standing a little way beyond her, close before honoré, her eyes cast down, and the trembling fan hanging from her two hands like a broken pinion. he seemed to be reiterating, in a tender undertone, some question intended to bring her to a decision. she lifted up her eyes toward his with a mute, frightened glance. the intruder, with an involuntary murmur of apology, drew back; but, as she turned, she was suddenly and unspeakably saddened to see aurora drop her glance, and, with a solemn slowness whose momentous significance was not to be mistaken, silently shake her head. "alas!" cried the tender heart of clotilde. "alas! m. grandissime!" chapter lxi "no!" if m. grandissime had believed that he was prepared for the supreme bitterness of that moment, he had sadly erred. he could not speak. he extended his hand in a dumb farewell, when, all unsanctioned by his will, the voice of despair escaped him in a low groan. at the same moment, a tinkling sound drew near, and the room, which had grown dark with the fall of night, began to brighten with the softly widening light of an evening lamp, as a servant approached to place it in the front drawing-room. aurora gave her hand and withdrew it. in the act the two somewhat changed position, and the rays of the lamp, as the maid passed the door, falling upon aurora's face, betrayed the again upturned eyes. "'sieur grandissime--" they fell. the lover paused. "you thing i'm crool." she was the statue of meekness. "hope has been cruel to me," replied m. grandissime, "not you; that i cannot say. adieu." he was turning. "'sieur grandissime--" she seemed to tremble. he stood still. "'sieur grandissime,"--her voice was very tender,--"wad you' horry?" there was a great silence. "'sieur grandissime, you know--teg a chair." he hesitated a moment and then both sat down. the servant repassed the door; yet when aurora broke the silence, she spoke in english--having such hazardous things to say. it would conceal possible stammerings. "'sieur grandissime--you know dad riz'n i--" she slightly opened her fan, looking down upon it, and was still. "i have no right to ask the reason," said m. grandissime. "it is yours--not mine." her head went lower. "well, you know,"--she drooped it meditatively to one side, with her eyes on the floor,--"'tis bick-ause--'tis bick-ause i thing in a few days i'm goin' to die." m. grandissime said never a word. he was not alarmed. she looked up suddenly and took a quick breath, as if to resume, but her eyes fell before his, and she said, in a tone of half-soliloquy: "i 'ave so mudge troub' wit dad hawt." she lifted one little hand feebly to the cardiac region, and sighed softly, with a dying languor. m. grandissime gave no response. a vehicle rumbled by in the street below, and passed away. at the bottom of the room, where a gilded mars was driving into battle, a soft note told the half-hour. the lady spoke again. "id mague"--she sighed once more--"so strange,--sometime' i thing i'm git'n' crezzy." still he to whom these fearful disclosures were being made remained as silent and motionless as an indian captive, and, after another pause, with its painful accompaniment of small sounds, the fair speaker resumed with more energy, as befitting the approach to an incredible climax: "some day', 'sieur grandissime,--id mague me fo'gid my hage! i thing i'm young!" she lifted her eyes with the evident determination to meet his own squarely, but it was too much; they fell as before; yet she went on speaking: "an' w'en someboddie git'n' ti'ed livin' wid 'imsev an' big'n' to fill ole, an' wan' someboddie to teg de care of 'im an' wan' me to gid marri'd wid 'im--i thing 'e's in love to me." her fingers kept up a little shuffling with the fan. "i thing i'm crezzy. i thing i muz be go'n' to die torecklie." she looked up to the ceiling with large eyes, and then again at the fan in her lap, which continued its spreading and shutting. "an' daz de riz'n, 'sieur grandissime." she waited until it was certain he was about to answer, and then interrupted him nervously: "you know, 'sieur grandissime, id woon be righd! id woon be de juztiz to _you!_ an' you de bez man i evva know in my life, 'sieur grandissime!" her hands shook. "a man w'at nevva wan' to gid marri'd wid noboddie in 'is life, and now trine to gid marri'd juz only to rip-ose de soul of 'is oncl'--" m. grandissime uttered an exclamation of protest, and she ceased. "i asked you," continued he, with low-toned emphasis, "for the single and only reason that i want you for my wife." "yez," she quickly replied; "daz all. daz wad i thing. an' i thing daz de rad weh to say, 'sieur grandissime. bick-ause, you know, you an' me is too hole to talg aboud dad _lovin'_, you know. an' you godd dad grade _rizpeg_ fo' me, an' me i godd dad 'ighez rispeg fo' you; bud--" she clutched the fan and her face sank lower still--"bud--" she swallowed--shook her head--"bud--" she bit her lip; she could not go on. "aurora," said her lover, bending forward and taking one of her hands. "i _do_ love you with all my soul." she made a poor attempt to withdraw her hand, abandoned the effort, and looked up savagely through a pair of overflowing eyes, demanding: "_mais_, fo' w'y you di' n' wan' to sesso?" m. grandissime smiled argumentatively. "i have said so a hundred times, in every way but in words." she lifted her head proudly, and bowed like a queen. "_mais_, you see 'sieur grandissime, you bin meg one mizteg." "bud 'tis corrected in time," exclaimed he, with suppressed but eager joyousness. "'sieur grandissime," she said, with a tremendous solemnity, "i'm verrie sawrie; _mais_--you spogue too lade." "no, no!" he cried, "the correction comes in time. say that, lady; say that!" his ardent gaze beat hers once more down; but she shook her head. he ignored the motion. "and you will correct your answer; ah! say that, too!" he insisted, covering the captive hand with both his own, and leaning forward from his seat. "_mais_, 'sieur grandissime, you know, dad is so verrie unegspeg'." "oh! unexpected!" "_mais_, i was thing all dad time id was clotilde wad you--" she turned her face away and buried her mouth in her handkerchief. "ah!" he cried, "mock me no more, aurore nancanou!" he rose erect and held the hand firmly which she strove to draw away: "say the word, sweet lady; say the word!" she turned upon him suddenly, rose to her feet, was speechless an instant while her eyes flashed into his, and crying out: "no!" burst into tears, laughed through them, and let him clasp her to his bosom. kentucky's famous feuds and tragedies kentucky's famous feuds and tragedies authentic history of the world renowned vendettas of the dark and bloody ground by chas. g. mutzenberg r. f. fenno & company east th street, new york copyright, , by r. f. fenno & company kentucky's famous feuds and tragedies contents the great hatfield-mccoy feud. origin of the feud.--fight near the hatfield tunnel.--killing of bill staton.--killing of ellison hatfield.--butchery of the three mccoy brothers.--murder of jeff mccoy.--the tell-tale bloody lock of hair.--quarrel of the governors of kentucky and west virginia.--official correspondence between them.--frank phillips, the daring raider, appears upon the scene.--capture of members of the hatfield clan.--night attack upon the mccoy home.--burning of the mccoy home.--cowardly murder of his daughter allifair.--brave defense of old man mccoy and his son calvin.--death of calvin mccoy.--wounding of mrs. mccoy.--heroism of little boy.--escape of randall mccoy.--retribution.--frank phillips gives battle to the outlaws.--death of brutal jim vance.--battle of grapevine creek.--list of casualties.--kentucky and west virginia on the verge of war.--phillips, the raider, arrested.--his trial in the united states court.--his acquittal.--phillips' pluck.--triple tragedy at thacker, w. va.--cap hatfield and his "boy" in the toils.--their escape from jail.--defying arrest.--battle of "devil's back bone."--destruction of the stronghold with dynamite.--execution of ellison mount.--conclusion. the tolliver-martin-logan vendetta. introduction.--the two chief causes of the feud.--politics and whiskey.--judge hargis the innocent cause of the political strife.--first blood.--pitched battle at morehead.--murder of soloman bradley and wounding of john martin and sizemore.--martin arrested.--mob violence threatened.--his removal to winchester jail.--craig tolliver and his clan lay plans for martin's assassination.--forged order for delivery of prisoner presented to jailer at winchester.--martin turned over to his murderers.--assassination of martin on the train.--intense excitement at morehead.--county attorney young shot from ambush.--his removal from the county.--assassination of stewart baumgartner.--judge cole and others charged with conspiracy.--investigation of the charges.--the tolliver clan captures the town.--riots.--cook humphrey becomes the leader of the martin faction.--treaty of peace at louisville.--violation of treaty.--confession of ed. pierce.--humphrey and raymond located at martin residence.--siege of the martin home.--attack.--craig tolliver wounded.--humphrey's escape.--raymond's death.--burning of the martin home.--county judge's weakness.--troops sent to morehead.--tollivers and others arrested.--farce trials and acquittals.--jeff bowling goes to ohio.--his finish there.--humphrey resigns as sheriff.--conditions in rowan county.--humphrey and sheriff ramey fight.--sheriff and son badly wounded.--w. o. logan killed.--soldiers at morehead the second time.--second treaty of peace.--articles of agreement to cease hostilities.--humphrey departs from rowan county.--craig tolliver violates treaty.--reign of terror at morehead.--wholesale exodus of townspeople.--murder of the logan boys.--burning of their home.--mutilation of the corpses.--the avengers.--boone logan to the front.--his interview with the governor.--logan declares his intention to retake his fireside or to die in the attempt.--purchase of arms at cincinnati.--surreptitious shipment.--preparations for battle.--the battle of morehead.--killing of craig, bud, jay tolliver and hiram cooper, wounding of others.--incidents of the battle.--troops at morehead.--indictment of logan, pigman, perry and others.--trials and acquittals.--return of peace. the french-eversole war. causes leading up to the war.--assassination of silas gayheart.--the gathering of the clans.--scouting through the country.--compromise and treaty of peace of big creek.--treaty violated.--murder of gambriel in the streets of hazard.--assassination from ambush of young nick combs and joe c. eversole, leader of the eversole clan.--brutality of the murderers.--pursuit of the outlaws.--discovery of the ambush.--escape of judge josiah combs.--campbell becomes chief of the eversoles.--hazard in a state of siege.--campbell's tragic death.--killed by his own men.--assassination of shade combs.--assassination of elijah morgan near hazard.--correspondence between the circuit judge and the governor.--troops ordered to hazard.--report of capt. sohan and of adjutant-general sam e. hill on conditions in perry county.--county militia organized.--resumption of hostilities on retirement of the troops.--battle of hazard.--killing of ed. campbell.--fusilade continued throughout the day and night and the following morning.--thrilling escape of fields and profitt.--murder of mcknight.--court house riddled with shot.--withdrawal of the eversole forces.--wounding of fields.--burning of the court house.--"blanket" court.--troops again at hazard.--the "lions" caged.--murder of cornett.--assassination of judge josiah combs.--exciting pursuit of outlaws.--wounding of one of the outlaws.--their escape.--their indictment, capture, trial and conviction.--acquittal of french and fields.--murder of dr. john e. rader.--execution of bad tom smith. bloody breathitt. the strong-amy feud; the strong-callahan feud.--conditions during the eighties; official correspondence between circuit court judge and the governor.--the murder mills keep grinding.--the beginning of the hargis-cockrell-marcum-callahan vendetta.--political contest cases create bad blood.--hargis assumes office as county judge.--callahan the sheriff of the county.--trouble between marcum and judge hargis.--the cockrell brothers.--murder of ben hargis by tom cockrell; killing of john hargis.--the clans arm.--dr. cox assassinated at night while on a professional call.--marcum informed that he was marked for assassination.--laying plots for his death.--mose feltner, marcum's friend in the enemy's camp.--marcum gives out a dramatic statement of the many attempts made upon his life.--murder of jim cockrell in broad daylight from the court house.--escape of murderers.--judge hargis and sheriff callahan make no effort for their apprehension.--marcum again warned of his coming assassination.--murder of marcum.--escape of assassins.--the county judge and sheriff spectators of the murder.--tragic incidents of the assassination.--reign of terror at jackson.--schools and churches closed.--public pressure forces investigation.--troops place jackson under martial law.--capt. ewen tells the story of marcum's assassination and identifies the murderers.--ewen threatened with death.--burning of his home while troops are at jackson.--indictment of judge hargis, sheriff callahan, curtis jett, and tom white for the murders of jim cockrell, dr. cox and marcum.--change of venue to other courts.--determined prosecution.--conviction of white and jett for life.--description of jett.--manufacture of fake alibis.--confession of a witness convicted of swearing falsely for the defense.--accuses high officials of breathitt of intimidation.--release of the convicted perjurer because of his confession.--hargis and callahan escape conviction.--semblance of order finally restored in the county.--murder of judge hargis by his son, beach hargis.--details of the fratricide.--caustic dissenting opinion of one of the judges of the court of appeals.--conviction of beach hargis for life.--his release from prison.--assassination of ed. callahan, the last of the feud leaders.--details of the assassination.--conviction of his assassins.--comments. preface the feudal wars of kentucky have, in the past, found considerable publicity through newspapers. unfortunately, many newspaper reporters dealing with this subject were either deprived of an opportunity to make a thorough investigation of the facts, or permitted their imagination to supply what they had failed to obtain. at any rate, the result was distortion of the truth and exaggeration. exaggeration is not needed to make kentucky's feudal wars of thrilling, intensely gripping interest to every reader. more than a score of years were spent in the collection of this material, involving tedious and painstaking investigations. the greatest difficulty was experienced in separating truth from falsehood. often the most vital facts could be obtained solely from the actors in the bloody dramas. the feudists and their relatives proved, quite naturally, partial or prejudiced, and at all times were reluctant to admit any fact detrimental to their side, or favorable to their enemies. i believe, however, that i have succeeded, with the aid of court records, legislative investigations and official military reports, in my task of producing a strictly authentic history of kentucky's famous feuds and their attending tragedies. i trust that the publication of this volume will serve its designed purposes:--to make crime odious; to illustrate the havoc that may be wrought anywhere through the lax, inefficient or corrupt administration of justice; to arouse the people, not of kentucky only, but of the country at large to the necessity of dealing sternly with crime and faithless officers. chas. g. mutzenberg. harlan, ky., september, . introduction a brief review of the history of kentuckians may assist the reader to understand why they, a kind, hospitable people to the stranger, have so long borne the reputation of ready fighters who often kill upon the slightest provocation, and deserve that reputation in a large measure. it is "bred in the bone" for a kentuckian to quickly resent an insult or redress an injury. long before the advent of the white man kentucky, then fincastle county, virginia, had been the vast hunting grounds of the cherokees, creeks, chickasaws and catawbas of the south, and of the more hostile tribes of shawnees, delawares and wyandots of the north. these tribes, when chance brought them together on their annual hunts, engaged in conflicts so instant, so fierce and pitiless that the territory became known as the dark and bloody ground. it was indeed a hunter's paradise. dense forests covered the mountains. cane brakes fringed the banks of numerous beautiful streams, while to the west lay immense undulating plains. forest, cane brake and plain were literally alive with bear, deer and the buffalo; the woods teemed with innumerable squirrels, pheasants, wild turkeys and quail. the fame of this hunting ground had attracted bold and adventurous hunters long before daniel boone looked upon one of the most beautiful regions in the world from the crest of cumberland mountain. these hunters, upon their return home, gave glowing accounts of the richness and fertility of the new country, and excited powerfully the curiosity and imagination of the frontier backwoodsmen east of the alleghenies and of north carolina. to the hardy adventurers the lonely wilderness, with its many dangers, presented attractions not to be found in the confinement and enfeebling inactivities of the towns and little settlements. daniel boone visited the new territory. he found that the descriptions he had received of it were by no means exaggerations, and decided to remove thither with his family. after some delay amid many difficulties the first white settlement, harrodstown (harrodsburg) was established. within a few years other stations sprang into existence and population increased with amazing rapidity. immigrants crossing the cumberland mountains settled in the eastern and central parts of kentucky, while those traveling down the ohio and mississippi rivers, generally located in the northern, western and southern portions of the state. this invasion by the white man was not accomplished, however, without long-continued, bloody struggles with the savages. to maintain the slender foothold boone and his companions had gained, required great courage and tenacity of purpose. the man who shivered at the winter's blast, or trembled at every noise, the origin of which he did not understand, was not known among those hardy settlers with nerves of iron and sinews of steel, who were accustomed from earliest childhood to absolute self-dependence and inured to exposure and dangers of every sort.[ ] man in this connection must include the pioneer women who by their heroism illustrated their utter contempt of danger, and an insensibility to terrors which would palsy the nerves of men reared in the peaceful security of densely populated communities. even children of tender years exhibited a courage and self-composure under trying circumstances that at this day seem unbelievable. the life of the kentucky pioneer and backwoodsman was one of long and bitter struggle. hunting, clearing the forest, plowing and fighting were his daily occupations. every "station" had its conflicts with the savages who fought with relentless desperation when they found themselves gradually but surely driven from their beloved hunting grounds. these armed hunters and farmers were their own soldiers. they built their own forts, they did their fighting under commanders they had themselves chosen. they fought the foe in his own style, adopted his mode of warfare, and proved generally more successful than bodies of troops who battled under time-honored military tactics. the indian understood the advantage of cover, and the white man copied his methods. thus most of the indian fights became nothing more nor less than ambuscades in which the side displaying the most skill in placing them, won the victory. boone, kenton, brady, wetzel--all that galaxy of pioneers and indian fighters of the early west fought the enemy from ambush. there were few courts, and the justices presiding over them knew but little law. if the law proved too slow, or courts were too far away, the settlers tried criminals and inflicted the punishment. the backwoodsman was prompt to avenge a wrong. he was grim, stern, strong, easily swayed by stormy passions, and always a lover of freedom, to the core. he had suffered horrible injuries from the indians and learned to retaliate in kind. he became cruel and relentless toward an enemy, but was loyal to the death to his friends and country. he was upright and honest. these pioneers were indeed cast in the heroic mold. many of them fell in the struggle; but there was no time for sentiment and wailing. over the prostrate bodies of the fallen civilization marched triumphantly westward and gave to america one of the most attractive regions, to the nation heroic soldiers, brilliant lawyers, men of science and of art, and a womanhood whose beauty and accomplishments are a byword everywhere. with the close of indian hostilities came rapid development of the more easily accessible portions of the state. intercourse with the east and north obliterated old habits and customs and primitive notions. the fertility of the soil created wealth and with it came comfort. with increasing prosperity came that high intellectual development so essential to a sound, moral public sentiment, respect for the law, and love of peace and order, the foundation stones of a happy social structure. schools and churches demonstrated their all-powerful influence by the refinement and social purity of the inhabitants. the _code duello_ which had formerly been resorted to almost universally in settling personal differences, was made a crime by law and completely disappeared. in the mountains, however, development was slow. that section remained isolated and practically cut off from intercourse with the more populous and advanced portions of kentucky and surrounding states. only in recent years have railroads begun to spread their iron network through the mountains, tapping the almost inexhaustible coal veins, mineral deposits of various kinds, wonderful forests of timber, until now that section is become the richest in the state. education and refinement distinguished the blue grass kentuckian at an early date; he had long enjoyed the advantages of modern civilization, while his mountaineer brother yet lived in the primitive fashion of his forebears, and still remained a backwoodsman. he suffered the same privations and possessed the traits of character of the early pioneers of the blue grass. for long years the mountain section remained a wilderness, with here and there a small settlement. the inhabitants lived the lives of frontiersmen and were generally poor. while many of them owned large tracts of land, its productiveness scarcely repaid the labor spent in cultivation. the great majority of these people were honest, upright and hardworking, but the wilderness, the frontier, unfortunately attracts the vicious, the violent, the criminal, the shiftless, the outcast of better communities. such characters have a pernicious influence upon those with whom they come in contact, especially upon the young and thoughtless fellows with a taste for viciousness.[ ] the mountains of the surrounding states of virginia, west virginia and tennessee offered admirable asylum to fugitives from justice of those states. as like seeks like, individuals and families of that stripe settled near each other, intermarried, and thus formed a dangerous element in an otherwise good population. life in the wilderness, the frontier, is apt to bring out the true nature of the man, and his qualities, good or bad, are accentuated. the history of every frontier of this country is the same. the man who leaves the restraining influence of civilization behind him, becomes either _man_ or devil. if there is "dog-hair" in a man, the wilderness, the frontier, will sprout it. when the wicked element in a community had once gained a foothold, it organized against possible interference. once organization was complete, all attempts to enforce law and order were promptly stifled through terrorization which intimidated courts and overawed the officers of the law. under such circumstances the good element has but one alternative--to lie supinely on its back and ask to be killed, or to organize and strike back at the enemy, to destroy the vicious with powder and shot, in open fight, if possible, from ambush if necessary, as their sires fought in the days of the indian. herein lies the secret of the long-continued, bloody internecine strifes which have made the dark and bloody ground of the indian days more dark and more bloody. herein we find the ready and clear explanation of the fact that many men of unquestioned integrity and honor were thrown into the vortex of bloody strife from necessity, to fight for preservation of themselves, their families, their firesides. immigration into these remote mountain regions was almost nil and intermarriage between the settlers became the rule. in this wise the population of any county comprised but very few distinct families. everybody was of kin to everybody else, and therein we find the key to the difficulties encountered by courts in dealing with crime. the murderer, if a member of a prominent family, was certain to have kinsmen among the officers. (we may as well use the present tense in speaking of this, for the same conditions exist to-day, though less pronounced.) his "family," man, woman and child, stand by him, aid his escape or his defence in the court house. if the criminal, conscious of the supporting influence surrounding him, disdains flight and boldly faces trial, the next move is to secure a jury which will acquit him. it often happens that those interested in the prosecution secretly come to an agreement with the accused and his friends to cease prosecution provided he and his in their turn would do the same to them in cases of their own. it is merely a case of "you scratch my back and i'll scratch yours." citizens who love peace are loath to antagonize an outlaw clan so long as they or theirs are not directly concerned. they have no desire to assist officers in doing their duty, should these wish to do it. to indict men for crime is often a risky thing. the criminal who has succeeded in defeating justice grows more bold, continues to pursue his career with an enhanced contempt of the law, until, at last, the cup runs over, and men, good and true, rise above self, and for country's and humanity's sake take upon themselves the task of restoring peace and order, and summarily cut short the life cycle of the outlaw. how far such organized bands of murderers have succeeded in overawing the constituted authorities, is illustrated by instances recorded in this volume, where the law, the government itself, actually compromised with the outlaws, promised, yea, granted them immunity from past crimes, only exacting a pledge of better behavior in the future. if a man had committed but one little murder, he was in some danger of a short term in the penitentiary. if he understood his business, instead of stopping at one assassination, he simply continued his murder mill in operation and the authorities would send special ministers and envoys to "treat" with him as a power entitled to respect. exaggeration? no![ ] officers of the law have actually aided in assassinations, or stood idly by while murders were committed in their presence. investigation has proven that in every feud-ridden section the entire legal machinery was rotten to the core, perverted to the end and purpose of protecting particular men and of punishing their enemies. is it any wonder, then, that in such times and under such conditions preaching respect for law is breath wasted? sifting the matter down, we find that the chief contributing causes of these feudal troubles, wherever they have occurred, or may again occur, are due directly:--to inefficient, corrupt and depraved officials; to a want of a healthy moral public sentiment, through lack of _proper_ education and religious training; to the fact that the law-abiding element of the feud-ridden counties had so long been domineered over by the criminal class and their parasites and supporters in secret, that they are incapable of rendering any valuable assistance in maintaining the law save in few exceptions, and these few so much in the minority that a reformation is not to be hoped for if left to their own resources; that during all the social chaos attending feudal wars the promiscuous, unrestrained and illegal sale of whiskey added fury, fire and venom to the minds and hearts of murderers. it dragged into the terrible vortex of bloody crime many not directly connected with the feud, but who took advantage of the disturbed social conditions, the state of anarchy, to satisfy their own vicious propensities without fear of interruption and punishment.[ ] the clannishness of the mountaineer has been the subject of much comment. the student of sociology must, therefore, be interested in learning that in a great measure the people of the kentucky mountains descended from the same stock that formed the noted scottish clans of old. one need only run over the names of the principal mountain families to recognize their scot origin. the scots love the highlands, and to the "highlands" of kentucky many of them drifted. scotland had her feuds--those of the kentucky mountains are nothing more nor less than transplanted scottish feuds, their continuation having been made possible by the reasons heretofore given. we believe it germane to the matter under discussion to add that not only feuds, but mobs and the like, are, and ever have been, the direct outgrowth of a lack of confidence of the people in their courts. the shameful nightrider outrages in the western part of kentucky a few years ago, in a section which had boasted of a civilization superior by far to that of the mountaineers, where schools and churches are to be met with at every corner, were the outcome, so it is claimed, of the failure of the law to deal sternly with the lawless tobacco trust, the "original wrongdoer" in the noted tobacco war. if this were true, if this justified the destruction by incendiaries of millions of dollars' worth of property, brutal whippings, the indiscriminate slaughter of entire families without regard to age or sex, the butchery of little children (for aiding the tobacco trust, no doubt) then, indeed, is the mountaineer feudist also innocent of wrongdoing; more so, for he, at least, never made war upon suckling infants, nor have women suffered harm, except in one or two instances. nor is the cultured blue grass citizen free to censure him, when he calls to mind the outrages of the toll-gate raids, or takes into account the numerous lynching bees, proceedings from which the mountains have always been practically free. in view of all this we cannot go far from wrong when we say that the law's delay, the failure to punish promptly, impartially and severely its infractions, must shoulder the responsibility for all social disturbances, and this is true in new york, in the west, as well as in kentucky. kentucky's famous feuds and tragedies the great hatfield-mccoy feud. perhaps no section in the whole united states has ever been the scene of more crime and long-continued defiance of the law than that contiguous to the tug fork, one of the tributaries of the big sandy river, and which forms the boundary line between west virginia and kentucky, separating logan county, w. va., from pike county, ky. many feuds have been fought there, but none equalled in ferocity the bloody hatfield-mccoy war, during which crimes of the most revolting nature were perpetrated. indeed, it will be difficult for the reader to believe that the devilish deeds related in this chapter are actually true and did occur in the midst of a civilized country, peopled with christian men and women, and governed (?) by wholesome laws. yes, citizens of a common country fought a struggle to the bitter death without hindrance, if not with the actual connivance of those entrusted with the enforcement of law and the maintenance of order, who looked idly upon bloodshed. the flag of anarchy, once unfurled, fluttered unmolested for years. had the feud broken out suddenly and been quickly suppressed, we should abstain from strictures upon high officials entrusted with the administration and execution of the law. but this american vendetta covered a long period, abating somewhat at times, only to break out anew with increased ferocity. utter disregard for human life, ruthless, savage cruelty, distinguish this feud from all others and easily give it the front rank. to add to the horror of it all, came the bitter controversy between the governors of west virginia and kentucky, nearly precipitating civil war between the two states, and effectively paralyzing all attempts at concerted action looking toward the capture, trial and punishment of the outlaws, at least for a long time. that the feud is ended now is due largely to the fact that the material upon which it had been feeding for so many years, became exhausted through the pistol, rifle or the knife. but few died of disease, only _one_ was hanged, perhaps the least guilty of them all, for he was a moral degenerate of such little intelligence that under other circumstances he might have escaped the gallows on the ground of mental irresponsibility. the leading spirits of the war were never punished, but rounded out their lives at home _unmolested_. the region along the tug fork is mountainous, and has not until recently come in touch with the outside world. its inhabitants for many years knew nothing of schools, or churches. ignorance prevailed to a truly astonishing degree. courts exercised no authority; their decrees were laughed at and ridiculed. if a man thought himself aggrieved he sought redress as best suited him. the natives tried cases in their own minds and acted as executioners, using the rifle or the knife. when trials, in rare instances, were resorted to, they more often fanned the flame of hatred than smothered it. the contending factions in this internecine strife lived on opposite sides of the tug fork, a narrow stream. randall mccoy, the leader or head of the mccoy faction, resided on the blackberry branch of pond creek in pike county, kentucky. near him, but on the opposite side of tug fork, in west virginia, lived anderson hatfield, who had adopted for himself the nom-de-guerre of "bad anse" or "devil anse," the controlling spirit of the hatfield clan. both families were large, extensively related throughout the two counties and composing the greater portion of their population. the mccoys and hatfields frequently intermarried and thus it happens that we find mccoys arrayed on the side of the hatfields and hatfields friendly to the randall mccoy faction. while the feud proper did not break out until , it is necessary to go back further. for the enmity between the hatfields and mccoys dates back to the civil war, during which the former maintained an organized company of raiders, ostensibly for the purpose of protecting property against invading marauders of either army. the mccoys supported a similar force on the kentucky side. these bands frequently encroached upon and entered each other's territory, resulting in clashes and bad blood, though both factions adhered to the same political party. after the war the older heads tried to maintain a show of friendship in their intercourse, but the younger generations allowed their passions a free hand. difficulties grew in frequency; still no lives were lost. a few razor-backed, long-legged, sharp-nosed porkers are the indispensable adjunct of well-regulated mountaineer families. in those days the farmer marked his hogs and turned them loose in the woods. they soon fattened on the abundant mast and were, late in the fall, driven home to be killed. if one of those marked hogs happened to turn up in the possession of another, woe unto him. vengeance was visited upon him swiftly, though not as severe as in the case of rustlers in the west. a circuit judge of kentucky once remarked, very appropriately, that a hog seemed of more value in his district than a human life. there was truth in this bit of sarcasm. more men have been acquitted of murder in kentucky than of hogstealing. it seems ridiculous that a few of the unseemly brutes should have become the innocent promoters of a feud, but it is true. innocent or not, the facts are against them. sometime during the seventies one floyd hatfield, afterwards known as "hog" floyd, drove a number of hogs from the forests and confined them in a pen at stringtown. a few days later randolph mccoy of kentucky passed the pen in question and upon examination of the animals claimed them as his property and demanded their delivery to him, which hog floyd refused to do. mccoy brought an action for their recovery. the trial was held at raccoon hollow, a little village some miles down the valley. deacon hatfield, floyd's relative, presided. the mccoys and hatfields attended the trial in force. every man was armed. during the short trial many things occurred that convinced those acquainted with the characters of the men composing the factions, that bloody hostilities must result. randolph mccoy made an impassioned speech to the jury, openly charging several hatfield witnesses with perjury. among those so accused was one stayton who, incensed by the charge, attempted to strike his traducer, but was prevented by randolph mccoy's son. mccoy lost his case. the hatfields exulted, jeered and sneered; the mccoys returned home grumbling and threatening. fists and rocks now gave place to the rifle and repeated long-range shooting matches occurred between the factions. when meeting in the forests, they treed and fought for hours with their old-fashioned muzzle-loaders and cap and ball pistols, without any appreciable result. in occurred the first battle in which blood was drawn. it happened about a mile below the hatfield tunnel, between bill stayton, paris and sam mccoy. they had met by accident. stayton rightly guessed that the boys would show him no mercy after the many injuries and insults they had received at his hands. instantly he leaped behind a bush, broke off the top of it, rested his gun in the fork of two limbs, took careful aim and fired. paris mccoy fell heavily to the ground. although severely wounded in the hip he managed to regain his feet and shot stayton in the breast. the two then came together in a fierce hand to hand combat. having thrown down their empty and useless rifles they fought with their hands and teeth, ferocious as wild animals. paris' cheek was frightfully bitten and lacerated. weakened from loss of blood and suffering excruciating pain from his wounds, he was about to succumb to the superior strength of his powerful adversary, when sam mccoy, armed with a pistol, came to his rescue. he had been afraid to fire while the men were locked in their deadly embrace. now came the opportunity and he sent a ball crashing through the brain of stayton, who fell back and instantly expired. the body was found some days later. suspicion at once pointed to the two mccoy brothers. paris promptly surrendered himself to the authorities, and was given an examining trial before magistrate valentine (val) hatfield, who released him from custody. sam mccoy fled to the hills, but after eluding the officers for a month or more was captured by elias hatfield, indicted by the grand jury of his county, tried and acquitted. in the summer of it happened that a relative and friend of both factions ran for office in pike county. the clans met on election day, august th, to work for their man. it was the custom then, as well as now, although the law has placed serious restrictions upon the practice, to supply voters with copious quantities of whiskey. a candidate who failed to do his duty in this respect was certain to lose many votes, if not the chance of election. on the occasion in question "moonshine" liquor was plentiful. both the hatfields and mccoys and their adherents imbibed freely and during the day grew boisterous and belligerent. the immediate occasion for beginning a fight was furnished when tolbert mccoy approached elias hatfield, commonly known as "bad lias," and demanded payment of an old debt. a quarrel ensued and the fight was on. "bad lias" got the worst of it. the fight had attracted the attention of the friends and kindred of both men. officers attempted to separate them without avail. then "big" ellison hatfield took a hand. enraged and on fire with copious drinks of whiskey, he challenged the victorious tolbert mccoy to fight a man of _his_ size. hatfield was a powerful man. straight as an arrow, he stood six feet six in his stocking feet, and weighed considerably over two hundred pounds. the fight now went against mccoy from the start. he resorted to his knife and during the struggle stabbed hatfield repeatedly and with frightful effect. again and again he plunged the cold steel into the body of his adversary. though horribly slashed and losing much blood, hatfield yet retained strength. with a final effort he threw mccoy upon the ground, sat upon him, seized a large jagged stone, raised it on high to strike the fatal blow, when phamer mccoy, who had been patiently waiting for the opportunity, fatally shot hatfield with a pistol. it was also charged by the hatfields that randolph mccoy, jr., a youth of fifteen, had stabbed hatfield once or twice. as soon as phamer mccoy saw the effect of his shot he dropped the weapon and sought safety in flight. he was pursued by constable floyd hatfield and captured. tolbert and young randolph were also immediately arrested. the wounded hatfield was removed to the house of one of his kinsmen. the prisoners remained on the election ground under heavy guard, for some two hours. then they were taken to the house of johns hatfield for the night. tolbert hatfield and joseph hatfield, two justices of the peace of pike county, kentucky, mathew, floyd and other hatfields had charge of the prisoners. the father of the three, old randolph mccoy, remained with them through the night. early on the following morning the officers proceeded with their charges on the road to pikeville, the county seat. scarcely had they traveled half a mile, when they were overtaken by val hatfield, the west virginia justice of the peace, and "bad lias" hatfield, brothers of the wounded ellison. they demanded of the officers that they return with their prisoners into the magisterial district in which the fight had occurred to await the result of ellison hatfield's wounds. the officers complied with the demand. randolph mccoy, sr., remonstrated, but was laughed at for his pains. he then started alone to pikeville for the purpose of consulting with the authorities there. that was the last time he saw his three sons alive. after being turned back by val and bad lias hatfield the prisoners were taken down the creek. at an old house there was a corn sled. val directed the three brothers placed in it, and in that manner they were conveyed to jerry hatfield's house. here charles carpenter, who, together with devil anse and cap hatfield, alex messer, the three mayhorn brothers, and a number of other outlaws, had joined val hatfield and the other officers at the old house, procured ropes and securely trussed and bound the prisoners. in this condition they remained until they were murdered. at noon the crowd stopped at the reverend anderson hatfield's for dinner. after the meal was over, devil anse stepped into the yard and there cried out: "all who are friends of hatfield fall into line." most of those present did so from inclination or through fear. from there the prisoners were taken to the river and across into west virginia to an old, dilapidated schoolhouse. here they lay, tied, upon the filthy floor. heavily armed guards at all times stood sentinel over the doomed brothers. cap and johns hatfield, devil anse and his two brothers, elias and val hatfield, charles carpenter, joseph murphy, dock mayhorn, plyant mayhorn, selkirk mccoy and his two sons, albert and l. d., lark and anderson varney, dan whitt, sam mayhorn, alex messer, john whitt, elijah mounts and many others remained at or about the schoolhouse, awaiting news from the bedside of ellison hatfield. along toward night arrived the mother of the unfortunate prisoners, and the wife of tolbert mccoy, to plead with the jailers for the lives of the sons and husband. the pleadings of the grief-stricken women fell upon deaf ears; they had no other effect upon these hearts of stone than rough admonitions from val hatfield and others to "shut up, stop that damned noise, we won't have no more of it." night had fallen. the women were told to leave and thrust from the house into the inky darkness. it had been raining hard and the creeks were swollen. wading streams, drenched to the skin, the miserable women felt their way through the dark, stumbling and falling along the road, or trail. along about midnight they arrived at dock rutherford's house. bruised, shivering, ill and shaking from exposure, fatigue, grief and terror, they could travel no further, and were taken in for the night. morning came and again they hastened to the improvised prison of their loved ones. there they were viciously taunted with the uselessness of their endeavor to obtain mercy. they were told that if ellison hatfield died of his wounds, "the prisoners will be filled as full of holes as a sifter bottom." along about two o'clock val hatfield curtly commanded mrs. mccoy to leave the house and to return no more. she pressed for the reason of this order and was told that her husband, randolph, was known to be at that moment attempting to assemble a crowd to rescue his sons. "of course, you know," sneered the heartless wretch, "if we are interfered with in the least, them boys of yours will be the first to die." mrs. mccoy denied the truth of the report, but her protestations were in vain. the two women saw themselves compelled to abandon the utterly useless struggle to save their loved ones and departed. it was the last time they saw them alive. all along throughout their confinement the brothers had shown a brave spirit. now they lost all hope of rescue as from hour to hour the band of enemies increased until a small army had assembled. through the open door they saw them sitting or standing in groups. some were idly playing cards; others singing ribald songs or church hymns, whichever struck their fancy; all of them were drinking heavily. they heard an animated discussion as to the manner of death they should be made to suffer in the event of ellison hatfield's death. some had suggested hanging; then one proposed that they make it a shooting match, with live human beings for a target. the idea was adopted by acclamation. along in the afternoon of the th of august, the third day since the wounding of ellison hatfield, the assembled band was suddenly startled and every man brought to his feet by the sounds of a galloping horse. instinctively they realized they were about to have news of ellison hatfield. the stir among their guards had aroused the attention of the prisoners. they easily guessed its portent. it was not necessary to tell them that ellison hatfield was dead. his corpse had been brought to the home of elias hatfield, who, together with a number of others that had been waiting at the bedside of the dying man, now augmented the hatfield forces at the old schoolhouse. a mock trial was had and sentence of death passed upon the three mccoy brothers. these helpless, hopeless creatures, tied to one another like cattle about to be delivered to the slaughterhouse, were now jeered, joked and mocked. they were not told yet when they must die, nor where. to keep them in uncertainty would only increase their suffering and that uncertainty lasted to the end. it is nine o'clock at night. they are taken to the river, placed on a flat boat and conveyed to the kentucky side. within yards of the road, in a kind of sink or depression, the three doomed brothers are tied to pawpaw bushes. around them stands the throng of bloodthirsty white savages, reared in the midst of a christian country, and from which every year go missionaries and fortunes in money to foreign lands to make man better and rescue him from savagery. but somehow this region had been overlooked. not one voice is raised in pity or favor of the victims, an unfortunate man, a youth and a child. the monsters dance about them in imitation of the indian. they throw guns suddenly into their faces and howl in derision when the thus threatened prisoner dodges as much as the bonds which hold him will permit. alex messer now approaches closely to phamer mccoy and deliberately fires six shots into different parts of his body. this is not an act of mercy, to end the man's suffering. no, he has taken care to avoid the infliction of any instantly fatal wound. messer steps back, views the flowing blood and pain-distorted face and--laughs. ellison mount, supposedly the most savage of them all, now proves more merciful. he carries a long-barreled, old-fashioned hunting rifle; he throws it to his shoulder, takes careful aim, and blows out the brains of tolbert mccoy who, immediately before the shot fired, had thrown his arm to protect the face. the bullet penetrated through the arm into the head. only the little boy, randolph mccoy, jr., is left unharmed, as yet. will they spare him? some favor his release, one or two demand it. but this idea is hooted down upon the ground that he is as guilty as the others, and even if he were not, now that he knew the assassins of his brothers, it would be utter folly to leave such a dangerous witness alive to tell the story. "dead men tell no tales," cries one of the heartless wretches, and impatient of the useless delay, approaches the boy and with a double charge of buckshot blows off his head. the entire band then fires a farewell volley into the bodies of the dead. we said "the entire band." this is not correct. for one of the hatfields had remained on the other side of the river. "the bible condemns murder," he had said. but this good man volunteered to stand guard and prevent any interference or interruption of the butchery. the foul deed accomplished, the murderers recrossed the river and entered west virginia. then val hatfield, the justice of the peace, this officer of the law, with solemn formality administered to the murderers the oath never to betray the name of a member of the band even should death stare him in the face. what is an oath to such depraved creatures? there, standing on the banks of the river, surrounded by that throng of midnight assassins, in sight of the spot that bore the frightful evidences of the dastardly work, val hatfield commanded them to raise their bloody hands to heaven. each and all solemnly swore to stand by each other, never to reveal the secret of that night's work, asking god to witness their oath. what supreme blasphemy! after their return to west virginia, parties who saw them and noted they were without the prisoners, asked what had become of them. val hatfield replied with a smile that they had "sent them back to kentucky to stand the civil law." as soon as the assassination became known, the brothers and relatives of the dead untied the torn and mangled bodies, placed them in a sled and conveyed them to their home. have we exaggerated in the telling of this story? let us see. years afterwards some of the assassins were brought to trial. during the hearing of the case against val hatfield, the west virginia justice of the peace, mrs. sarah mccoy, the mother of the slain brothers, testified:-- "i am the mother of phamer, tolbert and young randolph mccoy. they are dead. they were killed on the night of august th, . i saw them on the monday before that, at floyd hatfield's, while they were under arrest. the next time i saw them was over on mate creek, in logan county, west virginia, at a schoolhouse. when i got there, val hatfield was sitting by them with a shotgun across his lap. i was talking, praying and crying for my boys. while over at the mouth of mate creek i heard val hatfield say that if ellison hatfield died, he would shoot the boys full of holes. tolbert was shot twice in the head and three or four times in the body. phamer was shot in the head and ten or eleven times in the body, maybe more. the top of one side of the little boy's head was shot off. he was down on his knees, hanging to the bushes when they found him. tolbert had one arm over his face. tolbert was , phamer and randall years old. they were hauled home on a sled and buried in one coffin. "when val hatfield was sitting by them with a double barreled shotgun in his lap, the boys were lying on something on the floor, tied together with a rope. i fell on my knees and began praying and begging and crying for my children. some one said there was no use of that, to shut up. then some one came in and said that my husband was on the way with a large party to rescue his sons. i told them that there was nothing of it. they said for us to leave. tolbert's wife was with me. they said that if they were interfered with my boys would be the first to die."[ ] the day following the murder the coroner of the district, also a hatfield, held an inquest in which the jury reported a verdict to the effect that the three mccoy brothers had been shot and killed at the hands of persons _unknown_. in affairs of this kind, where many men are engaged, men whose acts prove them without honor, without respect for law, man or god, truth comes to light in spite of oaths to reveal nothing. the parties had been seen with their prisoners by many people and had been seen returning to west virginia without them. neighbors heard the shots fired; saw the band of cutthroats, armed to the teeth, led by the brothers of ellison hatfield, the dead man. aside from that, mrs. mccoy and tolbert mccoy's wife had recognized and knew personally all of the men that guarded the boys at the schoolhouse. they had heard the threats repeated time and again that if ellison hatfield died, the boys would be murdered. the officers who had at first arrested them and taken charge of them, testified that at the house of the reverend hatfield's the boys were tied, and that then they, the officers, were informed by devil anse, val and cap hatfield, to "vamoose." twenty-three of the hatfield clan were indicted in the pike circuit court (kentucky), each one charged with three murders. the indictments were returned into court on the th day of september, , but none of them was tried until seven years later. although heavy rewards were offered for the apprehension of the murderers, not until years after the crime was it that an actor stepped upon the scene whose intrepidity and shrewdness finally led to the undoing of many of the murder clan. however, through the law's delay, many other horrible outrages followed this one, and many lives were lost before an end was put to bloodshed. much speculation was indulged in, after the assassination of august th, why old man randolph mccoy had made no attempt to rescue his sons. the explanation is simple. when he left them on the morning following the fight they were in charge of kentucky officers and guarded. when turned back by val and elias hatfield, he was told by these men that the boys should have an examining trial in the magisterial district in which the fight had taken place, that the witnesses for both the state and the defence would be more easily accessible there than if the trial were had at pikeville many miles away. at the county seat mccoy conferred with lawyers and engaged them in the defence of his sons for the killing of ellison hatfield, should he die. he _could_ not believe that val hatfield, a sworn officer of the law, would so far forget and violate his solemn oath of office so to condone or aid or to participate in such a wholesale butchery. aside from this, the arresting officers, also hatfields, would see to the safety of the prisoners, as it was their duty to do. he feared, too, that interference might endanger the safety of the sons and thought it best to remain passive. he placed his trust in the law. we have seen the result. after the indictment of the hatfields they maintained their armed organization under the leadership of devil anse and "cap," his son. devil anse was a man of fine physique, tall and muscular, as were his sons, johns and cap. randolph mccoy described cap as "six feet of devil and pounds of hell!" neither of these men suggested the outlaw and the desperado. all of them possessed regular features, but the strong jaws, the rectilinear foreheads with angular, knotty protuberances denoted according to the physiognomist firm, harsh, oppressive activity. in their intercourse with friends they exhibited a jovial disposition and their eyes beamed kindly. but once aroused to anger there took place an instant metamorphosis. at such times anse hatfield justified the sobriquet "devil" anse. then the glittering eyes told of the fires of rage and hate within, the veins in his forehead bulged and knotted and corrugated; the quivering lips, thin and straight, bespoke the cruelty of which he was capable of inflicting upon all who dared oppose him or his. his whole countenance at such times impressed one with awe and fear. it had that effect upon strangers ignorant of his record of blood. and--like father--like sons. old man randolph mccoy, at the time of the murder of his three sons, was sixty-three years old. he was by no means a strong man. his features wore a kindly expression. he was quiet in his talk, and one of the most hospitable citizens of pike county. that he was brave, when necessity demanded it he had demonstrated on many occasions. but he was not, and never had been a bully, nor was he bloodthirsty. he made all possible efforts to effect the capture of his sons' assassins and sought to punish them through the law. his efforts in this direction exasperated the hatfields still more. not satisfied now with eluding the officers, they assumed the offensive, invaded pike county in force at any time they saw fit, harassed the mccoy family in every possible manner with the evident intention of eventually driving them out of the country, and to thus remove the main spring of the prosecution against them in the pike county courts. finding themselves baffled in this purpose, the death of the old man was decreed. in the month of june, , the murder was scheduled to take place. mccoy had been summoned to appear in court at pikeville in some case. of this fact the hatfields had prompt information, for even in the county seat they had their spies and supporters. knowing well the route the old man must take to reach pikeville, an ambush was prepared at a suitable spot. a mistake saved the old man's life. two of mccoy's neighbors, also witnesses at court, started for town on the same day. they were clad almost precisely as were randolph mccoy and his accompanying son calvin. accident belated the mccoys and so they rode far to the rear of their neighbors who, on approaching the ambush at nightfall, were fired upon. in the fusilade both men were wounded, one of them crippled for life. their horses were shot dead on the spot. the assassins, confident that the hated old man mccoy was no more, returned to west virginia, jubilant and rejoicing, celebrating the supposed death with a grand spree. we may imagine their chagrin and disappointment on discovery of the mistake and the consequent escape of the hated enemy. discouragement, however, was a word not included in their vocabulary. failure only spurred them to renewed and greater efforts. in the feud branched off. one jeff mccoy, brother of the wife of johns hatfield, was accused of murdering fred walford, a mail carrier. finding the officers hot on his trail in kentucky he fled, and sought safety in west virginia, at the home of his brother-in-law. hatfield, formerly an active member of the murder clan, had, however, of late ceased to participate in their lawless raids. although he had not forgotten his hatred of the mccoys, for his wife's sake he sheltered her fugitive brother. near johns hatfield lived cap hatfield, who had in his employ one wallace. jeff mccoy had been at the home of his brother-in-law but a short time when he became aware of the presence of wallace at the farm of cap hatfield's. trouble started at once. as we have seen, attempts upon the life of old man mccoy had thus far proved abortive. somehow, all the best-laid plans of the hatfields had miscarried. suspicion grew that there must be a traitor in their camp, and this became more strong as time rolled on, with the result that the wife and mother of one daniels were accused of furnishing information to the mccoys. one night, while daniels was absent from home, the house was surrounded, the door broken open and the two women were cruelly beaten. mrs. daniels subsequently died from her injuries; the old lady was rendered a cripple for life. daniels' wife was a sister of jeff mccoy, who had somehow secured information sufficient to regard wallace as the instigator and leader of the outrage. he hunted for him high and low, but had lost all trace of him until, to his great joy, he discovered his whereabouts--at the home of cap hatfield. on november th, , accompanied by a friend, he went in search of wallace. cap hatfield was absent; his wife lay ill in bed. when mccoy approached the house wallace was busily at work in the yard. he was called upon to surrender. on looking up he saw himself covered by two guns. mccoy pretended to arrest him for the purpose of taking him to pikeville for trial of the indictments returned against the assailant of the daniels women. wallace, however, readily surmised the true intention of his captors. he expected no mercy at the hands of the man who believed and knew him to be guilty of beating the sister to death, and attempted escape. on the first opportunity, while the vigilance of his captors had momentarily relaxed, he started to run, but was shot down, although not seriously wounded. he gained the house, barricaded the door, and through the window opened fire upon mccoy and his associate. these returned the fire, shot after shot they drove through the windows and door, for, at this time, the heavy repeating winchester rifle had come into general use. while other modern inventions found no market there, the most improved guns and pistols might have been found in homes that had not learned the use of a cook stove. the fusilade continued for some time, but wallace, in his fort of log walls, drove the enemies from the field. immediately upon cap hatfield's return wallace was told to swear out a warrant against jeff mccoy and his companion hurley. the papers were taken in hand by cap hatfield, who had secured the appointment of special constable. he was not long finding the men. with his accustomed coolness he covered them with his guns, ordered hurley to throw his weapon on the ground and to disarm mccoy. this capture of two armed and dangerous men single-handed proved the daring of hatfield. he started for logan court house, w. va., with his prisoners. on the way he was joined by wallace, doubtless by previous appointment. together they proceeded to thacker, a small village on the way. there a short halt was made, and the prisoners were left to themselves. this opportunity mccoy used to cut the thongs that tied his hands by means of a knife held between his teeth. as soon as his hands were free he started on a run for the kentucky side. he reached the tug fork, plunged into the stream and swam for life. but his captors were marksmen. he had reached the bank of the river on the opposite side and was climbing the steep slope, when a well-directed shot from cap's gun tore through his heart and he fell dead upon his face. it was common knowledge that the opportunity to escape had been given him deliberately. hatfield and wallace enjoyed to the full the fruitless effort to escape death. it was sport, nothing more. hurley, strange to say, was liberated. wallace escaped, but in the following spring was captured by two of jeff mccoy's brothers, dud and jake, and delivered to the jailer of pike. before trial he broke jail and returned to cap hatfield, who supplied him liberally with money and a mount to aid his escape. for some time thereafter all trace of him was lost. at last he was heard of in virginia. unwilling to turn his hands to honest labor, he had engaged in the illicit sale of whiskey. for this he was arrested and fined. in this wise his name became public and in the course of time his whereabouts became known back in kentucky. jeff mccoy's brothers offered a reward for his capture and two men started upon the trail of the much desired fugitive. within a short time they returned to kentucky and claimed the reward. where was the prisoner? the answer was given by the exhibition of a bloody lock of hair--the reward was paid. came the year . still not one of the twenty-three murderers of the three mccoy brothers had been apprehended, although they were frequently seen on the kentucky side. attempts to take them had been made from time to time, but the officers always found them in such numbers and so perfectly armed that an attempt to force their arrest would have resulted in much bloodshed without accomplishing the arrest. then governor proctor knott of kentucky took a hand and offered tempting rewards. his successor, general simon bolivar buckner, renewed them, and issued requisitions for the twenty-three murderers upon the governor of west virginia, appointing as agent one frank phillips to receive the prisoners. weeks passed and no attempt was made on the part of the west virginia officers to execute the warrants for these men so badly wanted in kentucky, and, to the utter surprise and indignation of governor buckner, the west virginia executive, governor wilson, refused to honor the requisitions, assigning various reasons and excuses for his non-action. governor buckner, the old "warhorse," as his friends and comrades-in-arms in the civil war affectionately dubbed him, took the west virginia governor to task for his lack of coöperation in the apprehension of the murderers. an exceedingly salty correspondence followed. the controversy grew so bitter that, for a time, a declaration of war between the two states would have surprised no one. and while the governors fought each other on paper, the murder mill ground on uninterrupted, the bloody warfare continued without molestation. now enters upon the scene frank phillips, governor buckner's kentucky agent, to receive the persons named in the requisition upon the governor of west virginia. he was a deputy sheriff. though of slight stature, he was as brave a little man as ever trod the soil of kentucky, so noted for her brave sons. he was rapid as lightning, and would have made an ideal quarterback for any college football team. with all his bravery he was cautious, circumspect and shrewd. a terror to evil-doers, he was the general favorite throughout pike county among the law-abiding citizens. an incident which occurred during the summer of , illustrates the utter fearlessness of the little, keen-eyed deputy sheriff. warrants for the murderers of the three mccoy brothers had been issued upon the indictments repeatedly and as often returned by the sheriff "not found," notwithstanding the presence of the fugitives on the kentucky side on various occasions was common knowledge. having so long remained unmolested, the hatfields grew bold, and in , took great interest in the pike county election. such was their contempt of the officers that as election day approached, the sheriff of pike county was notified to instruct his deputies, that had warrants against them, to be certain and stay away from the voting precinct at which they, the hatfields, would appear on election days, or, if the officers should attend, to leave the bench warrants for their arrest behind. the election following the appointment of frank phillips as a deputy was one of deep interest to the hatfields. desiring to attend it, they sent word to phillips to remain away, or to come unarmed and without warrants. he was threatened with sure death if he violated these injunctions. frank, however, was cast in a different mold from that of his predecessors. he replied, in writing, that business demanded his presence at that election precinct on election day; that he would be there; that he would bring along the bench warrants, would come fully armed and that he intended to either take or kill them. the hatfields were amazed at the nerve of the man, but finally came to regard it as an idle boast. true to his word, phillips went to the election ground. the hatfields approached within gunshot distance and fired a volley through the brush and bushes, stampeding all but some eight or ten persons. the plucky little deputy sheriff remained till late in the afternoon, but the hatfields withdrew. inspiring example of what a brave, determined officer may do and it proves that with all their contempt for law and order deep down in the hearts of outlaws there is the fear of retribution and punishment. the little man had called their bluff because he had _right_ on his side, and the nerve to contend for that right, and wherever there is a genuine determination to put an end to outlawry, it can be done, it matters not how desperate and vicious the outlaws may be. late in the fall of the same year phillips, with three other men, crossed over into logan county, w. va., to receive the prisoners who had been arrested, as he supposed, on warrants issued by governor wilson after the issuance of the kentucky governor's requisitions. after crossing the line between the two states he, for the first time, learned that no warrants had ever been issued, at least that no arrests had been made or even attempted. then something happened. he and his men suddenly came upon selkirk mccoy, tom chambers and mose christian, three of the murder clan that slew the mccoy brothers, and who were included in the requisitions. the opportunity to nab them was too good to resist the temptation to capture them, even without warrants, and it was done. he hurried them back and across the line into kentucky, served them with kentucky bench warrants and delivered them to the jailer at pikeville. the rage of the hatfields over this "unlawful" arrest knew no bounds. it was an outrage, and a shameful violation of the law, they cried. they sought an outlet for their pent-up indignation and decided to make another attempt upon the life of old man mccoy. for this purpose the leaders selected the most dangerous and desperate members of the clan. at midnight, january st, , this band of desperadoes, led by cap hatfield, heartless cutthroats all, surrounded the house of randolph mccoy. on new year, when every man and woman in the land should reflect regretfully upon the many follies and errors committed during the year gone by and good resolutions should fill every heart, on new year's night this outlaw band prepared to and did inaugurate another year of bloodshed and of horror. silently, with the stealth of indians, the phantom shadows moved about the doomed homestead. they were in no hurry. it was far from their intention to break into the house and with a few well-directed shots put an end to the old man whom they had sworn to destroy. no! such a death would have been too quick and painless. he must burn; they must maim and torture. what mattered it that women were in the house. "they will serve him for company," chuckled the heartless jim vance. they must first be made to feel the impossibility of escape; to entertain their tormentors with their distress and horror. they must furnish sport, the sport the savages so much delighted in. within all was quiet. the inmates were all wrapped in slumber, utterly unconscious of the fate that was in store for them. without, through the gloom of the cold january night, shadows flitted to and fro, busily attending to their hellish work. the mccoy homestead was a double log house, separating the two houses was a wide passage, and all under one roof. on one side of the building a match is struck. the next moment a pine torch casts a lurid glare into the darkness. the hand that holds it reaches upward and touches the low board roof. it sets it on fire in a dozen places. the family is suddenly awakened by the yells of exultation from the savages without. shots pour into the houses through doors and windows. calvin mccoy, the son, who slept upstairs, dresses hurriedly, grasps his rifle and cartridges and descends to the lower floor. he approaches the bed of his terror-stricken, aged mother, pats her gently on her cheek, cautions her to lie still, telling her to fear not, though in his heart he has no hope. he returns to his room and opens fire upon the outlaws. his father, cool and undaunted, fights the flames devouring the roof from the loft. the water becomes exhausted. he resorts to buttermilk, of which there happened to be large quantities in churns. the fire is about conquered. an outlaw hand reaches up to rekindle it with another torch. randolph mccoy takes up his gun, aims and shatters the hand that holds it. a curse and loud imprecations come to his ears, and tell him that the shot went true. in the room across the passage between the two houses slept the rest of the family, two daughters and two grandchildren. the unmarried daughter, allifair, frightened and dazed, hears a knock at the door and opens it. she is requested to make a light. she replies that she has neither fire nor matches. the command is repeated; again she refuses to comply. jim vance, sr., the grey-haired outlaw, commands ellison mount to shoot her. she prays for them to spare her, but their hearts were strangers to pity. mount fires point-blank at her breast and she falls to the floor with a cry. the mother from her own room across the passage hears the expiring scream of her child, the dull thud upon the floor. oh, the horror of it! surrounded on every hand by devils in human shape; the house on fire over their heads; the husband and son fighting heroically, but only prolonging the useless, inevitably useless struggle; in the other room lies the body of allifair. she hears the others screaming for help. will she dare to go to them? yes. a true mother's love fears no dangers. where men shrink back in fear and terror a mother will rush into the jaws of death to defend and save her offspring. she opens the door wide and is greeted with bullets. she cares nothing for their vicious hiss. she goes on. already she has crossed half the space that separates her from her children, when she is confronted by the wretch vance. he orders her to return to her room. upon her refusal he strikes blow upon blow with the butt of his gun upon the head and body of the grey-haired woman and frenzied mother. she falls badly injured upon the floor. he kicks her into merciful insensibility. in the meantime, calvin and his father had maintained a spirited fire upon the assassins that encircled the house. but the flames roar and feed unchecked. the smoke prevents good aim. calvin is driven down-stairs by the heat and flames and acrid smoke. he suggests to his father to attempt a sortie. he remembers the corn-crib, a heavy log structure. he would attempt to reach it. once there he might cover his father's retreat thither. once there, they might yet drive their assailants off. he opens the door and starts on his perilous journey, running with the swiftness of the deer to get beyond the betraying circle of light from the now fiercely burning homestead. he is seen and instantly shot at. unharmed by this volley, he runs as he has never run before. the balls whistle above him, around him, and plow the dirt at his feet. already he has covered more than half the distance, now three-quarters of it. yet he is untouched. he is within three or four feet of the little house he strives so manfully to reach. at the threshold of the refuge he throws up his hands, staggers, sinks to his knees, rises to his feet again, then plunges heavily down upon the frozen ground, dead. after his son's fatal attempt to escape, old man mccoy grasped a double-barreled shotgun, sprang from the door, discharged both barrels with telling effect into the gathered clan, and before they could realize what was happening their intended victim had disappeared in the darkness beyond the firelight, a darkness intensified by the glare of the flames, making aim impossible. not a shot of the many vicious volleys that were fired after him touched him. providence had once more decreed to spare the old man. but at what cost! finding that the main object of their hatred and vengeance had again been baffled, the assassins withdrew, leaving behind them their work of destruction, the burning home of randolph mccoy; the old mother groaning, unconscious and dangerously wounded on the ground; the daughter allifair lying in a pool of blood; the son calvin dead at the corn-crib; the remaining children crazed with terror and sorrow. the house was rapidly burning to the ground. before the murderers withdrew, they had carefully closed the doors and window-shutters with the avowed purpose of cremating the entire family yet in the house. the insensible mother they had dragged back into one of the rooms, that she, too, might perish by fire. the sister of allifair, immediately upon the withdrawal of the cowardly wretches, regained her courage and self-possession. she placed the body of her dead sister upon a feather bed and dragged it from the house. she then returned for her mother, whom she also rescued. the little grandchild, a boy seven years old, also exhibited heroism, for one so young, for when he ran from the burning home, which then, in fact, was momentarily threatening to fall in, he thought of his little sister. the little hero braved the fire, was swallowed up for a few minutes in the smoke, but emerged triumphantly leading the little cripple by the hand. nor did the boy cry once, it is said, during that night of horror. the daughter ministered to the suffering mother as best she could. barefooted, in the cruel cold of a january night, she gave no thought to herself. her feet were badly frost-bitten. not until daylight came assistance. the hatfields had scored another victory. true, the man whose death they craved beyond all else, had escaped them, but they had broken his spirit. they had murdered, sent to eternity two more of his children and terribly injured, almost killed, his aged wife. the blood of the victims cried out to god. this time not in vain, for retribution followed swiftly on the heels of the murderers. from this night on their star of success was on the wane. one by one they were struck down; one expiated his crime upon the gallows; others found opportunity and time for reflection on their past deeds within the narrow, gloomy cells of the state prison. the news of the dastardly, cowardly, savage night attack spread like wildfire. newspaper accounts of the tragedy were everywhere received at first with doubt and considered as the figments of imagination of sensation writers. east, west, north and south newspapers began to make inquiries. it seemed beyond the possibility of belief that such horrors could occur in our day of enlightenment, in a land which boasts of a superior civilization and culture, and arrogates to itself the proud distinction of the "first christian nation in the world." as days passed, the story was verified. its truth might no longer be doubted. then followed a deluge of editorial comments. the authorities of kentucky and west virginia were mercilessly assailed for their failure to cope with crimes of such magnitude. yet, even after this last horror, west virginia refused to join hands with kentucky in delivering the criminals to justice. the murderous clan continued unmolested and was free to commit new crimes, invading kentucky at will, defying the entire legal and governmental machinery of that state. they felt secure with the governor of their own state apparently taking their part. then frank phillips started out to do, on his own responsibility, what west virginia should have done. kentucky had done all that could possibly be done to settle and arrange matters through the regular channels of law and constitution. nothing remained now but to act without the consent and authority of west virginia and the redoubtable frank phillips, chafing at all this delay like a restless mustang, decided to act. when the news of the night attack and assassinations of january st were brought to him, he threw all caution to the winds. he formed a band of trusty followers, men that, like himself, would do and dare. "if the governor of west virginia is determined to continue the protection of his murderous pets, i will protect the citizens of kentucky, or die in the attempt!" he declared. from that day there was no longer rest, peace or safety for the hatfield clan of west virginia. phillips had a system entirely his own. he quickly demonstrated his superiority of cunning and courage. a few days were spent in equipping and organizing his band of raiders. then swiftly they crossed the border into west virginia and commenced their dangerous operations. always on the move, they struck a rapid blow here and another there, always dashing upon the enemy at unexpected times and places. to describe those raids in detail would fill a book and furnish thrilling reading. but we shall select only a few incidents to illustrate the daring and determination of frank phillips and his devoted band. on january th, , phillips ascended the steep slopes of thacker mountain. suddenly they came in sight of cap hatfield and the brutal, but desperately courageous jim vance, sr. hatfield at once saw the uselessness of engaging in combat and precipitately fled across the mountain on foot, escaping the bullets that were sent after him. cap continued on his retreat without one thought for his pal. at "hog floyd" hatfield's, cap stopped long enough to secure a mount. from there he rode, at breakneck speed, without bridle or saddle, to the camp of his followers. vance, thus abandoned and alone, stood his ground. he opened fire upon the kentuckians without a moment's hesitation. the near presence of his enemies infuriated this grey-haired man, grown old in bloody crimes, beyond measure. but one desire, paramount, possessed him, the desire to kill, kill, kill, as long as life remained in his aged body. to attempt escape never for a moment entered his mind. he dropped behind an old tree stump and with vengeful eye drove shot after shot into the ranks of the astonished raiders, who were forced to take cover. several of them had already been wounded. vance, behind his natural rampart, remained unharmed. he laughed aloud, taunted his assailants with cowardice, and continued firing. his mortal hatred of the men before him inspired him to a heroism worthy of a better cause. at last a flank movement deprived him of the protection afforded him by the stump. his body now became exposed to fire from three sides, and a winchester rifle bullet brought him to the ground. as he struggled to rise shot after shot penetrated him. full of lead, wounded unto death, the blood streaming from his many wounds, he yet attempted to use his pistols. then phillips stepped forward and approached the dying desperado, the man who had given the heartless order to ellison mount to shoot the innocent allifair, the heartless wretch that had pounded savagely the aged mrs. mccoy and had laughed and tittered in the doing, the man who had incited cap to the burning of the mccoy home and of all its inmates. phillips raised the winchester to end the outlaw's life. but the man was down. he could not do it. vance saw his hesitation. he slowly raised upon his left arm and in his dying moments pressed hard upon the trigger of his colt's pistol. warned by companions, phillips saw the motion and sent a ball crashing through the outlaw's brain. immediately after cap hatfield's arrival at the camp of "devil anse" the entire available force was summoned and divided into detachments. plans were discussed and perfected by which phillips was to be enticed into an ambush and annihilated. this force remained under arms for many days. about ten days after the raid of january th, which had resulted in the killing of vance, phillips suddenly appeared on grapeville creek, where he encountered the hatfields in force. a severe battle immediately developed. the kentuckians outnumbered the west virginia outlaws. the latter, however, were on foot and had the advantage of position from the start. from it they fired upon phillips with telling effect, killing and wounding many horses with the first volley. these, maddened with pain and frightened by the sudden fire, reared and plunged and threw the column into confusion. the keen eyes of frank phillips cast about for a spot of vantage and discovered a stone fence a few hundred yards away, affording a strong position. with his accustomed quickness of determining an action, he prepared to seize it. the command was given to dismount all those yet mounted. bending their heads to the bullets, they rushed on and over and behind the stone wall. only one of their number had dropped in the essay. another assisted him to his feet, and all reached the wall in safety. now the tables were turned. volley upon volley was fired into the ambushed hatfields with the result that after two hours and fifteen minutes of long range fighting the outlaws retreated, taking along their many wounded, but leaving william dempsey dead on the field. in this battle the hatfields fought with the best rifles that money could procure, heavy calibre colts and winchester rifles. the kentuckians were armed less perfectly, about half of them using rifles and shotguns of the old pattern. phillips and two others, only, fought with repeating rifles. it was due to this superiority in armament that the kentuckians suffered such heavy losses in horses and wounded men. among the most severely injured was bud mccoy. among the hatfield wounded was tom mitchell, shot in the side; "indian" hatfield, wounded in the thigh; lee white, shot three times. many minor casualties occurred. the battle of grape vine creek was the last serious fight between the hatfield outlaws and the kentucky officers, although sporadic killings occurred at frequent intervals. in the several forays made by frank phillips and his party nine of the outlaws were captured and landed in jail at pikeville. in the meantime the quarrel between the two governors continued. the correspondence between them was exceedingly pithy and acrimonious. we shall quote one or two letters from governor buckner of kentucky to governor wilson of west virginia, which will fully explain the attitudes taken by these two gentlemen in this matter. commonwealth of kentucky executive department frankfort, ky., january th, . his excellency, e. w. wilson, governor of west virginia. on the tenth day of september last, in the discharge of what i conceived to be my duty as governor of this commonwealth, i issued a requisition upon your excellency for the rendition of anderson hatfield and others, charged by indictment with wilful murder committed in pike county, kentucky, on the th day of august, . on the th of september, , said requisition was returned to me with a letter from your excellency, calling my attention to a law of west virginia, a copy of which you were kind enough to enclose, and which you seemed to think prevented a compliance on your part with my demand, until it should be accompanied by the affidavit indicated in the law above referred to. without then stopping to discuss the correctness of your construction of the law in question, or its validity, even conceding your construction to be correct, the desired affidavit having been obtained was attached to said requisition, which was again enclosed to your excellency on the th of october, . having thus complied with every condition which your excellency has indicated that should be necessary, i had every reason to suppose that steps had been taken for the rendition of the fugitives named, and i knew nothing to the contrary, until early in the present month, when i was advised by the authorities of pike county that your excellency had, for some cause, declined up to that time, to issue your warrant for the arrest and delivery of the parties referred to, and that, in addition to the crime for which they stood indicted, they had recently perpetrated other crimes of the most atrocious character in the same locality. accordingly, on the th inst., i wrote your excellency, advising you of the information which i had received, and requesting to be advised whether there was then anything which prevented the rendition of the criminals. in response to this letter i received, only a few days since, your letter of january st ( ) in which you did me the honor to state your reasons for not complying with my request, and in which, among other things, you say: "and although the application for the requisition does not appear to be made or supported by any official authority of pike county, etc." i confess myself at a loss to understand how your excellency _could possibly know anything whatever about the character of the application made to me for a requisition in this case_. i did _not_ attach it to the requisition enclosed to your excellency, for the obvious reason that the law governing the extradition of fugitives _nowhere requires it_, or in any way intimates _that it would even be proper to do so_. on the contrary, it seems to contemplate, the papers being correct in other respects, that the executive making the demand, must be the sole judge of the circumstances under which it would be proper for him to issue his requisition. i, therefore, had no reason to suppose that your excellency would feel it your duty to inquire into this point, especially as you had in your first letter, returning the requisition, given no such intimation. but if your excellency desires to be advised as to that branch of the case, i certainly have no objections to telling you that the application for the requisition and rewards in this case was made by the county judge of pike county, indorsed by the judge of the district court, and urged by the commonwealth's attorney of the district, who was personally present when the application was presented. in referring to elias hatfield and andrew varney, your excellency is pleased to say: "the many affidavits of reliable persons showing that these two men were miles away at the time of the killing of the mccoys induced me to withhold, for the present, the warrant as to them, believing that when your excellency was made acquainted with the facts their rendition would not be demanded." the indictment accompanying the requisition charges that these two men were present and aided in the killing; this being so, _i respectfully submit that the guilt or innocence of these men is a question which it is not the province of your excellency or myself to decide_, but one which the court, having jurisdiction of the case can alone rightfully determine. and if, as you seem to suppose, the innocence of these two men can be so easily established, it would seem strange that they have not long before this voluntarily appeared in the court where they stand accused, and which is so convenient to their homes, and in which they might, if such be the case, be triumphantly vindicated against this grave charge. from my knowledge of the enlightened and upright judge of the court in which they stand charged, i feel assured that they would be awarded a speedy and fair trial; but if they think otherwise, and have fears, either as to the impartiality of the judge, or as to the prejudice of the community in whose midst they are to be tried, they can, under our laws, not only swear off the judge, but can, on proper showing, easily obtain a change of venue to another county in which no prejudice whatever exists. under these circumstances, your excellency can readily see that they would, in any event, have no difficulty whatever in obtaining a fair and impartial trial. before receiving your letter i had been fully apprised of the efforts on the part of p. a. kline to secure a withdrawal of the requisition and rewards in this case; in fact, the cool proposition made to me by the indicted parties through their attorney, to the effect that they would obligate themselves not to come again into kentucky, provided i would withdraw the requisitions and rewards named, was endorsed by mr. kline, who had previously shown an active interest in their apprehension. but this proposition, i, of course, declined to entertain, much less to agree to; and even admitting the truth of the affidavit enclosed by your excellency, which charges in terms that the friends of the indicted parties succeeded in bribing kline, their former enemy, to urge the acceptance of their proposition, i cannot see why this should cause your excellency to hesitate about issuing your warrant for the rendition of these parties to the proper authorities, upon whose application the requisition was issued, and whose conduct is not even questioned. indeed, it seems to me that the questionable means which the friends of the indicted parties have been employing to secure a withdrawal of the requisition and rewards of this case ought, of itself, to induce your excellency to regard with suspicion the efforts which they seem to be making to prevent the issuing of your warrant for their apprehension and delivery. my information as to the history of these troubles, briefly stated, are as follows: on the th day of august, , anderson hatfield and twenty-two other desperate characters of logan county, west virginia, residing near the state line, crossed the river into pike county, kentucky, arrested three sons of randolph mccoy, and having tied them to trees, deliberately shot them to death. it was for this cruel and inhuman murder that the parties named in my requisition were indicted in the pike circuit court, three separate indictments having been found against the parties named for the murder of the three mccoy brothers, respectively; though it is possible that only one of these indictments was attached to the requisition issued upon your excellency on the th day of september last. so far from "no move having been made in this matter for more than five years after the finding of the indictments," as stated by your excellency, the fact is, that bench warrants have been all the while in the hands of the officers of pike county, in the hope that these parties, who lived near the state line, and were frequently seen in kentucky, could be arrested by the authorities of the state without the necessity of applying for a requisition upon the governor of west virginia; and my predecessor at one time offered a reward for those who were supposed to be most responsible for the murder. but the indicted parties, knowing the efforts which were being made for their arrest, though frequently seen in kentucky, always came in crowds, well armed, so that it was impossible to arrest them before they could return to the west virginia side of the river. they have, on several occasions, while in kentucky, _unmercifully whipped defenseless women_ and inoffensive men, whose only provocation was some alleged remark in disapproval of their lawless conduct. the names of the various persons, who, at different times, have been thus brutally assailed, and the circumstances connected therewith, have been furnished me, but it is not deemed necessary here to mention them in detail. finally, on the th day of september last, upon the application of the local authorities, as heretofore indicated, i issued my requisition for all the persons named in the indictment for the murder of the mccoy brothers, and offered suitable rewards for four of the number, represented as being the leaders of the party and most responsible for their conduct. thus matters stood until the latter part of december ( ), when frank phillips, named as agent in the requisition for these parties, having sent the required fee, and being unable to hear anything from your excellency, went into west virginia in company with two others, and without any disturbance or conflict of any kind, succeeded in capturing tom chambers, selkirk mccoy and moses christian, three of the persons named in the indictment for the murder of the mccoy brothers, who were brought to kentucky and lodged in the jail of pike county. this so incensed the hatfield party that on the night of january st ( ) a company of twelve men, headed by cap hatfield and james vance, sr., came from west virginia into pike county (kentucky) and having surrounded the house of randolph mccoy, the father of the three mccoy brothers, who had been murdered in , commanded him to surrender, saying they were the hatfield crowd. they then forced their way into a room where the daughters were sleeping, shot one of them through the heart, and set fire to the house. the old man and his son, calvin, seeing that they intended to kill them, made the best defense they could, but the flames soon drove them from the house. the son, in his efforts to escape, was riddled with bullets, and the old man, who ran in an opposite direction, was fired upon by several of the party, but escaped unhurt. his wife, had, in the meantime, come out of the house and begged for mercy, but was struck on the head and side with a gun, breaking her ribs and knocking her senseless to the ground, after which she was thrown back into the house to be burnt, but was dragged out by her daughters as they left the burning building. some days thereafter, twenty-six men armed themselves and went into west virginia in pursuit of the perpetrators of this atrocious crime, and on reaching the house of anderson hatfield, so far from abusing or mistreating his wife, as has been represented to your excellency, they treated her kindly, and at her request left some of their party there with her to quiet her fears; but after leaving there in search of the men, they were fired upon by james vance, sr., cap hatfield and others, and in the fight which followed, james vance, sr., was killed, having on his person when killed two pistols and a repeating rifle. old randolph mccoy was not with this raiding party, as has been represented to your excellency, but was at that time in pikeville, kentucky, as the citizens of that place will all testify. the pursuing party then returned to kentucky, and being reinforced by ten additional men, went the next day and succeeded, without the firing of a gun, in capturing six more of the men indicted for the murder of the mccoy brothers, in , bringing them back to kentucky, where they were lodged in the jail of pike county. eight or ten days thereafter, frank phillips and eighteen others went again into west virginia in pursuit of the remaining parties, belonging to what is known as the hatfield crowd, and only a short distance from the state line were met by cap hatfield, anderson hatfield and ten armed men, who fired upon phillips and his posse from ambush before they were aware of their presence. phillips and his party returned the fire, killing dempsey and putting others to flight. phillips and his party then returned to the kentucky side, but went back on the following day, and as to what has since occurred i have no information. the foregoing account, which differs so widely from that received by you, was obtained from the county attorney of pike county, who claims to have taken great pains to ascertain the real facts, and who seems to have no doubt about its correctness; but i, of course, understand how difficult it is to arrive at exact facts in an affair of this kind from the statements which he may have heard from the parties on either side. i regret exceedingly that any portion of the citizens of pike county should have attempted, under any circumstances, to arrest citizens of west virginia for crimes committed in the state without first obtaining the requisite authority therefor. i am satisfied that frank phillips, the agent appointed by me to receive the fugitives named in my requisition, is not the murderous outlaw your excellency seems to suppose; but as he has undertaken to arrest some of the parties in west virginia, without your warrant, and is, therefore, objectionable to you, i will, when your excellency indicates your readiness to surrender the persons demanded, take pleasure in designating another agent for that purpose. your obedient servant, s. b. buckner. governor wilson still refused to honor kentucky's requisition for the indicted outlaws, asserting that the requisition of governor buckner had been and was being abused and prostituted for base purposes; that a warrant issued by the governor of west virginia would be used for the same purpose. he would withhold the warrants for more positive proof, maintaining that a warrant issued by him before the return to the state of west virginia of the persons kidnapped in his state and thrown into prison in kentucky, would be construed as a ratification of acts of lawlessness on the part of kentucky officers, which neither the peace nor the safety of his people could permit or approve of. "instead of the phillips raid into the territory of a sister state being allowed to stand as examples for the invitation of like occurrences, i am impressed with the belief that they should be made examples of judicial determination, which would discourage their repetition either to or from this state." governor wilson further announced that he had instituted proceedings in the united states circuit court for the district of kentucky for a settlement of the questions involved. comment on this attitude of west virginia's chief executive is unnecessary. yet we feel that a few paragraphs of governor buckner's response are in place. "your excellency," answered governor buckner (in part), "seems to have forgotten that, long before any of the phillips raids referred to had occurred, a band of armed men from west virginia came into pike county, kentucky, violently seized three citizens of the state who were at the time in custody of the local authorities of that county, forcibly took them to west virginia, and after detaining them there for some time, brought them back to this state and deliberately shot them to death; that, as early as the tenth of september last, i demanded the rendition of the persons who then stood indicted in the courts of this state for the perpetration of this atrocious crime; and that it was not until _after_ your excellency had refused to surrender any of the persons so demanded, and until _after_ said persons, or a portion of them, had committed other crimes of the most cruel and revolting character, upon unoffending men and helpless women in this state, that frank phillips and other citizens of pike county, were guilty of the acts of violence and bloodshed complained of. "if frank phillips and other citizens of this state have been guilty of crimes against the laws of west virginia, however great their provocation, i quite agree with your excellency that 'they should be made examples of judicial determination' and up to this time there has certainly been no refusal, upon a proper demand, to surrender them to the authorities of west virginia for that purpose. on the other hand, however, your excellency has, for months past, steadily failed and refused to surrender any of the persons who stand charged, by indictment, with the perpetration of the most atrocious crimes against the laws of this commonwealth, although the demand for them is accompanied by every requirement which your excellency has indicated that you thought necessary. and you now indicate that you will not in the future surrender any of the persons thus demanded until certain citizens of west virginia, who you think, are illegally detained in this state, shall be released from custody and set at liberty. "with all due respect i fail to see that the 'honor' of your state will be maintained, or that the 'peace and safety of its people' will be preserved, by a refusal on your part to surrender persons charged with the most flagitious crimes against the laws of this state, simply because certain citizens of this state, acting on their own motion, and without the knowledge or approval of the authorities of this state, have, in a violent and unauthorized way, _done that which it was the duty of your excellency to have done_ in the manner required by law; or because i have not felt authorized to interfere with the administration of justice by one of the coordinate branches of state government, by attempting to release prisoners over whom i had no control whatever. on the contrary, i respectfully submit that the honor of both states can be better maintained, and the peace and safety of their respective citizens can be better preserved, by a prompt rendition of the persons charged with the perpetration of crime in either state, in all cases where such rendition is demanded in the manner prescribed by law" etc., for complete correspondence and exhibits filed therewith, see documents (ky.) , no. . immediately upon the institution of proceedings in the united states circuit court for the district of kentucky, the prisoners captured by phillips and his men were removed to the louisville jail pending trial. a great legal battle followed. kentucky was ably represented by general p. watt hardin and former governor proctor knott. the best counsel of west virginia represented the interests of that state. phillips was charged with kidnapping citizens of another state and was taken in charge by the united states marshal. phillips, on the stand, assumed personal responsibility for all his acts, and exonerated governor buckner from any connivance therewith. the case was argued at length for days. judge barr, who presided, decided, in an exhaustive opinion, that the court had not jurisdiction. the prisoners were therefore returned to the pike circuit court to be tried there for their crimes. as a matter of retaliation phillips was indicted in west virginia with kidnapping citizens of that state without warrant or authority of law. after a long continued legal battle the redoubtable raider, the captor of as dangerous and desperate a lot of men as ever trod american soil, won his fight in the courts as he had won the many battles with the outlaws. for years afterwards phillips traveled in west virginia wherever he desired. although the hatfields did their "trading" at matewan, w. va., he visited that town frequently and alone, though always well armed. none ever molested him. it is significant, however, that the hatfields and phillips were never seen in that town on the same day. for some time no further arrests were made or attempted to be made with the result that those of the hatfield clan who had never been arrested, again issued forth from their hiding-places and appeared more boldly. kentucky officers had long and patiently waited for an opportunity to apprehend bill tom hatfield, for whom there was a large reward. learning that his partners in crime, devil anse and cap hatfield, remained at home unmolested, he, too, had returned to the scene of his evil deeds. the officers kept a sharp eye upon him, however, and succeeded in decoying him near the kentucky line, the scheme being accomplished through a pretended friend of bill tom hatfield. when he reached the spot designated, he was surrounded and disarmed. the officers attempted to cross into kentucky. but before they could do so, the news of the capture had spread into the hatfield neighborhood. a strong force rushed to the rescue of the prisoner. sheriff keadle of mingo county, w. va., being near, summoned a posse and started in pursuit. he prevented a bloody encounter by prevailing upon the kentuckians to release their prisoner. the hatfields, of course, accused the mccoys of being at the bottom of this affair, which the latter stoutly denied. bill tom hatfield was, however, later in the year, again taken and finally convicted for his participation in the murder of the three mccoy brothers. after the return of the prisoners from louisville to pike county a number of the parties were put on trial. ellison mounts was sentenced to hang for participation in the murder of allifair mccoy during that infamous night attack, while johns hatfield, valentine (val) hatfield, the "justice of the peace of west virginia," plyant mayhorn, and others, were convicted to the state penitentiary at frankfort, kentucky, for life. val hatfield set up the remarkable defense that the brothers were killed on the kentucky side, and that at the time of the _shooting he_ was on the west virginia side. this was the gist of his appeal to the court of appeals of kentucky. this court, however, in a very pithy opinion, among other things said, confirming the judgment of the lower court:-- it is not pretended here that the state could enforce its laws beyond the state boundary, but it is well settled that if either of the appellants had stood on the west virginia side and shot the deceased in kentucky, the offense would have been against the laws of kentucky. (i bishop on criminal law, iii.) regarding the appellants mayhorn the court expressed itself in emphatic language, when it said: "the law has been enforced in this case, and in its administration the appellants (defendants in the lower court) can truly say to the jury that in inflicting punishment by imprisonment for life 'it has tempered justice with mercy.'" the kentucky appellate court affirmed each and every one of the cases appealed. ellison mounts, sentenced to die on the gallows for shooting and killing allifair mccoy, appealed on the ground that he pleaded _guilty_ to the charge, and having done so he was entitled to a sentence of confinement in the state prison instead of hanging. it was claimed for him that the state, in introducing the wife of randolph mccoy, so brutally beaten that night of january st, , had taken unfair (?) advantage of his condition and that, therefore, the case should be reversed. as in the other cases, the court of appeals refused to disturb the judgment of the lower court, maintaining that all the authorities agreed that unless a tacit agreement between the state and defendant had been entered into to reduce the punishment, the state had a right even under the plea of guilty to introduce testimony _illustrating the atrocity of the crime_. on february th, , ellison mounts was hanged. for some time previous to the day of execution the sheriff had on duty a guard of from fifty to seventy-five men, armed to the teeth, and in addition had appointed and sworn an additional force of some twenty deputy sheriffs for the special occasion. repeated reports had come to sheriff mayward that the hatfields of west virginia would attempt a rescue. in view of what had transpired in the past, the precaution of the kentucky sheriff was entirely warranted. on the day of the execution the largest crowd ever brought together in kentucky on a similar occasion assembled at the little country town of pikeville, careful and conservative estimates judging the number to have been nearly eight thousand. they came from all directions, on horseback, on foot, in wagons drawn by oxen. they came long before daybreak and from that time on until the time of the execution, after noon, the stream of visitors poured into the town. little children even were brought along by mothers who had come to see the hanging with an eagerness with which they would have attended a circus. is it not strange how morbidly curious most of us are? how we jostle each other so as not to lose a glimpse of misery or death? not strange, after all--the savage of the stone age is not yet eradicated from our natures. while the crowd collected, an incident marred the generally peaceable behavior of the mass of people. frank phillips was "in his cups." with a revolver in each hand he walked the streets of the town, announcing that he had run the hatfields down and that now he proposed to run the town of pikeville. sheriff mayward remonstrated with phillips, who showed fight. a number of deputy sheriffs soon disarmed him and the trouble passed without serious casualty. in the scuffle the sheriff had been severely injured. as soon as he recovered from the shock he called the guards and from that time on matters progressed without any other interruption. at that time executions were public, not behind walls or enclosures as now. a mile and a half from the town, in a natural amphitheatre, the old-fashioned gallows had been erected. the hills overlooking the scene were black with people. a few minutes past twelve the sheriff repaired to the jail and read the death warrant. keen-eyed guards scanned the people around to detect any possible attempt at rescue. none was made. the condemned criminal listened to the reading of the warrant with the same stoicism that had marked the commission of his crimes. he claimed conversion, and hoped that "all men and women would lead good lives and to meet him in heaven, where he was going." a short time after one o'clock his lifeless form dangled from the gallows-beam. ellison mount had ceased to be a dread to humanity. ignorant as the savage of interior africa, he had no conception of the magnitude of his crimes. a criminal by nature, he was easily influenced to obey the command of those who used him as a tool. shedding human blood was a pastime with him. however, according to orthodox teaching, he consorts now with the saints. a life of crime seems to have some compensation, after all. many of the criminals being still at large, wanted in kentucky or elsewhere, the eureka detectives now took a hand. among these were a. w. burnett, w. g. baldwin, kentucky bill, tom campbell and treve gibson. to the credit of these brave men be it said that they apprehended many of these outlaws to answer for crimes other than those recited in connection with this feud. they effected the capture of john norman, joe frank smith and john b. dodson, all of whom were put on trial before judge t. h. harvey in logan county, west virginia. johns and cap hatfield went west for a time, and, though hounded from place to place, cap was never caught. johns hatfield afterward served a short term in the state penitentiary at frankfort for participation in the night attack on the mccoy home and murder of allifair and calvin mccoy. life's cheap, isn't it? the feud was at an end. some years later, however, in , cap hatfield, still at large, residing unmolested in west virginia, committed a triple murder under circumstances quite in keeping with his former record of bloodshed. while this killing is only indirectly connected with the feudal troubles, an account of it and the attempted capture serves, however, to illustrate the daring and recklessness of this outlaw. on november rd, , it being the day of the presidential election, cap hatfield and his stepson, joseph glenn, whom he affectionately called "his boy," went to the voting place at thacker, west virginia. both were heavily armed with winchester rifles of large calibre and braces of colt pistols. they had been at the polls but a short time when they began a dispute with john and elliott rutherford, two natives of that county, and who, according to hatfield's story, had been members of the mccoy clan, and had fought with them in various battles against him and his relatives. cap hatfield's menacing threats and flashing eyes boded evil. the rutherfords, knowing well the desperation of the man in anger, attempted to leave the polls, when cap hatfield threw the gun to his shoulder and instantly killed john rutherford. the "boy" fired upon ellison rutherford, who dropped to the ground, gasped and expired. hence chambers, a prominent citizen, rushed forward just as the lad fired. the boy, presuming chambers to be a friend of the rutherfords, turned upon him, fired, and the triple murder was complete. the murderers retreated very deliberately toward the mountains. indeed, there was no necessity for hurry. every man upon the voting ground appeared dazed, dumbfounded, paralyzed with astonishment and fear. the tragedy had started and finished so suddenly and unexpectedly that it was impossible to realize in a moment the magnitude of the crime. even after the men regained their power of speech and action, pursuit was not thought of. no one dared attempt the arrest of the fugitives, knowing that it would result in more bloodshed, and there had been enough for one day. but on the following morning, over one hundred armed and determined men answered the summons of sheriff keadle, and started on their perilous task to arrest the outlaws. this force was augmented by another, which, on the night following the tragedy, kept a close watch over the "rock fort," a retreat in mountain wilds, much in favor with the hatfields when pursued by officers. during the night deputy sheriff clark and one daniel christian were informed by a spy that the fugitives had stolen away from the fort and were going in the direction of kentucky. clark at once followed the trail indicated and located the two near the house of one of the hatfields where they had gone for food. clark and christian, in following the trail, on passing a large rock or cliff on the hillside, came upon the two men, who were fast asleep. cautiously approaching, the officers recognized the murderers. the hazardous pursuit was at an end, and the capture effected without the shedding of blood. the excitement attending the arrest of the criminals was great throughout the county. officers feared mob violence. to avoid it the prisoners were taken to huntington, but were returned within a few days to mingo county and lodged in jail, which was heavily guarded. cap hatfield's version of the tragedy is interesting and characteristic of the man. it was a total contradiction of the statements made by all the eye-witnesses. cap hatfield said: "i believe it to have been a prearranged attempt to take my life. rutherford was jealous of me years ago. some two years ago he said i had done him an injury and demanded an apology. i told him i had not wronged him, but if he thought i had, i regretted it. he seemed to accept this explanation and i thought the matter ended. on the day of the killing he was quarrelsome and i avoided him, telling him that i had enough trouble in my time and wanted no more. late in the evening joe and i started for home. rutherford renewed his quarrel and suddenly drew his revolver and began firing at me. i threw my gun up to get it in position and the first ball from his revolver hit here" (showing a heavy indentation on the underside of the heavy steel gun barrel). "the gun prevented the ball from entering my breast. he fired twice more before i could get my gun in position, then i fired my gun twice and drew my revolver. at the third shot he fell, and some one, ellison rutherford, i think, was firing on me from behind, and getting very close to me, as you can see" (exhibiting a nick in his left ear and a grazed place or scratch in the neck). "chambers was shot by accident, i suppose. when i reached the railroad they were so hot after me i reloaded my revolver. young rutherford was shot purely in self-defense, either by me or the boy, i don't know which. we made for the woods." "yes," he said, in answer to a question, "clark and christian got the drop on us. i was doing picket duty and sleep overcame me. the boy would have shot clark had i not stopped him." an organized band of the hatfields attempted a rescue of the prisoners, but the celerity with which the officers acted, frustrated the attempt. devil anse hatfield and others were arrested for this, taken to logan county and placed in jail there, but were soon afterwards released. deprived of a leader, the famous clan dispersed and the country breathed freely once more. although a reward had been hanging over cap hatfield for many years without effecting his arrest, the tragedy of november rd, at last brought him behind prison bars. but the good fortune, which always attended this man, did not leave him even in this dire extremity. he was tried on one of the cases, fined and sentenced to imprisonment in the county jail for one year. two other indictments, both for murder, were still pending in court. he was to be tried on these the following term. in the little county jail at williamson, west virginia, cap hatfield now posed as a hero, receiving his wife, friends and relatives daily. one evening he held a "levee" and was the gayest of the gay. his gayety was explained when, on the following morning, the jailer made the discovery that the man who carried eighteen scalps at his belt, was a prisoner no longer. at midnight the crowd of visitors at the jail had gone. at three o'clock in the morning hatfield was in the mountains. a hatchet, given him by some of the visitors, did the work of liberation. a large hole through a sixteen-inch brick wall caught the attention of the village policeman, who gave the alarm. a crowd of men soon collected and started in search of the fugitive. it seems that cap hatfield, though getting off easy in one of his cases, was afraid to stand trial on the others, fearing a death sentence. but a few days before his escape he had remarked that he preferred death at the mouth of winchesters to being made a show subject on the scaffold. by noon of the following day the whole country was in motion. like the gathering of the clans of old the sturdy citizens poured into the county seat and offered their services to bring back into the hands of justice the man who had for so many years defied the laws of two states. the county offered rewards, private citizens contributed to defray the expenses of the posse. governor atkinson of west virginia promised aid; the state of kentucky, through governor bradley, tendered assistance, and virginia's executive declared that the outlaw should find no asylum in that state. the banks of the ohio river were lined with armed men for many miles to prevent his escape into that state. it was generally believed that he would be apprehended within a day or two. but days passed and yet the outlaw had eluded his pursuers. he was no longer alone now. to his aid came his relatives, johns, elias and troy hatfield, clark smith, henry harmon and others, each heavily armed, and amply supplied with ammunition. familiar with every nook and corner of that part of west virginia, he was secretly assisted by other friends and henchmen, bound to him by ties of relationship or forced to render assistance through fear of incurring his enmity. this condition aroused the entire state of west virginia. on wednesday the sheriff, with a considerable force of "militia," composed of men to be depended upon, again took to the mountains. within three hours of their departure old randolph mccoy came into williamson, west virginia. he was clad in the homespun of the country. his large-brimmed hat was adorned with a squirrel's tail. carrying an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, he looked worthy of the comradeship of daniel boone or kit carson. years before that, three of his sons had been foully murdered while being tied to bushes; some years afterwards another son and a daughter were shot down in cold blood, his wife brutally beaten, his home reduced to ashes, himself escaping only by a miracle, and now the old man is on the trail of one of the participants, if not the actual instigator of these outrages. he had come, said mccoy, to aid in the capture of "six feet of devil, and pounds of hell," as he always described cap hatfield. seven miles below williamson, mccoy overtook sheriff keadle, and united with him. stretching over as much country as possible, the force scattered and advanced in skirmish lines. nothing was seen of the fugitive on that day. at night camp was made on lower beech creek. the posse was now in the very heart of the hatfield country, on cap hatfield's native heath. some years before in this locality charles mckenney, a cousin of the mccoys, a lad of only eighteen, had been riddled with buckshot by cap hatfield and two others. during the night, after the moon had risen, guards reported a column of smoke further up on the creek. this was not unexpected. the stronghold of the hatfields was on a decided elevation some four miles away. the smoke suggested that they were there. the rumor served to keep the camp awake until daylight, when the march was resumed, the posse heading direct for the old palisade. the advance was made with caution. when within a quarter of a mile from the "fort," the first glimpse of the outlaw was had. his oft repeated boast that if once he gained the mountains, he would turn his back on no man, proved idle talk. he and his comrades rapidly retreated toward another mountain stronghold. when the log cabin was reached it was empty. no time was lost here. the men, elated at being so close upon the outlaws' trail, marched with spirit and rapidity. the direction these had taken indicated that they were straining every nerve to reach the mountain crag known as the "devil's backbone." it is said that from this point, some years previous, devil anse hatfield had fought single-handed a considerable force of men. it was then that the summit was christened and received its weird name, and where old man hatfield won his "nom de guerre" of "devil anse." the mountains in this section are very steep to the southeast; beech creek cuts and winds through the hills until it empties into the tug fork. huge walls of rock fringe the stream on each side. the strata is tilted until it stands on edge, a remarkable, interesting geological formation. approach is impossible except from one direction. a slender footpath at that point clambers laboriously upward. at no place is there room for two men abreast. two sharpshooters on top might successfully defend the place against a regiment. it was this stronghold that cap hatfield and his companions were so anxious to gain. he finally reached the foot of it, but at a loss. old man mccoy was among the first of the attacking party, forging ahead with grim determination. intuitively he seemed to know his old enemy's destination. mccoy and six or seven men at last separated from the main body of the sheriff's force and followed a cattle path. sheriff keadle pursued the other trail. it was along in the afternoon that the quiet of the forest hills was suddenly broken by a shot. before another was heard, the armed posse was in a clearing which commanded a view for a mile or more toward the "devil's backbone." nothing, however, could be seen except that the summit of the citadel was yet unoccupied. then a white puff of smoke, followed instantly by a rapid fusilade, told that the battle had begun. mccoy and his party had intercepted the hatfields. at that distance it was impossible to see the actors in the drama then being acted. shot followed shot. both parties were in ambush. ever and anon old randolph mccoy's rifle could be heard. then there came a lull. by the aid of his field-glasses the sheriff saw that hatfield was flanking mccoy. it was plain that the old man must either retreat or perish. but the old fox had not lost his cunning. he quickly saw the danger and effected a safe retreat, while the hatfields stopped at the foot of the coveted fortress. it was seen that two of the hatfield crowd were wounded. the sheriff and his posse now pressed forward with speed. within a few minutes they joined mccoy. it was almost dark, now, when the forces were once more united, and approached within range of the hatfield guns. bullets whistled and cut the twigs of limbs over the heads of the pursuers. the sheriff commanded his men to seek cover. instantly every man "treed." then began a fight after the fashion of indian battles of old. the moment a body was exposed from a protecting tree, it was certain to become a target for many guns. gradually, carefully, nevertheless surely the posse forged ahead, always under cover, yet advancing, concentrating and getting closer. escape for the hatfields seemed now impossible, unless they could put into effect one of their wonderful dashes which in the past had extricated them out of many dangers and difficulties. cap hatfield directed the fire of his men with utter disregard for their own safety. he seemed to bear a charmed life. the target of every sharpshooter in the sheriff's posse, not once did a bullet touch him. the hatfield rifles did better execution. the posse, which had left williamson the previous morning with flying colors and full of hope, was now decimated. two of the deputies were fatally wounded and seven members of the posse more or less severely. as night drew near the battle ceased. the posse camped. a council of war was held. some were for pressing on in the night. others, with cooler judgment, suggested that it was safer to starve the outlaws into submission. the latter opinion prevailed. early on the following morning (friday), there was a short but hot skirmish during which another of the posse was wounded. at noon the sheriff was reinforced by a force led by j. h. baldwin. this man had, for some time, led the hatfields a hard life. ever on their trail, he either captured them or drove them from the country. cap and his band were those who had given him the most trouble and had constantly eluded him, thus far. now he had another opportunity to try conclusions with them. baldwin was a splendidly courageous man, and a crack shot with the rifle. he at once took the lead. "when i was a boy," he said, "i smoked many a rabbit out of a hollow tree." with this remark he despatched two men to williamson for a supply of dynamite. the besiegers sat down to wait. late on friday evening baldwin "winged" one of the hatfields. the man had attempted to reach water. at nine o'clock saturday morning, the dynamite arrived and preparations were made to place the mine. by eleven o'clock the work was complete, the match applied and the command given to retire. until now the besieged had apparently been in utter ignorance of what was being done. but the flashing of the train of powder leading to the dynamite, brought them to a full realization of their peril. men sprang from cover and rushed hither and thither in full view. cap hatfield was seen to start for the path, heedless of the bullets that spitefully hissed about his ears. then they made a sudden rush down the mountain. in this "sortie" three men went down. this convinced the rest of the uselessness of an attempt to escape by the path thus guarded. the trapped desperadoes returned to the "fort" and began to throw stones and bowlders upon the train of powder in the hope of breaking it. then came the explosion. it sounded as though the mountains were slipping from their sockets. pieces of rock and portions of trees flew in every direction. the atmosphere was surcharged with dust and smoke. when the air cleared at last, it was seen that more than half of the "devil's backbone" was torn up and blown down the mountain-side into a small arm of the tug fork, changing the course of the stream. hatfield was still unharmed. in the excitement of the moment, dan lewis, steve stanley and jack monroe of the posse had left the shelter of the trees and were wounded. another charge of dynamite was placed, and the besiegers retreated still further down the valley. the second explosion shook the earth--the hatfields seemed doomed. but the moment the smoke cleared away rifle shots poured into the flank of baldwin's men. cap hatfield had again successfully foiled the plans of his pursuers. his retreat had been made possible under cover of the smoke from the explosion. thus the dynamite charge had effected nothing except the destruction of one of nature's unique works. the chase was renewed, and though hampered by the wounded members of his clan, he made his escape. the spectacular attempt to capture the famous outlaw bore no fruit save wounds for many of the posse. cap hatfield, the man who is said to have a record of having killed eighteen men in his life, was gone. he was never apprehended. some years ago he lived in virginia, apparently peaceably, but engaged in the sale of whiskey, a vocation which is almost certain to get him into trouble again, as it did two of his brothers, elias and troy, during october, . they were shot and killed in a pistol duel at cannelton, w. va., by octavo gerone, an italian, with whom they had a dispute over saloon property. the italian opened fire upon the two hatfields, fatally wounded both, and was himself instantly killed, riddled with bullets from the dying men. when the brothers were found by neighbors, the expiring troy hatfield made the characteristic remark: "you need not look for the man who did this, he is dead." years ago the prophecy was made that "devil anse" would inevitably die with his boots on. but he has confounded the prophets. he still lives, from last accounts. the daring feudist, who, with his sons, defied the law and authorities of three states, for twenty years, the chieftain of as daring a band of outlaws as ever trod american soil, has more than lived his "allotted three score years and ten." he is approaching the nineties. but a few days before the killing of elias and troy, just mentioned, he was converted and baptized, declaring that henceforth he would lead a christian life. it was high time, a resolution unfortunately long deferred. randolph mccoy also passed the four score mark. he seemed to have borne a charmed life. marked for assassination a hundred times, he had always escaped bodily harm. but his heart almost broke when three of his sons were slaughtered in one night; his spirit was crushed when another son and a young daughter were foully slain, his aged wife was brutally beaten and the home burned. after all, he had the questionable satisfaction of assisting a few of his tormentors to a temporary berth in the penitentiary. one and only one was hanged, ellison mount, the slayer of allifair, and he was the gainer at last, for he went straight to heaven. so he said. perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn't. somehow, it seems difficult to believe that murderers should have a monopoly of heaven. the murderers' band there must be very large. let a man be sentenced to death for a heinous crime, let his attempt to obtain a commutation to imprisonment prove abortive, and straightway he repents and away he goes--to heaven, so 'tis said. his victim, snatched into eternity without the formal preparations which orthodox religion prescribes for candidates for heaven, must suffer an eternity of hell. they tell us "we shall know each other there." will randolph mccoy and his wife thrill with pleasure and be overcome with ecstatic spasms of happiness on beholding among the saints the slayers of four sons and a daughter? will they join in the anthems warbled by these celestial birds, whose victims-- but let that be. we did not mean to be irreverent. we simply cannot help differing from the approved and established conception of god's justice. the tolliver-martin-logan vendetta. (rowan county) the royal murder at serajevo was the spark that set the world on fire. it would be silly, however, to place the blame of the world war upon it. to find the real causes of the appalling tragedy one must go further back. so it is with the great rowan county war. there were many agencies at work that contributed, little by little, but none the less surely, to that state of anarchy which disgraced rowan county and kentucky during the eighties. the evil influences which initiated it were: politics and whiskey. a weak-kneed, yea, corrupt administration of justice permitted its continuation. the reign of terror which continued so long unhindered could have been crushed in its infancy with any sort of an honest, determined effort at law enforcement. a verse or two of mulligan's "in kentucky" finds excellent application here: "the bluegrass waves the bluest in kentucky; yet, bluebloods are the fewest (?) in kentucky; moonshine is the clearest, by no means the dearest, and yet, it acts the _queerest_ in kentucky. "the dove-notes are the saddest, in kentucky: the streams dance on the gladdest in kentucky: hip pockets are the thickest, pistol hands the slickest, the cylinder turns quickest in kentucky. "the song birds are the sweetest in kentucky: the thoroughbreds are fleetest in kentucky: mountains tower proudest, thunder peals the loudest, the landscape is the grandest, and politics--the damndest in kentucky." in the long continued struggle which brought rowan county into disrepute, many families of high reputation, men of wealth and influence, as well as men of reckless, undaunted, desperate character, were pitted against each other. officers of the law, lawyers, judges and politicians of more than ordinary ability and reputation, quarreled, disputed and excited such unreasoning passion as to result in bloodshed. after that the dogged, stubborn determination of the different factions admitted of no other settlement of the controversy save by the arbitrament of arms, a war to the death. patrick henry cried out before the virginia convention: "gentlemen may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace." in rowan county, too, men cried continually for peace, yet there was to be no peace until anarchy had almost depopulated the county and its name had become synonymous with outlawry. the only alternative left was to leave the country or fight. some did leave, most of them remained and fought, fought with a courage worthy of a better cause. the courts appeared powerless. the officers were themselves bitter partisans. the government of the state, when applied to for troops to assist in restoring order, sometimes refused aid, owing to a technicality in the law, and thus was precipitated the famous bloody battle at morehead, in which many men were killed and wounded. it may be well to add that rowan county was not a remote, inaccessible region where civilization had made but little progress, as was the case along the border of west virginia and kentucky, the scene of the hatfield-mccoy war. good roads and railroad communication had introduced to rowan county even then a civilization which should have made the bloody conflict impossible; it certainly made it inexcusable. it is difficult to produce a fair picture of the political upheavals and complications which eventually led to and resulted in so much bloodshed without going behind the actual outbreak of the feud. while this necessitates the narration of incidents of purely local interest, and may, therefore, not grip the interest of outsiders, a patient reading of it will develop the fact that it is indispensable to a true understanding of the history of this war, and also that it teaches a moral. as early as political quarrels arose, engendering bitter hatred, between prominent, wealthy and influential men of rowan and surrounding counties. at that time it was hoped and generally believed that the difficulties would be forgotten as soon as the heat of the political contests had abated. but as the years passed factional division grew more and more pronounced. citizens who had theretofore held aloof from the disputes, were gradually and surely drawn into the vortex of strife. as is usual and unavoidable under such circumstances, many desperate, degraded characters attached themselves to the various factions. these would commit deeds for pay, from the commission of which the more circumspect employers of them shrank in fear. in such wars the hired assassin always finds lucrative employment. he becomes the blind tool of the coward with the money, and the greater the compensation the more horrible his crimes. the innocent but direct cause of the political struggle to which we must refer, was the honorable thomas f. hargis, who, in after years, rose to the highest judicial position in the state. his father, before him, served in the constitutional convention of the state in and was a very distinguished kentuckian. when the great rebellion broke out, kentucky soon began to suffer the distress and horrors of civil war. it at first declared its intention to remain neutral. governor mcgoffin refused to furnish troops to the union army and attempted to enforce neutrality by maintaining a "home guard." this brought on many conflicts with the state guards. it became at once apparent that the two bodies of troops were nothing more than partisans. the home guards often employed their military power and authority in harassing and mistreating actual or suspected sympathizers with the cause of the south. the state guards, on the other hand, used their influence and made every exertion toward turning the tide of public sentiment in favor of the confederacy. the sudden invasion of kentucky by the federal troops was greeted with joy by the home guards, who made no attempt to repel it or to preserve the state's neutrality for which purpose they had been organized. the larger portion of the home guards, in fact, at once joined the union army. the state guards disbanded and a majority of them joined the confederates. the division of kentucky was now complete. in the general rush to opposing armies we find thomas hargis donning the grey and fighting for the "lost cause" as captain until the close of the war. returning home, he studied law and was admitted to the bar. the date of this admission, an unimportant point it may seem, was nevertheless responsible for the internecine strife of after years. in the year , captain hargis, who had already won prominence as a lawyer of ability and sagacity, was nominated by the democratic party as its candidate for judge of the circuit court. opposed to hargis in this race was geo. m. thomas, afterwards united states district attorney for the district of kentucky. he was the nominee of the republican party. the race was exceedingly hot and spirited from the beginning. the contest became bitter. it was charged by the friends of thomas, among whom were not only the republicans whose nominee and choice he was, but enemies of hargis in the ranks of his own party, that he was not eligible to the office because he had not attained the requisite age, and that he was still further disqualified from holding the position of circuit judge because he had not been licensed as a lawyer for a sufficient number of years. these reports were industriously circulated against him. appreciating the danger of such a rumor in a contest like this was, and knowing that only a prompt refutation and repudiation of the charges could prevent his signal and disastrous defeat, he hastened to obtain copies of the records of his age, and of the date of his admission to the bar from the records of the clerk's office. at the time of his candidacy hargis was a resident of carlisle, nicholas county, but when admitted to the practice of the law had resided in rowan county. so the records of his admission to the bar must be obtained there. he, therefore, went at once to morehead and instituted an examination of the records, but to his consternation it revealed the astounding fact that the only record and evidence of his admission to the bar had been mutilated and destroyed; the pages containing them had been cut out from the books. added to this was the unwelcome discovery that the family bible had also been mutilated in so far as it contained the record of his age. the charges of ineligibility had been widely circulated and published in the newspapers and hargis' inability to refute them for lack of record evidence now gave them the stamp and color of truth. the republicans, and the personal enemies of hargis among the democrats, were jubilant, while his friends flatly and broadly accused thomas' friends and supporters of the crime of stealing and destroying public records. this further increased the already bitter feeling. the friends of thomas now charged that if any such records had ever existed hargis himself had stolen and destroyed them. the result of it all was that hargis was defeated by his republican opponent, and this in a district theretofore always safely democratic. the close of the contest brought out another truth no longer to be denied or overlooked. every circumstance and condition existing after the election pointed clearly to the fact that something more than factional, political animosity, common in all hotly contested races for position, had been awakened and that in the hearts of many, malice had taken deep root. each succeeding election only augmented the bitter feeling. desire for revenge, and, what at first seemed but political excitement and zeal for the favored candidate, now caused friends of old to cancel their friendship and the most prominent leaders of the opposing factions regarded each other no longer as merely political, but as personal enemies. in the year the legislature of kentucky created a circuit court for commonwealth proceedings alone, the new district being composed of the same counties as the old. hargis again announced himself a candidate for judge of the newly-organized court. this time he was elected with an easy majority. he continued in this office, which he filled with signal ability, until in the spring of , when an event took place which opened to him the road to still higher honors, and also still further fanned the flame of political and personal strife. the event referred to was the vacancy created on the bench of the court of appeals as the result of a tragedy enacted upon the streets of the capital of the state, at frankfort,--the assassination of appellate judge j. m. elliott, by one thomas bufford. the tragic death of this able jurist horrified all kentucky. his slayer pleaded insanity. the trial jury on first ballot stood six for conviction and six for acquittal on the ground of insanity. finally, the verdict of the whole jury declared him insane. he was transferred to the asylum at anchorage where he remained but a short time. he escaped to indiana where he remained because our requisition laws were then not sufficient to enforce his return to kentucky. immediately after the death of justice elliott an election was ordered for his successor and judge hargis again became a candidate before the democratic convention. a number of able and distinguished jurists opposed him before that body, many of these much older and experienced than he. in spite of the powerful opposition brought to bear against him, judge hargis again succeeded in obtaining the nomination, another proof of his political influence as well as of his talents and abilities as a lawyer and politician. this last and most important success of hargis aroused anew the malign hatred and envy of his numerous enemies in the camps of his own party. the old charges were renewed, remodeled, rehashed, renovated and added to, as the occasion demanded. the story of his wilful, felonious destruction and mutilation of court records was republished and more extensively circulated than ever. newspapers, circulars, hand-bills and letters telling the story were scattered throughout the district, posted up at all public places, on fences and trees along the highways, thus increasing factional enmity to a dangerous intensity. opposed to him in this race was judge holt, a republican politician and lawyer of prominence, and of unassailable purity of character. the contest between these men was waged with spirit with the result that the mantle of judge elliott fell upon judge hargis. during the canvass judge hargis, through the _courier journal_ and other newspapers, had denounced the persons over whose signatures a number of the scandalous accusations and derogatory charges had been made, as liars, calumniators and villains. thomas m. green, editor of the maysville _eagle_, also correspondent of the cincinnati _commercial gazette_, had been most persistent in industriously keeping the disparaging accusations against hargis in the columns of the republican press of the country. editor green was, in consequence, singled out by hargis in his card to the _courier journal_ as the chief offender, assailing him in most bitter terms. green applied to the law for redress and instituted suit for libel in the jefferson circuit court at louisville, asking for a large sum in damages. early in the spring of the case came on for trial. hargis waived all questions of jurisdiction which it had been expected he would use as a defense. he somewhat staggered his enemies by admitting responsibility for the article upon which the suit was based, and declaring his ability to prove the charges made against green as true. the trial lasted for many months. it was minutely reported in the press of the country and read everywhere. even now the angel of good fortune did not desert judge hargis. he won the case. during this period the controversy between green and hargis had very sharply aligned the friends and enemies in rowan county. so complete was the breach that the thoughtful ones looked forward to open, actual hostilities. hope of compromise disappeared as time passed. a storm so long brewing is apt to accumulate extraordinary force. a fury long pent up will break loose with greater fierceness. the strife had penetrated every neighborhood, almost every household. any public occasion, especially the biennial election, was looked forward to with dread. minor political contests, waged in these elections, served to open old sores and to inflict new wounds, adding material for the spirit of revenge to feed upon. at that time the australian ballot system had not yet been introduced. the _viva voce_ system was in vogue, and bribery in elections was, therefore, much more common than it is now. candidates practically bought their offices. the voter cast his vote publicly; it was recorded publicly, and cried out publicly. in this wise the buyer of the vote controlled the seller, and, very often, vote sellers were driven _en masse_ to the polls like so many sheep, a cause of innumerable election fights. another successful instigator of trouble on election day was the free and promiscuous use of liquor with which candidates treated and influenced the voters. election contests frequently excite the most staid and conservative citizens, but when whiskey is added it is certain to arouse passions which might, otherwise, have slumbered on. such were conditions in rowan county on the day of election, august, . a hot political race was on between one s. b. goodan, the democratic nominee for sheriff of the county, and w. c. humphrey, commonly known as cook humphrey, the republican nominee. the county being almost equally divided politically, the contest was close. each of the candidates was wealthy, influential and extensively related. money was used without stint, barrooms were thrown wide open at morehead, the county seat, and principal town of the county, as well as at most other precincts in the county. the town was crowded with excited, angry, drunken men and all through the day there were fist fights and brawls. during one of these, the prelude to the conflict which afterward attracted the attention of the american press, john martin, son of ben martin, a wealthy farmer, was struck down and seriously injured. he immediately sprang to his feet, drew his pistol and a general pistol battle followed. when the smoke had cleared away, solomon bradley was found dead, adam sizemore severely wounded. the death of bradley, a good citizen, who had taken no part in the fighting, and the wounding of sizemore and martin proved of fatal consequences. bradley was one of the most influential republicans of the county. he and john martin were members of the best families and extensively related even in adjoining counties. the martins were known to be ambitious and brave men. it appeared that martin received his wounds at the hands of floyd tolliver, a brother of craig tolliver, who afterwards attained such unenviable notoriety and bore the distinction of being one of the most cruel, bloodthirsty desperadoes kentucky ever had the misfortune to own as her son, and whose tragic death on the day of the memorable battle at morehead some years later was heralded throughout the country. john c. day, the then acting sheriff of rowan county, was charged with the shooting and wounding of sizemore. the first blood had now been spilt; more was bound to follow. even the most hopeful became convinced that a long and bloody conflict could no longer be averted. those best acquainted with the state of affairs knew, and rightly predicted, that the law would not be invoked to settle the trouble and punish the offenders. "a life for a life" was the motto that henceforth governed the factions, now arrayed against each other in open, desperate warfare. the wounding of martin by floyd tolliver placed the latter and his friends and relatives in a dangerous position. they knew the martins would not pass lightly over the matter. their numbers and influence made them dangerous adversaries. floyd tolliver lived at farmers, a small village on the licking river, a station of the chesapeake & ohio railway, which traverses the county and passes through morehead. the tollivers also were a large family. floyd, believing himself in danger, now turned to his relatives and friends for assistance. they responded promptly, armed and organized. the martins, the sizemores and the days did likewise, thus dividing the county into four factions, composed of determined, courageous and desperate men. during the circuit court following the murder of bradley the grand jury returned indictments against john martin, floyd tolliver and sheriff john c. day for malicious shooting and wounding and murder. bail was granted, bonds were readily executed and the cases continued until the next term of court. in december following the fight of august, , floyd tolliver and john martin, who had recovered from his wounds, came for the first time face to face outside of the court room and when not in custody of the officers, since their fight. they met in a barroom, a place never suitable for enemies to meet. had both men been duly sober trouble might have been averted. but, flushed with liquor, the old grudge soon got in its work, a dispute arose, their hands reached for their pistols, the shining weapons flashed for a moment, then belched forth fire and flame,--a cry, the dull thud of a falling body--floyd tolliver lay prostrate upon the floor--dead. martin was immediately arrested and conveyed to the county jail. to his friends the killing was a shock. they were fully convinced that craig tolliver and the other brothers of floyd tolliver would seek summary vengeance. grave fears were entertained for the safety of john martin in the old jail. rumors of the organization of a large tolliver mob increased anxiety and apprehension with each fleeting hour. but, as much as the tollivers were feared, and the more they threatened, martin's friends bravely prepared to protect him at all hazards. thus the aggressiveness of the tollivers was counteracted by the bold defiance of the martins. the county attorney, mr. young, was one of the ablest and most fearless commonwealth lawyers in kentucky. by his enemies, and they were numerous, he was regarded as wholly unscrupulous. they refused to credit him with even one pure thought, or action, emanating from a noble impulse. but unbiased investigation of the facts of this matter clearly shows that mr. young did his duty in this particular. he was perfectly acquainted with the character of the men arrayed against martin, and was not the man to be deluded by their repeated declarations that the law would be permitted to take its course. at the risk of antagonizing the tolliver faction against himself mr. young promptly directed the removal of john martin to the clark county jail at winchester for safekeeping. county judge stewart saw the wisdom of it and issued the order for the removal, which was accomplished without mishap. as soon as it became known that their intended victim had escaped them, the tollivers, furious and raging, gathered in large force, spreading terror wherever they appeared. "we can wait--" they said, "there is another day coming. john martin must be brought back to morehead for trial and then--just wait." december th, , was the day set for the examining trial before county judge stewart at morehead. before that day arrived, the unusual activity of the tollivers, the ominous collection of all the members and friends of that family, the frequent but secret meetings, had been quietly, but nevertheless keenly observed by judge stewart. he was convinced that if martin were brought back to rowan county at this time of ferment and excitement he would suffer a violent death at the hands of his enemies, and that any attempt on the part of the officers and friends of the prisoner would precipitate a conflict the magnitude of which could not be foretold. in this opinion judge stewart was sustained by attorney young. after a careful investigation of the state of affairs the court decided on an indefinite postponement of the trial. the order to the jailer of clark county, directing him to deliver martin to officers of rowan county, was suspended on the th day of december, but unfortunately (fateful neglect!) the order of suspension was not communicated to the clark county jailer. the wife of john martin had been advised of the postponement of the trial. the faithful woman who had already suffered untold anxiety and fear for the safety of her husband, felt relieved and hastened to winchester to inform him of the action of the court of rowan county. as soon as the tollivers were informed that the trial would not take place, and that, therefore, martin would remain at winchester for an indefinite time, they convened in a council of war to discuss plans of campaign. a raid upon the winchester jail was suggested, but the leaders, though desperate and brave enough to have attempted and dared anything, did not believe that such an undertaking would meet with success. they advised strategy instead of force. on the th of december, on the same day that judge stewart canceled the order for delivery of the prisoner by the jailer of clark county, an order was delivered into the hands of a. m. bowling, town marshal at farmers, directing him to demand martin from the jailer at winchester and to convey him to the county jail at morehead. the order also directed the jailer of clark county to surrender martin into the custody of bowling. the plot was shrewdly planned. the order, forged, of course, would open the doors of the winchester jail without difficulty, and the prisoner must, therefore, become an easy victim on his way to rowan county. bowling, a tolliver clansman, engaged four other members of it to accompany him to winchester,--hall, eastman, milt and ed evans. four men to convey a handcuffed prisoner! it was deemed best to send a sufficient number to prevent outsiders from interfering in the final act of the inhuman drama staged by craig tolliver and his henchmen. on arriving at the jail at winchester, bowling presented his order, which was signed (?) by two justices of the peace of rowan county and which directed the delivery of martin to bowling. the order was carefully drawn in the usual form, and had every appearance of genuineness. a few minutes after john martin's wife had bidden her husband good-bye at the winchester jail, bowling presented his order for the delivery of martin. while the wife was at the station awaiting the arrival of the train which was to carry her homeward, little dreaming that she had clasped the hand of her husband warm with life for the last time, the prisoner was aroused by his keeper and told to prepare for his removal to morehead. martin at once became suspicious. he remonstrated against the transfer, but the jailer produced the order. the prisoner pleaded long and earnestly. he explained to the official that he had received definite information through his wife that on account of the danger that awaited him at morehead the county authorities of rowan county had indefinitely postponed his removal. he insisted that bowling and his companions were his deadly enemies; that every surrounding circumstance pointed to treachery, and that his delivery into the hands of bowling meant nothing more nor less than assassination. the jailer turned a deaf ear to his entreaties. he argued that a refusal to comply with the imperative order of the rowan county judge would involve him in trouble. he had no right to believe the order forged. it bore the stamp of genuineness. it seems to us, however, that a more circumspect officer, informed of the conditions and circumstances surrounding the prisoner, acquainted with the dangerous state of affairs in rowan county as the result of which martin had been removed to winchester, would have held the prisoner until he could have communicated with the authorities at morehead. disobedience to the court's orders, intended for the protection of a helpless prisoner, could not have been subject to censure, especially when the forgery of the order was later on established. he might easily have verified the genuineness of the paper by telegraph. blind obedience often works injury. threatening disasters through blunders of commanding officers have often been averted by the disobedience of inferior officers, who preferred facing court martial rather than become a party to useless slaughter and defeat. john martin was delivered to bowling and his companions. securely shackled, he was marched to the train. doubtless he suffered the same mental agony as does the man on the way to the scaffold. it was pathetic chance that mrs. martin boarded the same train. she entered another coach, entirely ignorant of her husband's presence in the next one. while this occurred at winchester, craig tolliver and his band had already assembled at farmers, ready to play their part in the cowardly deed. armed to the teeth, they were posted at and near the railway station, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the train. the night was dark and disagreeable, perfectly suited for a hold-up. presently the flash of light pierces the gloom, the shriek of the engine whistle echoes mournfully through the night. the train bearing john martin thunders toward the station. the air-brakes wheeze, the train slows up; the conductor cries "all out for farm--" he does not finish the call of the station. a pistol is thrust into his face. armed men board the engine and cover the engineer and fireman. others enter the coach in which martin is sitting, handcuffed, utterly helpless, surrounded by bowling and his confederates. martin sees the men enter and instinctively realizes that his end has come. he attempts to rise to his feet. instantly shots are fired. martin sinks back upon his seat, lifeless, his "protectors" calmly witnessing the murder. martin's wife, in another coach, had up to this time believed her husband secure in his cell at winchester. but the moment she heard the shots, unaccountable, undefinable dread seized her. instinctively she rushed to the scene of the tragedy and found her suspicions realized. there lay the blood-covered body of her husband, literally torn to pieces and perforated with leaden messengers of death. all that the faithful, grief-stricken wife could do was to order the remains taken on to morehead. martin was buried amid a large concourse of sorrowing friends and relatives. the solemnity of the occasion accorded ill with the many suppressed, yet none the less ominous threats of terrible and swift punishment of the murderers. the news of the cowardly assassination spread like wildfire over the county. the war had begun in earnest. from the day john martin's body was consigned to the grave, the angel of peace departed from rowan county. for more than three years a reign of terror was to sweep over it with all its attendant horrors, cutting a wide path of desolation and misery. deeds of violence now occurred at frequent intervals. all manner of crime went unpunished by the law. the whole machinery of the law was rotten, the officers of the courts being themselves partisans, in some instances very active as such. mr. young, the county attorney, was the first to feel the wrath of the martin faction. while riding along the road on christi creek he was shot from ambush and painfully, but not fatally, wounded. the perpetrators of this deed were not definitely known, but young's friends claimed to have certain information that the men who attempted his assassination had acted under instructions from the martin faction, which had openly accused young of playing into the hands of the tollivers, and had even gone so far as to allege that he had with them connived in the murder of john martin. whether he was or was not a tolliver sympathizer, another murder committed soon afterwards was laid at the door of the tollivers, to avenge, it was charged, the wounding of mr. young. under the circumstances this gentleman determined to and did remove from the county where his life was evidently no longer safe. he located in an adjoining county. at the succeeding election his son was elected to the office his father had vacated. the murder above referred to was that of stewart baumgartner. cook humphrey, the republican sheriff, had appointed him a deputy. on the th day of march, , baumgartner rode along christi creek, when, almost at the identical spot where mr. young had been fired upon, he was shot and instantly killed--from ambush. no one was ever indicted for that killing, but it was generally believed, charged and never denied that craig tolliver's subordinates were the murderers. shortly after the death of baumgartner, and during the month of april, , cook humphrey and a stranger, afterwards ascertained to have been ed. pierce of greenup county, ky., appeared on the streets of morehead, heavily armed and followed by a number of martin sympathizers. this act of defiance called forth bitter denunciation from the tollivers and their friends, among whom was ex-sheriff day and jeff bowling, men of reckless courage. the leaders of the opposing factions assembled every available man, and provided them with arms. the most determined preparations were made to fight out their differences on the streets of morehead. humphrey's headquarters were at the carey house, a hotel owned and operated by james carey, an ex-captain of the union army and a very influential citizen. the tollivers occupied the cottage hotel near the chesapeake & ohio railway depot, then owned by dr. r. l. rains. as quickly as possible a message was forwarded to craig tolliver, absent from morehead at the time. he came, accompanied by a number of tollivers from elliott county. the battle opened fast and furious. a continuous fire from many guns kept the citizens of the town in terror for many hours. the balls whizzed through every portion of the ill-fated village. storehouses and dwellings were riddled. none dared to enter the streets, or expose his body for an instant. the carey house apparently bore the brunt of the firing. hundreds of balls struck and shattered the slight frame structure. the tollivers, beside superior numbers, had the advantage of position. their marksmanship was better, too. humphrey and his clan soon realized that a charge upon their position would mean their annihilation. so at an opportune moment the carey house was abandoned and the tollivers remained in undisputed control. in spite of the long-continued, heavy firing, an unremitting fusilade of many hours' duration, there were no casualties. the battle, however, exercised such a terrifying influence over the peaceable citizens of the town that all that could left. morehead, in fact the county, was now in a state of anarchy. the matter was reported to the governor, who immediately ordered general john b. castleman, then adjutant general of kentucky, to morehead to investigate conditions there and to discover the causes of this shameful lawlessness. general castleman, in company with others, went to morehead and interviewed the adherents of the different factions and leading citizens of the county. this commission, on completing its mission, reported its findings to the governor. the result was that the leading spirits in the feud were summoned to louisville, ky., where a _compromise_ was patched up between the belligerents. both sides pledged themselves to return home, to lay down their arms and to cease to molest each other. this proceeding brought into prominence h. m. logan, judge james carey and cook humphrey as adherents of the martin faction and craig tolliver, dr. jerry wilson and others as the tolliver faction leaders. the agreement entered into at louisville, intended to restore peace, effected the opposite result. it prevented prosecution of either side for the morehead riot. the leniency extended by the authorities merely emboldened and encouraged the warring parties--the truce was violated by both sides within a short time after it had been agreed to. the factions charged each other with insincerity, of secretly maintaining armed bands and preparing for renewed hostilities. within a few weeks after the compromise at louisville, conditions in rowan were as bad as ever, nay--worse. as we have stated, the shooting of young, the county attorney, had been charged to the martin faction. in retaliation for this crime the tollivers had murdered sheriff humphrey's deputy, baumgartner. subsequent developments then seemed to directly implicate cook humphrey in the shooting of young, and this led to a renewal of active hostilities. it appears that immediately after the treaty at louisville, ed. pierce, the man who had so mysteriously appeared on the streets of morehead in company with cook humphrey on the day of the riot, was arrested in greenup county and taken to bath county for trial on a charge of robbery. a jury found him guilty. he was sentenced to the penitentiary for a long term. while confined in jail previous to his trial, he admitted his participation in the shooting of mr. young, implicating also ben rayborn of carter county, a man but little known in rowan county. in his confession pierce claimed to have been employed to kill mr. young by the sisters and family of john martin, and that sheriff humphrey and baumgartner, his deputy, had aided and assisted in arranging the details of the plot. humphrey and the martins indignantly denied every word of pierce's confession, and asserted that he had been bribed by mr. young to make it for the purpose of destroying the prestige of the martin family in the county, and to furnish the excuse for further outrages. humphrey and the martin family were now put under constant surveillance by the tollivers. the martin homestead, situated about one mile from morehead, became an object of special vigilance. finally, on the evening of the th day of july, , the tolliver spies reported to their leader at morehead that two men had been seen around the martin home. instantly everything was in commotion at the tolliver headquarters. craig tolliver, jeff bowling, t. a. day and others, all sworn enemies of the martins, surrounded the homestead in the dark of night and remained on watch until morning. shortly after daylight a stranger, afterwards recognized as ben rayborn, in company of sue martin, a young woman of much native sense and energy, emerged from the house and "robbed" a beehive in the yard without having discovered the enemy. rayborn was heavily armed. his presence convinced the tollivers that cook humphrey was in the house; they now determined upon open attack. but to avoid possible failure of the plot it was deemed necessary to increase the force. a messenger was hurriedly dispatched to morehead. a short time afterwards the tollivers had assembled a force of twenty-five or thirty men, among whom were many of the most violent men of rowan county. at nine o'clock craig tolliver had stationed this force at every point of vantage. then he and bowling appeared at the front door with winchester rifles gleaming in the sunlight. for the first time the inmates of the house seemed aware of the presence of the enemy. there was apparently no chance of escape. every door was securely guarded. tolliver was met at the door by the brave martin girls who demanded an explanation for the intrusion. tolliver demanded the surrender of cook humphrey and any other man or men that might be with him. the girls stoutly denied the presence of any one save the members of the family. tolliver knew this to be false. with his own eyes he had seen rayborn that morning. he charged the girls with duplicity and forced his way into the house. no one was found on the first floor. then they attempted search of the upper story. at the stairway a shotgun suddenly belched forth fire and flame into the faces of the tollivers. craig's face and part of his body was filled with shot, the gun stock shivered to pieces in his hand. he sank upon the steps and rolled helplessly at the feet of his companions. bowling miraculously escaped unhurt. craig tolliver was immediately placed upon a horse and sent to morehead for repairs. the others, not daring to force the stairway, went outside and contented themselves with firing through the doors and windows. the fusilade continued incessantly for a long time. black smoke hung like a cloud over the premises. if the tollivers hoped to force the surrender of humphrey and his companion by mere intimidation, they soon saw their mistake. these two men were brave to the core. besides, they preferred to die fighting rather to being mercilessly butchered as helpless prisoners. they remembered the fate of john martin. finally humphrey managed to make himself heard through the din and crash of battle. he informed his assailants that he was there in the house and that by virtue of his office as sheriff of the county none but the coroner had the legal right to arrest him. the tollivers sneered at this speech. they had not come to uphold the law; they had succeeded in trapping the enemy, and meant to use the advantage they had gained. hours thus passed. all day the guns roared into and from the house. the sun was sinking rapidly toward the western horizon; the shades of evening grew longer. as long as daylight lasted the assailants had kept covered and protected, held at bay by the brave defenders. but in the dark of night, the end must come. they could not prevent a simultaneous attack from the entire force of the assailants. surrounded on every side, escape seemed well-nigh impossible. yet humphrey essayed to make a sortie with his companion, hoping thereby to draw the fire of the enemy upon themselves and to thus at least relieve the women in the house of further danger of death which had threatened them every moment throughout that long day. it was a desperate undertaking, with ninety-nine chances in a hundred against its success. but humphrey was brave, and so was rayborn. as expected, the instant they emerged from the house a shower of balls greeted them. they ran for their lives. rayborn sank, rose and fell again, to rise no more. his body was riddled. humphrey, however, seemed possessed of a charmed life. though his clothing was torn to shreds, his body received not a scratch. satisfied now that there were no more men in the house, the tolliver clan crowned their infamous day's work by setting fire to it. the inmates escaped without even necessary clothing. the body of rayborn was left lying where it had fallen until the next day, protected from mutilation by dogs and hogs by a rail pen which had been built around it by the heroic martin girls. the excitement that prevailed in the county when the news of the cowardly attack upon the martin home became known, can better be imagined than described. the lover of law and order was terror-stricken. the question was asked in whispers--"where will it all end?" the county judge was a well-meaning man, but utterly incompetent as an officer, possessing none of the qualifications for such an office in a county like rowan at such a time of lawlessness and anarchy. he was weak and timid. always in fear for his life, he completely lost his head. warrants were at last issued upon the affidavits of the martin girls against craig tolliver, jeff bowling and a number of others, charging them with murder and arson. an examining trial followed. at that time such trials were held before two justices of the peace. one was said to be a martin sympathizer; the other stood accused of being under the thumb of the tollivers. the court's decision gave color to these suspicions. one of the magistrates decided for commitment of the prisoners to jail without bail; the other declared that no offense had been proven. under the law then existing this disagreement of the court permitted the murderers to go _free_. the trial was a pronounced farce. afterwards some of the parties were indicted by the grand jury for arson, but none was convicted and the murder charges against them all fell. jeff bowling, one of the most desperate of the tolliver faction, removed from the county of rowan a short time afterward, and settled in ohio, where he continued his career of crime, evidently believing that there, as well as in kentucky, none dared molest him. he saw his mistake too late. it appears that his mother-in-law had married a wealthy farmer named douglas, of licking county, ohio. it had been due to the persuasion of douglas that bowling left kentucky and settled in or near his ohio kinsman. bowling had resided there but a short time when douglas was found one morning in his barn--murdered. the finger of suspicion pointed to bowling as the only one who had a tangible motive for the commission of the crime. he was promptly indicted, tried and sentenced to death, but the sentence was finally commuted to life imprisonment. he served seven years of his time and moved to texas. humphrey, after his miraculous escape from the martin house, had become thoroughly convinced that it was impossible for him to longer continue in the office of sheriff and resigned, william ramey being appointed and qualified in his stead. craig tolliver for a time absented himself from rowan county. he turned up in jail at cincinnati, imprisoned on the charge of robbery. he was tried, acquitted and returned to rowan county, when trouble started anew. several killings occurred in the county during the year, some of which had, however, only remote connection with the feud. john g. hughes was killed by a mob styling themselves "regulators." wiley tolliver, son of l. h. b. tolliver, was killed about christmas, , by one mack bentley, during a drunken row. early in , the murder of whit pelfrey, at elliottsville, rowan county, came near precipitating another outbreak. he was stabbed and killed by tom goodan, brother of s. b. goodan, a prominent tolliver man and brother-in-law of jay, bud and wiley tolliver. pelfrey, known as a strong martin sympathizer, was an influential citizen and wealthy. goodan was tried for this murder, but acquitted. the year brought with it an annual election at which all county officers were to be chosen. each faction had its candidates in the field. it may, therefore, be easily imagined that neutral citizens remained in a state of constant anxiety and apprehension. cook humphrey and craig tolliver roamed through the county at the head of large forces, frequently entering the town of morehead and parading the streets in defiance of each other. on july nd, , it being county court day, a warrant of arrest was placed in the hands of sheriff ramey for the arrest of humphrey, who was in town that day. the officer went in search of and found him near the store of h. m. logan. an altercation ensued between the men, both drew their pistols and began firing. friends of both parties became involved and the shooting became general. when the fight was over it was found that the sheriff and his son and deputy, were both dangerously wounded, while w. o. logan, h. m. logan's son, a youth hardly twenty years of age, was killed. immediately after the fight the factions retired to their headquarters and prepared for another conflict. the county judge was prevailed upon to demand troops. his request was readily granted and a detachment of state guards, commanded by major k. w. mckee of lawrenceburg, hastened to the scene of the trouble. when july rd came, the citizens, women and children, trembled with fear of a bloody conflict. at the quarters of the factions guns and pistols were cleaned, oiled and loaded, cartridge belts filled--every preparation made for battle. then the long-drawn notes of a bugle floated in the morning air--the astonished people peered through the windows and beheld in the court house yard a long line of soldiers, their guns and bayonets glistening in the morning sun. there was a sigh of relief--danger had passed for the moment. the troops remained at morehead until some time in august. it was due to their presence that the election passed off without violence and bloodshed. when circuit court convened, the commonwealth was represented by the honorable asher c. caruth, commonwealth attorney of the jefferson circuit court, and afterwards member of congress from the louisville district. as at this time practically every citizen in the county was aligned on one side or the other, it seemed impossible to secure juries that would try cases impartially and without prejudice. this state of affairs did not escape the attention of mr. caruth. the result of his investigations of affairs in rowan county resulted in a _nolle prosequis_, qualified by certain conditions, of the charges against the tollivers and humphrey. his proceeding in this respect is contained in the following report to judge cole, presiding judge of the circuit court:-- hon. a. e. cole, judge of the rowan circuit court. under your appointment i have acted as commonwealth attorney pro tempore at the special july and present august term of the rowan circuit court. i have given the felony docket, over which alone, under the present law, i have jurisdiction, careful study and attention. i have also investigated as thoroughly as a stranger to the people of rowan county could do in the limited time of my service, the causes which led to the present unhappy condition of affairs, and have sought to find a remedy for the evils afflicting this people. i find it to be the opinion of the law-abiding citizens of all parties that the public peace could be best secured by the continued absence from the county of rowan of the acknowledged and recognized leaders of the two rival factions--craig tolliver and cook humphrey. against the former there is now pending one felony charge, that of false arrest and imprisonment. against humphrey there are three indictments for felony on the docket, each for conspiring, etc., to commit personal violence. i have the written request of each of these persons accused to suspend further proceedings in their cases, coupled with a promise on the part of each to leave the county of rowan never to return unless, temporarily, to attend the funeral of some immediate relative.... the persons charged to have been injured by their acts also request this disposition of the pending cases. it is the opinion of the members of the grand jury now in session, and of the vast majority of the citizens of the county, that this disposition of the cases will do much to restore peace and confidence to the community. after full consultation with the members of the bar residing here or practising here, with the commander of the forces now stationed at the county seat, and with citizens of high position and authority in the commonwealth, and considering the _uncertainty of the criminal trials_, i am convinced that this is the best available method to secure the end in view. no harm can, by this means, be done the state, because, should the agreement be violated, the cases can at once be set for trial and prosecutions made. the following written agreements were then signed and attested: asher g. caruth, commonwealth's attorney pro tempore, th judicial district:-- i request you to suspend any further proceedings in the cases now pending in the rowan circuit court against me, and promise that i will remain away from the county of rowan permanently. should i ever return to said county i am willing that the cases shall be redocketed and the trials proceed. i will leave said county on or before the th day of august, a. d. . in this agreement i reserve the right, in the event of the death of any of my immediate relatives, to return to attend their burial, but i must immediately thereafter leave the county to permanently remain away. (signed) craig tolliver. attest: d. b. logan. a similar agreement was prepared and signed by w. c. humphrey, attested by g. a. cassidy. we do not wish to criticise mr. caruth's course in this matter, but it occurs to us, and must occur to the reader, that the practice of compromising with outlaws proves a weak-kneed administration of the law. it seems that a man or set of men may terrorize a community as pleases them, then demand of the authorities immunity for crimes, on certain _conditions prescribed by the criminals_. mr. caruth acted for the best interests of the community, as he believed. aware that juries were partial or prejudiced, he realized that trials in rowan county of either of the factions would result in injustice one way or another. the grand juries were corrupt and accustomed to wreak vengeance on some and whitewashing others. the selection of trial juries was so palpably unfair that visiting lawyers commented upon it and afterward testified before the legislative committee to that fact. several court officers were undisguised partisans. it seems to us, however, that these cases might have been removed from the county and tried elsewhere upon a change of venue. at any rate, the compromise effected by mr. caruth proved not only unsatisfactory, but ill-advised. the success of his scheme was founded upon the belief that the parties to the agreement would adhere to the pledge to leave the county. he did not understand the character of craig tolliver. to secure his signature to an agreement that would put an enemy out of his way was one thing, to make him keep it, another. tolliver remained absent from morehead long enough to assure himself that the indictments against him were dismissed, when he promptly returned. although the compromise was based upon the understanding that if either returned except under the conditions recited in the agreement that the indictments against the party so returning should be redocketed and revived, _this was never done_. tolliver was free to continue his career of crime. humphrey kept his word, and never violated his pledge. he sold out his earthly possessions in rowan county and bade farewell to his native state. previous to his election as sheriff humphrey had been a highly esteemed citizen, a man of exemplary character, of amiable disposition. his fatal connection with the feud was mainly due to his unfortunate selection of stewart baumgartner as his deputy. the latter was a citizen of elliott county, where he had a reputation for violence and desperation. pursuing the same course in rowan, humphrey's association with him made him many enemies. baumgartner's connection with the martin faction compromised humphrey; thus step by step he was thrown into the whirlpool of trouble. the formerly quiet, inoffensive citizen grew dangerous and violent; the dormant, unholy passion of revenge was aroused. humphrey became for the time being a character dreaded by those that opposed him. at the time of his participation in the feud he was yet in his twenties and unmarried. after leaving kentucky he went west, never to return to his native heath until after the death of craig tolliver and his followers, and then only on special business. with humphrey gone, the martin faction practically disbanded. had tolliver observed the treaty stipulations as faithfully and honestly as did humphrey, this chapter might end here. the writer would be spared the unpleasant task of continuing the record of violence, murder and anarchy. it is evident that tolliver had entered into this agreement with the avowed purpose of violating it. he had every reason to believe that humphrey would observe it. he out of the way, there stood no one to dispute tolliver's undisputed sway in the county, especially at morehead. his adherents remained faithful and joined him. they did as they pleased, in fact had things their own way. if the authorities did not dare molest them, who should? a few of the citizens who had attempted a mild protest against craig tolliver's dictatorship, were easily intimidated by keeping them in constant fear of death or destruction of their property. saloons were opened and operated without license. magistrates refused to issue warrants, knowing that such an act would forfeit their lives. had the warrants been issued, no officers could have been persuaded to execute them. the residences and grog shops of the tollivers resembled and were arsenals. an effective and favorite method of craig tolliver to rid himself of any, to him, undesirable citizens, was to send a written communication to them, setting forth the fact that rowan county could dispense with their presence, and that on a certain day in the near future certain funerals would take place unless they were gone from the county. a funeral is not a pleasant function at any time, and the prospect of one's own set for a definite time, has a tendency with many persons to try hard to avoid it, if possible. it was, therefore, not surprising that parties thus notified preferred absence from the county to being principals at funerals. a few regarded those letters as idle and meaningless threats, but the sincerity of the advice could no longer be doubted or questioned when several prophesied funerals did take place. to detail the circumstances of the various killings that occurred during that stormy period of rowan county would prove tedious. suffice it to say, that from the first monday in august, , to the nd of july, , twenty-three men were killed in rowan county. no convictions were secured for any of these murders. but of this later on. on october th, , h. m. logan was shot from ambush in the streets of morehead, while walking from his place of business to his residence. the wound was dangerous but not fatal. judge carey came in for a full share of the enemy's hatred and vengeance. his hotel was frequently fired into at night by parties armed with needle guns and large calibre winchesters. his house assumed the appearance of having been struck by a cyclone. windows and doors had been completely shot away and the walls perforated in a thousand places. it required neither doors nor windows to admit daylight. the exchange hotel shared a similar fate. it was managed by h. c. powers, another humphrey adherent. this kind of argument was convincing, more forcible than words or letters. powers and carey both felt a sudden desire to remove from the atmosphere of morehead, concluding that covington, kentucky, possessed greater allurements for the time being than did their home town. both remained away from the county until after the bloody, final battle at morehead in . unfortunately, we have no authentic account of the leave-taking between the tollivers and carey and powers. it must have been very affectionate, since the tollivers had exhibited such concern for their safety, comfort and health as to persuade them so urgently to remove to a happier and better land. howard logan (h. m.) too, had enough of this joke about funeral predictions. he could not see the point of it, and concluded that ashland, on the banks of the beautiful ohio, would be the proper place to recover from his labors and see the world. he also remained away until after the annihilation of the tollivers. there were a number of others who seemed suddenly seized with a fever to emigrate. among them were john r. powers, james e. clark, a prominent lawyer, who found a more congenial home at unionville, clark county, missouri; james brain, a brother-in-law of judge carey; r. c. humphrey, brother of cook humphrey; both of whom settled in missouri. many others "scouted" in neighboring counties until the return of peace. judge tussey, brother-in-law of the murdered john martin, on the advice and persuasion of his wife, remained absent in carter county and returned only to take part in the final drama. nearly all of the parties who were thus driven from the county, were men of wealth and business capacity. removals continued. the magnitude of the exodus may be realized by examining the figures giving the population of the county seat, morehead, from until the early part of . in morehead was a flourishing town of more than seven hundred inhabitants. within two years this figure was reduced to less than three hundred. more than _half_ the population had removed. private residences and storehouses stood empty, with windows nailed up or were taken possession of by the tollivers whenever it suited their fancy. the tollivers made up the population. the offices of police judge and town marshal were filled by tollivers. on june st, , craig tolliver had the entire town under absolute control. he was elected police judge without opposition. he did a driving business, selling whiskey, without license, of course. the law as to obtaining license to sell liquor applied not to him. he was above the law. he took possession of the exchange hotel, which h. c. powers had left without a tenant, by right of conquest. why should he have troubled himself with renting property when houses stood empty, and he was monarch of the town! the property of his enemies was his--the spoils of war. the central hotel was placed at the disposal of tolliver by its owner; the former leased it to bunk mannin and his brother, jim mannin. these two were craig tolliver's constant associates. he had brought them from elliott county. knowing their reputation as desperadoes, he created them his body-guard. bunk mannin, bloodthirsty, brutal, but courageous, believed he could serve his chieftain best by capturing the office of town marshal. he set himself up as candidate and was elected without a whisper of opposition. as town marshal and hotel keeper, he opened a saloon at the central hotel, operating it in the manner of the one run by craig tolliver, in violation of the law. bud tolliver was made a member of the town council. craig tolliver's triumph was now complete. the midnight carousals, the continuous discharges of winchester rifles and pistols, made night hideous. persons of unquestionable courage grew nervous. at this period the exodus of the inhabitants was greatest. social functions were out of the question. adjutant-general hill says in his report to the governor, after the final battle of july, : "one night while i was there the young people of morehead had a social at the home of a prominent citizen, and i was told that it was the _first event of the kind which had occurred in the little town for years_." the tollivers controlled the court and the grand juries. a witness daring enough to indict them for their many offences was certain to be indicted for some imaginary offense in return for his audacity. thus during one court, shortly after the "shooting up" of the carey house, two daughters of howard logan testified before the grand jury and indicted one dr. wilson for participating in the riot. the same evening the grand jury returned indictments against the two young ladies for "false swearing." the secrets of the grand jury leaked constantly. every word of testimony uttered before it was promptly and minutely reported to the tollivers. mrs. martin, who had been a witness against them on several charges, was indicted for sending a poisoned turkey to a tolliver sympathizer. is it a wonder that attorney-general hardin stigmatized the whole machinery of justice in the county as "rotten"? is it a wonder that crime was rampant and of daily occurrence? is it a wonder that outraged manhood at last took the law in its own hand and annihilated the outlaws? sometime in the latter part of , or early part of , h. m. keeton, constable of morehead precinct, was shot and killed by bud tolliver. keeton, too, had been duly served with notice of the date of his funeral. remaining in the county, he furnished the body. w. n. wicher was shot and killed by john trumbo, a tolliver man. at the february term of the rowan circuit court ( ) dr. henry s. logan, r. m. mcclure, john b. and w. h. logan and lewis rayborn, were indicted for conspiracy to murder circuit court judge a. e. cole, james h. sallee, commonwealth's attorney, and z. t. young. all the parties indicted were prominent citizens and of such a character that those not prejudiced against, and acquainted with them, at once declared the charges false. the entire transaction bore the ear-marks of a shrewdly laid plot to rid the county of these men, who had become objectionable to _czar_ craig tolliver because they had dared to criticise his rule. the indicted parties were arrested and confined in jail, their bail having been placed at an exorbitant sum. they were hustled off to lexington for "safekeeping." john b. and w. h. logan gave bond and returned to their home, about four miles distant from morehead. their father remained in prison. when it became known that james pelfrey was the chief witness against them, it seemed easy to see through the whole affair. pelfrey's black character was well-known by some of the tolliver clan, and to this unscrupulous man they had turned to effect their villainous conspiracy. a suitable story was concocted and rehearsed. with it pelfrey appeared before the grand jury, and loaded upon his sin-stained soul the dastardly, black crime of perjury. after their return home the logan boys lived quietly and alone, taking charge of the farm in their father's absence. w. h. logan (billy) was a consumptive, twenty-five years old, and almost reduced to a skeleton by the dread disease. his brother, j. b. logan (jack) was a youth of eighteen. on the th of june, , a disreputable character named hiram cooper, who lived in the neighborhood of the logan boys, came to morehead and swore out a warrant against the logan boys and their cousin, a. w. logan, charging them with confederating and banding together for the purpose of murdering him (cooper). this act was in pursuance of the original plot to rid the county of the family, which, however, had failed to some extent when the boys had succeeded in giving bail and were released from prison. craig tolliver, the police judge, issued the warrants. they were placed in the hands of his confederate, town marshal bunk mannin, who summoned a posse of _ten_ men to assist him in the execution of the warrants against the two boys. among these _brave_ officers were deputy sheriff george hogg, bud tolliver, jay tolliver, cal tolliver, hiram cooper and one young. completely ignorant of the impending danger, the boys were found at home. the first warning they had of the approach of the assassins, under the guise of officers, was the rapid firing of guns. the boys, terrified, ran up-stairs, mannin and craig tolliver rushing after them. jack logan seized a shotgun, and over the earnest protest of his brother billy, fired into the body of mannin, inflicting a painful, but, unfortunately, not fatal wound. mannin and craig tolliver retreated from the house, while the boys waited tremblingly, with bated breath, for developments. they saw there was no hope for them. the smell of burning wood and clouds of smoke told them of their peril. by order of _judge_ tolliver the posse comitatus had built a fire on the porch intending to burn the house, and thus force the boys to come out. the crackling of flames, the shouts and cruel, derisive laughter of the brutal band outside presented a scene such as we read of with horror in the stories of the indian wars. deputy sheriff hogg then _requested permission_ to extinguish the flames. the other "representatives of the law" consenting, a parley was held. hogg went into the house and offered the boys the alternative of surrender or death by fire. they naturally chose the former, hoping against hope that some miracle might yet save them, or that, perhaps, their appearing unarmed, might move the band with compassion and mercy. however, before leaving the house, they wished assurance that their lives should be protected. deputy sheriff hogg reported to craig tolliver, and that redoubtable officer of the commonwealth authorized him to _promise_ them protection. this assurance was then communicated to the boys, supplemented by the personal guaranty of sheriff hogg. the boys determined to leave the house. billy logan went down-stairs in company of hogg. the younger boy was yet reluctant to trust himself into the hands of craig tolliver and bunk mannin, the town marshal, but being again assured that no harm should come to him, he, too, followed and emerged into the yard. they were led away some fifty feet from the house to near a spring. there john mannin opened fire upon the elder boy, shooting him in the back. this was the signal for a general fusilade by craig tolliver, bunk mannin and others. the boys fell dead. not satisfied with their deaths, the heartless assassins, among whom town marshal mannin was the most ferocious, trampled the prostrate forms, stamped them, and poured volley after volley into the dead bodies, thus mutilating them beyond recognition. they were left lying where they had fallen, a gory, shapeless mass, the glassy eyes upturned to the sky, in mute appeal to god to avenge this horrible assassination. god saw, and retribution followed close upon the heels of the inhuman wretches. deputy sheriff hogg testified afterwards that he ran away as soon as the firing began. the murderers joined him, however, before he had reached town. on the brow of a hill overlooking morehead craig tolliver halted the red-handed band and instructed them all to tell the same tale--that the boys were killed in resisting arrest, and that their killing had been an absolute necessity. on the following day d. boone logan, a cousin of the murdered boys, accompanied by h. m. (hiram) pigman and ap. perry, went to the logan homestead, and found and cared for the mangled remains of his relatives. on that evening, upon their return home, they were warned that they would share a similar fate in the event they attended the funeral. up to the time of the murder of the logan boys neither d. boone logan nor pigman had taken any active part in the feudal strife, indeed they had carefully kept aloof from any act or speech that might in any way connect them either directly or indirectly with the faction. boone logan had attested the agreement signed by craig tolliver to remove from the county. but beyond this he had remained neutral. not content, however, with foully murdering his young relatives, craig tolliver sent to boone logan the exasperating message that he must leave, that he, tolliver, would rent his house, and hire logan's wife out to make a living for her children. by threatening d. b. logan, craig tolliver made the mistake of his life. he conjured up a storm which passed soon beyond his power to control. when it broke loose in all its fury on the nd day of june, and the streets of morehead ran red with blood, the desperadoes experienced at last the lash of an avenging god. boone logan made futile efforts to have the murderers arrested. after several days had elapsed, bunk mannin, the town marshal, went to logan and told him that he wished to have a trial, and that the tollivers were also ready for trial. "but," said mannin, "it must be understood that we attend court with our winchesters." judge stewart was also notified by the tollivers that they wished a trial, to which request judge stewart made answer that he "would not hold a bogus trial" and refused to try the case. logan, pigman and ap. perry, in danger of their lives, yet burning with indignation, entered into a solemn compact to effect the arrest and trial of all the parties engaged in the murder of the logan boys. a resolution made by such men as boone logan and his friends meant something more than mere words. they, too, were men of action. they went to work in the preparation of their plan with coolness and circumspection. caution was needed indeed. they first attached to their cause a number of men upon whom they could rely. meetings were held at secret places. boone logan was at once chosen as the leader in the enterprise. in the prime of manhood, of fine physique and intelligent, he was just the man to place at the head of such a hazardous undertaking. combining indomitable courage with prudence, sagacity and coolness, he was also a man of unflinching determination. such was the man with whom the tollivers now had to deal. educated, a lawyer of prominence, and a polished, quiet gentleman, one would scarcely have picked him out as the man to oppose the outlaws, to attack them in their very stronghold and give them battle. logan and pigman avoided being seen in each other's company, yet the tollivers by some means had learned of their secret meetings, and, growing suspicious, began hunting them high and low. to relate the many narrow escapes these two men had from death would fill pages. every road was patrolled by the tollivers, passing trains were searched, inquiries made everywhere, and insulting messages sent to logan's family. shrewdly he avoided any encounter, but with dogged determination continued his preparations. on the th day of june boone logan eluded the vigilance of the tollivers and succeeded in reaching frankfort, ky., where he asked for, and was accorded, an interview with governor knott. to him logan related the existing conditions in rowan county, the despotism exercised by craig tolliver and his associates in crime, the horrible murder of the logan boys, for which no one had as yet been molested, and asked for troops to effect the capture of the outlaws. the governor listened attentively to mr. logan's representations, but replied that he had already sent soldiers to morehead at the cost of many thousands of dollars to the state, with no other result than aiding courts in committing travesties of justice; that under the circumstances he could not see his way clear to repeat his experiences with that county. he then asked logan what per cent of the population was actually engaged in the trouble, and on receiving reply, answered that the good citizens being so largely in the majority, they should be able to themselves put down lawlessness. logan admitted that he could find a number of citizens who would be willing to aid him in arresting the outlaws if they could secure the necessary arms. he asked the governor for the loan of a few guns from the arsenal at frankfort, offering to give satisfactory security for their safe return. the governor explained that such a course was unwarranted and a matter beyond his control. logan's face turned almost livid for a moment. he did not blame the governor, who acted under the law. but he became exasperated at the thought that a band of murderers were under the law permitted to remain in undisputed possession of his county, his home, while the governor seemed without authority to come to the rescue of order and to maintain the dignity of the law. courts had refused to do their duty; officers championed openly the cause of the murderers; peaceable citizens had been driven from their homes--anarchy reigned supreme. these thoughts filled his brain. before his mind's eye appeared the mangled remains of his cousins. he feared for his wife and children at morehead. his home might at this moment be reduced to ashes and its inmates burned or shot. the young man's eyes gleamed with a dangerous fire. his lips quivered while the strong heart beat almost audibly with excitement, indignation and utter disgust. at last he spoke, slowly, firmly, every word full of meaning. it was then he made his famous reply, so often repeated and commented upon: "governor," he said, "i have but one home and but one hearth. from this i have been driven by these outlaws and their friends. they have foully murdered my kinsmen. i have not before engaged in any of their difficulties--but now i propose to take a hand and retake my fireside or die in the effort." future events proved that these words were uttered for a purpose other than mere dramatic effect. the flashing eye told plainly of the passions that had been kindled in his heart, and the governor could not but admire the man's just indignation and determination to do what the highest authorities in the state could not do. the action of governor knott in refusing to send troops to rowan county has been criticised by those ignorant of the law and the powers of the governor in such cases. the law lays down the scope of his authority. the power of the county had not been exhausted in bringing about, or attempting, the apprehension of the criminals. he had already responded with troops to protect the court only to find that the authorities showed the white feather; that compromises with criminals had been entered into; that juries and officers were corrupt, and when trials had occurred had proved a farce. no doubt in his heart he wished for logan's success. the man had made futile attempts to live peaceably. now he intended to act in self-defense. the government cannot help him--he must therefore help himself. a man's home, no matter how humble it may be, is sacred as the king's palace in the eyes of the ancient common law. to defend it from intrusion and attack is man's god-given right, his duty; boone logan set about to retake his fireside. final battle of morehead. june nd, . after leaving frankfort, logan hastened to cincinnati, ohio, where he purchased several hundred dollars' worth of winchester rifles, pistols, shotguns, and an ample supply of ammunition. these were boxed and shipped as saw-mill fixtures, and consigned to a small station (gate's) in rowan county, some miles from morehead. immediately upon his return to rowan county logan summoned his friends. they responded with a will. many came from the neighboring counties, except elliott county, which section sympathized strongly with the tollivers, whose relatives were strong there. sheriff hogg was placed in possession of the warrants against craig tolliver and his confederates, charging them with the recent murders of the logan boys (june th). it was definitely and explicitly agreed upon and arranged that the sheriff should demand the surrender of the tollivers, and only in case of their refusal to comply were the citizens to take a hand. this, of course, was a mere matter of form. it was easy to predict to a certainty that the tollivers would not obey the demand of surrender by the officers. that had been tried too often before. yet the logan faction desired to exhaust all lawful means before resorting to bloodshed. sheriff hogg was instructed to demand the surrender and upon its refusal to retreat in order to insure his personal safety, and to give the forces under boone logan an opportunity to enforce the demand. thus far all went well. when the morning of june nd came, bright and beautiful, everything was in readiness for the coming struggle. logan, with some of his men, was stationed near the chesapeake & ohio railway depot. just across, at the business place of vinton & pigman, hiram pigman, with six or seven men, stood in readiness to act in concert with logan. on the opposite side of the town another detachment was carefully posted in concealment. the tollivers were completely surrounded. strange to say, with all their vigilance, they had remained in utter ignorance of logan's final preparations. logan was despised by them. his frequent absences from home had been attributed to fear. of his visit to frankfort and his purchase of arms at cincinnati they knew nothing. it was late in the morning of the nd, when an accident revealed to them their danger, though the knowledge came too late to enable their escape. the wife of a railroad man was visiting friends at morehead. her husband had noticed bodies of armed men closing in upon the town. he also knew of the large shipment of arms to gate's station. anxious for the safety of his wife, after his suspicions had been aroused, he telegraphed her to leave morehead at once, that a battle was impending without doubt. this information was conveyed to the tollivers, who immediately prepared for the attack. thus it happened that when the battle commenced, logan and his men were put upon the defensive instead of the offensive, as they had anticipated. the logan forces awaited the appearance of the sheriff to demand the surrender of the tollivers. he failed to arrive. the sheriff afterward testified that he had been prevented by armed men from entering the town. be that as it may, the fight opened without him, and during the battle neither he nor his son participated. logan, unaware that his plans had been betrayed to the tollivers, attempted to communicate with his friend pigman at the latter's store. he despatched a young man, william bryant, with a note. to his surprise, the tollivers suddenly appeared, armed to the teeth, and opened fire upon bryant. the boy fled for life and escaped without a wound. logan and pigman, finding their plans discovered, and the sheriff having failed to put in his appearance, now commenced the work they had cut out for themselves and their friends to perform. firing began from every direction--every man fought independently, as best he could. each part of the town became a separate battlefield. the non-combatants sought safety in flight or in the shelter of their homes. black clouds of smoke hung over the ill-fated town; the air was stifling with the smell of sulphur. the grim monster of civil war raged in all its fury. well might we say with chalmers: "o, the miseries of war! we recoil with horror at the destruction of a single individual by some deed of violence. when we see a man in the prime of health suddenly struck down by some deadly aim, the sight of the lifeless body haunts us for days and weeks, and the shock experienced, only time can wear away. "the scene stands before us in daytime, is the subject of our dreams, and spreads a gloom which time can only disperse. "it is painful to dwell on the distressing picture of one individual, but multiply it, and think of the agonies of dying men, as goaded by pain, they grasp the cold ground with convulsive energy, or another, faint with the loss of blood, his pulse ebbs low, and the gathering paleness spreads itself over his countenance; or, wrapping himself round in despair, he can only mark by a few feeble quiverings, that life still lurks and lingers in his lacerated body; or, lifting up a faded eye, he casts a look of imploring helplessness for that succor which no sympathy can yield." the moment the battle opened, logan became the target for many guns from the concealed tollivers. the balls fell all around him; plowed up the ground at his feet and hissed by his ears. craig tolliver and his confederates instinctively singled him out as their most dangerous adversary and made every effort to kill him. the details of the battle are authentically recorded in the report of ernest mcpherson, captain of a detachment of the louisville legion, to the adjutant-general of kentucky, sam e. hill, which report was transmitted to the governor and reported to the legislature. (see documents , no. .) as the tollivers were coming back, boone logan commenced firing. he was at once deserted by the men with him, but continued the fire which was returned by the two tollivers, craig and jay, until their winchester rifles and pistols were empty. they ran from below the depot to the american house, craig tolliver's hotel, and obtaining a fresh supply of ammunition, were joined by bud, andy, cal and cate tolliver, cooper and others. all then started on the run for the central hotel. andy was the first to reach that building by going through alleys and back ways. bud tolliver, cooper and the rest went by way of railroad street, under constant fire from the bushes. halting near the drug store they fired upon the concealed enemies and wounded one madden. bud tolliver was here shot in the thigh. cal and cate, who were mere boys, assisted bud up the lane and secreted him in the weeds back of johnson's store. they then rejoined their comrades. cooper presently emerged from the central hotel and fired upon some of the logan men, but was himself shot through the breast. he retreated into the hotel and secreted himself in a wardrobe, up-stairs, and in this place of fancied security was again hit by a bullet and killed. the central hotel was surrounded, a cessation of firing ordered and logan called upon the tollivers to "come out and they should not be hurt." a message of the same purport was delivered to the tollivers by a woman. she returned with cate tolliver, a boy fifteen years of age, who was disarmed and allowed to go unmolested. the others in the house refusing to surrender, logan resorted to the tactics employed by the tollivers against his cousins and directed his men to fire the building. the tollivers broke cover and started for the bushes. before leaving the house craig tolliver coolly pulled off his boots, saying that it had always been prophesied he would die with his boots on, and that he intended to disappoint the prophets. he emerged in his stocking feet. jay tolliver got out the rear way, ran about fifty feet, was shot three times and fell dead. craig and andy broke from the hotel on the south side and were greeted with a hail of bullets. andy was wounded twice, but not seriously, and under cover of the smoke succeeded in reaching the woods. craig tolliver's former good luck at last deserted him. he ran, firing at his enemies, down a lane which leads from the hotel to the railroad track. at the corner of the drug store already spoken of, pigman, apperson perry and three others were posted. they instantly opened fire on tolliver, the score or more still at the hotel, also continuing their fusilade upon the fleeing outlaw. craig tolliver ran a few steps beyond the corner of the store, fell, rose again and, running toward the switch, sank to the ground to rise no more. he was riddled with balls and buckshot. to the great regret of the logan men, the man whose death they most desired, was not injured. this man was bunk mannin, the town marshal, who so brutally maltreated the dead bodies of the two logan boys. there were undoubtedly some bad men in this fight against the tollivers to whom may be ascribed some excesses which occurred on that memorable day. but they do not appear to have been actually connected with the logans. one of these men admitted that he fired three shots into the body of jay tolliver after he was down. this same man afterwards became a willing witness for the prosecution against the slayers of the tollivers. it was this band of guerillas that shot cooper while secreted in the hotel, dying from a wound in the breast. after completing their inhuman butchery, this same guerilla band sacked the american hotel and committed other outrages. the firing was continuous for two hours, except while the logans made proposals to the tollivers to come out and surrender. over fifteen hundred shots were fired. there was a general sense of relief among the inhabitants when the battle was over and the dreaded tollivers were wiped out. a public meeting was held and largely attended. a party, styling itself the law and order league, took possession of the town and held it until the arrival of troops. boone logan had faithfully kept his word and retaken his fireside. the sinking sun witnessed his return to the home from which he had been banished. his enemies had crossed over the great divide. for the first time in many months the town was quiet. the yells and defiant curses of the drunken desperadoes were heard no more. the lips that had uttered them were still. peace entered morehead once more. it had been purchased at the price of much blood. the battle of june nd, , was the last bloody clash between the various factions of rowan county. the tollivers, deprived of their leader, gave the town a wide berth after this. it soon resumed its former appearance of thrift and prosperity. many of those who had removed from the county, now returned and took possession of their abandoned property. business houses, closed for many months, were reopened, the illegal saloons closed tight, and law and order have been reasonably well maintained in the county ever since. several of the logan men were indicted for murder, hiram m. pigman, who had been logan's right hand man, and of whom the latter spoke as the bravest and most circumspect man on the field that day, was indicted jointly with apperson perry. they were tried by a jury of fleming county and promptly acquitted. logan was never tried. "the court was held under the protection of state troops. the trial lasted for seven days. pigman and perry were shown to be men of excellent character, neither of them had been parties to previous killings in rowan county. the evidence being concluded, the court instructed the jury. briefly summarised, these instructions were 'convict these defendants.' the jury, however, were really 'good men and true' and to the evident surprise of the court, and the chagrin of the prosecuting attorney, returned a verdict of not guilty. these jurymen had been summoned from the adjoining county of fleming. their names deserve the thanks of all good citizens of the commonwealth. obedience to the law and protection from the law, are reciprocal rights and duties, and this jury really decided that where those to whom it is delegated to administer the laws, and to protect the lives, liberty and property of the citizens, wilfully disregard, or timidly refrain from discharging their duties, the citizen has the right to protect and defend himself." (capt. mcpherson's report. documents . no. .) the glaring partiality of the court and corruption of most of its officers he illustrates in the following language: "not infrequently a witness would apply to an attorney the epithet of liar, and when questioned relative to some crime charged against him, a witness would defend his credibility on the ground that his questioner was guilty of offenses similar in character, which he would proceed to enumerate. "even the court would express his opinion in words of abuse and very plainly exhibited his partiality or prejudice. indeed, when the case of the commonwealth against john keeton was called for trial, and the affidavit of the defendant and two reputable housekeepers, asserting the belief that the presiding judge would not afford the defendant a fair and impartial trial was by the defendant handed to the judge, he remarked, after reading the instrument aloud, that he was not surprised; that john keeton would swear anything; that he had sworn to so many lies already that it was not astonishing that he (the judge) would not give him a fair trial. this observation of his honor was delivered in the presence of the jury selected to try john keeton." reverting to the excesses committed by the guerillas during the battle and afterwards, adjutant-general hill says: (documents, ky. .) "almost every one with whom i talked, heartily approved the day's work, barring some excesses, which were committed, such as the killing of the two wounded men after the fight was over, and the disposition on the part of certain members of the posse to abuse their victory by manifesting some disregard of property rights, which conduct was bitterly lamented by the more conservative members of the posse, notably boone logan himself. the victors of the nd of june were in the main, singularly moderate and forbearing, and it is denied by none of the people there that they rendered a most valuable service to the county in overthrowing the outlaws who had so long terrorized the community." during circuit court the commanding officers of the troops noticed one of the sheriffs and several tolliver sympathizers in secret consultations. so suspicious were their actions that they were watched. in the afternoon these parties disappeared from morehead. the next afternoon they brought a box of springfield rifles, calibre fifty, by train. one thousand rounds of ammunition accompanied the guns. col. mckee promptly seized the arms over the vigorous protest of the tolliver faction. the court had directed their shipment "for the purpose of securing peace and quiet and preventing a fight among citizens of this community." another order of the court declared "arms and weapons are kept or hidden or concealed, with the intent and purpose of being used by partisans of the factional war or strife now disturbing the peace, quiet and good order of said county of rowan or being delivered to said partisans" etc., and directed the seizure of all arms. the officers complied, collecting all arms discovered in the possession of the logan faction, and, of course, retaining the box of springfields consigned to white, a tolliver sympathizer. then, strange to say, on august th, an order was issued by the circuit court directing the colonel commanding the troops, or rather the adjutant-general, to immediately deliver to the sheriff the box of springfields and ammunition to arm a posse of citizens of rowan county to make an arrest, and demanding a reply in writing should the officer refuse to comply with this strange order. the adjutant-general replied that he could not comply with the order for the reason that the arms could not be released except under direction from the governor. the effect of obedience to this order would have been to restore the arms to the tolliver faction, while retaining those of the logan party, and to arm a posse, perhaps to be guided by deputy sheriff hogg, with its recent infamous history still in mind, would scarcely have been consistent with the duty of an officer sent to rowan county to preserve peace. a day or two afterwards the court severely censured the governor for not permitting his honor to arm such sheriff's posse as he might select. before departure from rowan the officer commanding restored the guns and pistols taken from private individuals during the term of court. the box of springfield rifles was retained and loaded upon the cars for shipment to frankfort. the tollivers were incensed. deputy sheriff hogg and andy white sauntered through town breathing threats and dire vengeance if the guns were not left behind. the soldiers loading them, however, were not disturbed, and the guns were deposited in the arsenal at frankfort. the presiding circuit judge was soon afterwards, the following january, brought before the legislature on impeachment proceedings. during the long-drawn-out investigation many witnesses were examined, whose testimony fills an entire volume. the result of the investigation was censure, a quasi whitewash, and a recommendation to abolish the county and attach it to another. but this would have meant nothing more nor less than to saddle upon innocent people the settlement of a controversy. to have transferred the county to another district would have resulted in involving other sections hitherto not affected by the trouble. to have abolished the county would have been an open acknowledgment of the weakness of the state to execute its laws and to cope with crime. it was this confidence of the lawbreakers that their crimes would never be punished, and the belief of many good citizens that the machinery of the law was set in motion only in the interests of certain parties, that was responsible for the long-continued, shameful disorders in rowan county. the french-eversole war. the scene of this war was perry county, kentucky, one of the most mountainous sections of all southeastern kentucky. hazard, the county seat, was then a small, but very thrifty and enterprising village. it was called a town. rightfully it ought not to have aspired to that title. it is situated on the north fork of the kentucky river, and was built in scattered fashion, between abrupt hills in the rear and the river, with but a single street running through it. here at hazard was the cradle of the feud which for years filled newspaper columns and furnished most sensational reading. many of the stories which have gone out to the world had, however, no other foundation than a lively imagination of newspaper writers who were anxious to fill space and to please the readers that loved the sensational. in this purpose they have succeeded admirably. here at hazard resided the chieftains of this war--joseph c. eversole, and benjamin fulton french. both were men of fine business abilities, successfully engaged in the mercantile business; both were prominent, able lawyers of the perry courts; both were in easy financial circumstances. eversole was extensively related in perry and adjoining counties. french had originally come from the state of tennessee, but had married a kentuckian and by marriage had become related to influential families of breathitt, leslie and other counties. prior to the difficulties which eventually arrayed them against each other, eversole and french had been apparently close friends. a misunderstanding over a rather trivial matter furnished the basis of their future enmity, an enmity to the death. the bird on the snowy alpine slope starts an insignificant slide. it increases as it rolls downward and becomes an avalanche; thundering into the valley below, carrying everything before it and leaving a path of desolation, destruction and death behind it. so a trivial difference over a business transaction opened graves for many brave and generous men, desolated happy homes, and for a long time heaped shame upon the name of perry county and the state at large. french and eversole disagreed and quarreled. at each subsequent meeting the quarrel was renewed with ever increasing bitterness; menacing threats were freely indulged in until the vials of hate became filled to overflowing. a theretofore existing sharp business rivalry materially assisted the estrangement from the start. as stated, both were engaged in the mercantile business in which each tried to outdo the other, often at a material loss. serious trouble might yet have been averted through the interference of honest friends but for an unfortunate circumstance, which involved them to such an extent that the breach became irreparable. the circumstance referred to might, however, never have had serious consequences had it not been for the pernicious activity of the slanderous tale teller. in this feud, perhaps more so than in any other of the internecine strifes which, during the eighties added to the significance of the title, the "dark and bloody ground," and intensified the crimson hue of its history, we find those who shunned battle, feared to oppose their breasts to the shock of bullet, but gloried in pouring oil upon the flames, without danger to themselves. in such a struggle the tale-bearer is more dangerous than powder and shot. morally and legally, he who instigates a murder, even by indirection, is as much a murderer as the man who fires the gun and accomplishes the bloody deed. with the countenance of the saint such a man will seek the confidence of both sides. he loves to pose as a peacemaker; he preaches brotherly love. yet, when the trouble is about to abate, he seems to regret it, for then he seizes upon every chance, uses every opportune moment to convey some confidential intelligence to the party or parties for whose ears it had been least intended. the strife is renewed; passions are rekindled; yet, while men welter in their hearts' blood, widows mourn and orphans cry, the traitor, the tale-teller, the scandal peddler, maintains his saintly countenance and bewails the fate of the unfortunates. yet it is not always the spoken slander, the spoken tale, that hurts. the old adage that "silence is golden" is not to be applied in all cases. silence is often even more dangerous than spoken words. _silence_ may become a greater liar than the tongue. we often hear the expression "if you cannot speak good of any one, say nothing!" yet silence is the most bitter, poisonous, insidious traducer. silence may convey contempt more completely than a torrent of spoken words. silence is most treacherous because it places the burden of its interpretation upon the other side. that interpretation may be wrong, but the silent slanderer does not correct it. silence is also many sided. it may mean consent; it may mean denial. it does incalculable harm without being in the least responsible or actionable. one cannot horsewhip one for injury to character through silence. silence and innuendo are closely related; both are the most dangerous weapons of the moral coward. spoken lies are soon forgotten. they "rile" the blood--but that passes. spoken lies are tangible, as it were, and may be met. silence and innuendo are like enemies in invisible ambush. one cannot attack an invisible foe. what we have reference to might best be illustrated by the following dialogue the writer once overheard: a. "tell me truly, did he make that charge against me?" b. turns away and refuses to answer. a. "i heard he had made that charge against me to you and threatened my life--is this true?" no answer. a. "i may then presume by your _silence_ that it is true what i have asked you about?" no reply. result of _silence_: a homicide, and the destruction of two families. asked later on why he did not nip the trouble in its incipiency by resorting to a white lie, b. answered with asperity that a. had put his _own construction_ upon his silence and refusal to have anything whatever to say in their controversy. on the stand b. admitted that the third party in question had not told him what a. had inquired about. ergo: b. was morally responsible for the homicide, as much so as the man that pulled the trigger. reverting to the circumstance which completed the breach between french and eversole: a certain friend (?) of french conveyed information to eversole that he, french, sought his life. this informant was a clerk in the store of french and known to be in his confidence. naturally, under such circumstances, eversole gave the report credence. why not? we are ever ready to believe and accept as true anything that is spoken of an enemy, and french and eversole had already become such in their hearts, if not outwardly. the tale-bearer, who shall be nameless, related how french had planned to rid himself of his business rival and thus make for himself a clear field for mercantile operations; that french expected to accomplish his purpose with the aid of trusty, hired assassins, and that one part of the plan, the employment of reliable murderers, had been entrusted to him, the informant, who had been promised any amount of money necessary for this purpose, and a partnership with french in the business as a further reward for his services. whether for real or imaginary causes, this tale-bearer had become intensely jealous of french over a woman. he sought consolation in revenge; one of the first steps toward the consummation of his desire to ruin his "rival in love" had been the bearing of the tale referred to to eversole. eversole, after weighing carefully the statement, seemed to have entertained some doubt of its truth, and requested a sworn affidavit containing the statements made. this the tale-teller readily prepared with such clearness of detail as to cause eversole to dismiss all doubt of the truth of the revelations and at once prepared to meet his enemy well. french saw the ominous gathering of the eversole clan, fully armed, and surrounded himself with an equally strong force. both of the belligerents kept busy recruiting among their friends and kindred in perry and even adjoining counties. man after man was added to the clans, some joining them bound by the strong ties of relationship or friendship, the most, however, were attracted by promises of good steady pay, and an opportunity to violate the law on a grander scale than they would have dared to do single-handed. the first murder occurred shortly after the gathering of the clans. one of french's staunchest friends, one silas gayhart, was shot and killed--from ambush. this mode of warfare was resorted to in this feud perhaps more generally than in any of the others. it must not be attributed altogether to cowardice--this murdering from ambush. it has many advantages. of course, killing an enemy from ambush puts the slayers out of danger. that is one consideration, but the chiefest one is that it is almost impossible to fasten the guilt of the crime upon the proper person. when men are banded together for the purpose of committing crime, the sanctity of an oath is easily laid aside when an alibi becomes necessary. the entire population of the county may _know_ the assassins, point them out to you as they stalk proudly along, yet, when it comes to trials by jury, the evidence seems to signally fail to connect them. the very men that might have told you in confidence the most damaging circumstances connecting the accused with crime, will, on the stand, disclaim all knowledge, or so soften down their statements that no jury could, under their oaths, find a verdict of guilty. in this murder of gayhart at least a dozen white men and some negroes participated. it is unfortunate that circumstances do not permit us to give the names of them. they should be preserved for posterity, and added to the list of feud heroes. as no one was ever indicted for that cowardly assassination, although its perpetrators were well-known throughout the county, history must necessarily remain silent in so far as the publication of their names is concerned. it has been stated and contended that the killing of gayhart was an affair entirely disconnected with the french-eversole controversy; that the man had fallen as the victim of a quarrel with persons not members of the clan. this may be true and it may not. it is difficult in such social upheavals to get at the unvarnished truth. when crimes are committed under cover of black night, from well-secreted places, suspicion might point in the wrong direction and accuse the innocent. for this reason it is best to abstain from charges not definitely established beyond any sort of doubt. the result of the gayhart murder, however, was the same as if he had been publicly assassinated by the eversole clan, for french believed that gayhart lost his life because of his friendship for him. french sent out more recruiting officers. the increase of his "army" forced the eversoles to do likewise. how similar is this to the struggle of nations to maintain superior armies and navies. it is not strange, after all. communities stand relatively in the same attitude as do nations. a community is a miniature state, nothing more. the little village of hazard, with its one hundred inhabitants, was now thrown into a state of perpetual excitement which continued uninterrupted through the summer, fall and winter of . that no battle was fought was due to the extreme caution with which the clans watched each other's every move. then early one morning the eversole faction learned to their astonishment that french and his army had evacuated the town during the night. many theories were advanced in explanation of this singular action. some attributed it to fear. those better acquainted with the temper and make-up of the french clan scouted that idea and suggested that french was seeking reinforcement in the country, and that at an opportune moment he would sweep down upon the village, trap the hemmed-in eversoles, and annihilate them with overwhelming forces. this seemed a rational conclusion. with french gone from town, eversole declined to be caught in such a trap, as trap it would have been, and to prevent the execution of french's plan the eversoles themselves retreated to a section of the country peopled with their sympathizers. however, eversole did not leave hazard open to undisputed occupation. he left a bait there, a small force. if french should learn of the weakness of the garrison he would be tempted to sweep down upon it. in doing so he would find eversole striking in his rear. french himself was shrewd and refused to fall into the trap. eversole scouted everywhere, frequently on the trail of french. during the month of june, in the dark of night, the latter reentered hazard, took possession of his fortified places where most of his men remained secreted, while the more daring of them walked the streets the next morning, bantering the eversoles that had been left in town. their leader was at once notified by messenger to the country of the state of affairs. he had but few men with him at that time, but with these started for town. seven or eight men, fortunately for him, joined his ranks on the way. it was late in the day when hazard was reached, but the lateness of the hour did not defer attack. from well selected positions the eversoles opened a plunging fire upon the housed-up french men. these replied to the fusilade with equal spirit. hundreds of shots were fired at a great expenditure of ammunition and without appreciable result. only one man was seriously wounded on the side of french. no casualties were admitted by the eversoles. the darkness of the night brought the engagement to a close. french withdrew from town. this kind of almost bloodless warfare continued throughout the summer with no decisive result. both clans grew weary. great expense had been incurred in keeping a large, paid army. the leaders were threatened with bankruptcy. so when the friends of both sides interceded, french and eversole seemed more than willing to appoint and send representatives to a conference, which was held on big creek in perry county. it was attended by prominent citizens of both perry and leslie counties, who were anxious to bring about a settlement of the war. articles of agreement were finally drawn up, in which the belligerents agreed to return to their homes, to disband their armies, and to surrender their arms and ammunition. this agreement was duly signed by the representatives of the clans and duly witnessed. in accordance with this agreement, french surrendered his arms to the county judge of leslie county, while eversole placed his guns in charge of josiah combs, county judge of perry county. the clans disbanded. still, there were but few who promised themselves lasting results from the big creek treaty of peace. it was nothing more _than a scrap of paper_. the compromise had not been prompted by any desire for friendship. its underlying motive was mercenary. the chieftains sought merely to avoid financial outlay. the welfare of the country, respect for the law, these were considerations of secondary importance only, if taken into account at all. this may be fairly deducted from the fact that the old distrust of each other never vanished. _the grudge was there_, it rankled still. indeed, it was but a short time after the conclusion of the treaty that french claimed to have unquestionable authority for the charge that eversole had violated the stipulations by repossessing himself of the guns. these, as we have seen, had been turned over to judge josiah combs, who, by the way, was the father-in-law of joe eversole. when eversole was confronted with this breach of a solemn treaty he attempted to justify it by declaring that at no time had it ever been observed by french, who, he maintained, had never in fact disbanded his army, and that the surrender of arms had only been partial, a blind. whether these reports had been actually brought to the ears of the chieftains, or had been invented by them in order to manufacture some sort of pretext upon which to renew hostilities, must ever remain in doubt. future events seem to prove rather clearly that neither of the parties was in very good faith toward keeping the peace. both french and eversole appeared singularly well prepared to re-enter the war. the ink had hardly dried on the treaty when perry county was again thrown into turmoil and strife. what had the authorities been doing during this period of quasi warfare? we find absolutely no record of any sort of any attempt to maintain the dignity of the law. as in rowan county, many of the court officers were rank partisans, who used their power to protect in outlawry their own particular friends and kindred. those not in their favor had little cause to appeal to the law, had they been inclined to do so, which they were not. it seemed to suit both sides perfectly to let justice sheath her sword and stand idle, and--blind as usual. on the th of september, , joe eversole and bill gambriel, a french sympathizer, met in the streets of hazard, when a quarrel ensued. this was followed by a most sanguinary duel in which gambriel was killed. gambriel was a minister of the gospel, a typical mountaineer, tall, powerful and game. he would fight at the drop of a hat and drop the hat himself. it was said of him that he considered moonshine whiskey of much benefit for the stomach, and a game at cards an agreeable diversion from the cares and toils of life. it was said of him, too, that he carried a testament in one pocket, a deck of cards, a bottle of liquor and a pistol in the others. this had been told in a joke; but straightway this description of him was accepted as a fact and was widely published in the papers at the time. the truth of the matter is that he was a man who entertained rather singular, independent and free ideas of the duties of a preacher. he was a good man, and had a wide circle of friends. joe eversole was physically a small man, of slight stature, but quick and agile as a boy. certainly he was fearless. when such men engage in combat blood is sure to flow. as to who began the difficulty there is but little doubt. official reports to the governor, which will be found later on, place the blame upon eversole. after a short exchange of blows between the men, gambriel was fired upon by secreted friends of eversole. attempting to escape by running around a house, gambriel was fired upon from another quarter and fatally wounded. staggering and reeling, he turned upon eversole, who fired into his head, instantly killing him. several parties were indicted for the murder, but one only was tried. the trial resulted in a hung jury the first time, and in an acquittal on the second trial. it has always been an open secret about town that the man who fired upon gambriel while he attempted to escape death, has never been indicted, and that he was an officer at that time. the killing created intense feeling. gambriel had many friends. he was a staunch french adherent and it was well within the course of reason for french to regard the killing of the man as a challenge. the eversoles themselves believed that gambriel's friends would not pass lightly over the homicide and prepared to meet all danger. the clans, disbanded (?) but a short time before, reassembled and for several months roamed the ill-fated county at will, terrorizing its inhabitants and defying the law. but little fighting was done. it seems that they contented themselves with manoeering, marching and counter-marching. in such warfare, if warfare it was, the innocent were made to suffer more than the warriors. such an armed vagabondage was as useless as it was silly. it furnished material for the sensational newspaper, but even these failed to discover anything of the heroic about this campaign. the leaders must have felt something of that themselves, for during the winter the armies were again disbanded. permanent restoration of peace, however, was not to come to perry county yet for a time. the apparent calm through the winter was suddenly disturbed in the following april, when the news of the brutal assassination of joseph c. eversole and nick combs excited and horrified hazard. on the morning of april th, , the valley of big creek, perry county, became the scene of a tragedy which might well cause one's blood to run cold with horror, one's cheek to blush with shame. on the sabbath day, when human hearts should turn to god in prayer, when nature even seems to bow in reverence, the birds of the forests sing his praises with more than usual sweetness, two lives were hurled into eternity without warning, murdered, butchered from ambush. when a man resents an insult, when passion clouds all reason, and in momentary frenzy, under the impulse of hot, red blood, he shoots his fellow man, there is yet some excuse. but when men with the savage instinct of beasts of prey fall upon their unsuspecting victims from ambush, like the tiger that glides noiselessly through the thick jungle and suddenly springs upon its prey, then the word man becomes a mock and devil is the proper epithet. nowhere in the valley of big creek could a more suitable spot have been selected from which to accomplish such a hellish crime as was committed on that fatal sunday morning, than the one chosen by the red-handed demons. the valley is narrow, the hills enclosing it are steep, rugged and covered with dense forest. the spot where the murderers were in hiding, commanded an uninterrupted view of the road up and down the valley. nothing short of a lynx's eyes could have penetrated the leafy, thicket-grown murderers' retreat. on the day of the murder, joe eversole, in company of his father-in-law, judge josiah combs and the latter's youthful nephew, nick combs, bade a last farewell to his family and the host of friends at hazard and started for hyden where the regular term of the circuit court was scheduled to begin the following morning. this court eversole and judge combs had always attended, having been practising members of the bar there for years. of this fact the assassins had been well informed. they seemed to have feared that their intended victims might possibly leave for hyden a day or two in advance of court, which they had done on several occasions in the past, so the murderers prepared for such an exigency and stationed themselves at the ambush for at least a day before that memorable sunday. their patient waiting was rewarded on sunday morning by the appearance of the victims. on the way the three travelers were joined by one tom hollifield, an officer, who was conveying a prisoner, mary jones, to hyden. judge combs rode by the side of the officer, well in advance of eversole and young nick combs. they had passed the ambush some forty yards or more, when suddenly the roar of rapidly fired guns echoed and re-echoed through the valley. at the sound of the shots judge combs turned and saw, to his horror, that the messengers of death had accomplished their cruel mission, saw joe eversole and nick combs fall from their rearing and plunging horses, saw them struggle in their blood and then lay still. paralyzed with horror and agony, he gazed upon the scene. he had no sense or realization of his own danger, for in danger he had been. it was purely accident that he had ridden in advance of his kinsmen. one of the assassins climbed down the steep hillside and approached the body of nick combs, who was then in his death-throes. he had fainted, but upon the approach of the assassin, opened his eyes. the murderer, finding life still lingering in the mangled, bleeding body, raised his rifle to finish the bloody work. the youth begged piteously to shoot him no more, that death would claim him in a few moments. mountains might have been moved by his pleadings, but not the heart of the cowardly assassin. "dead men tell no tales," he exclaimed, with a smile of derision upon his lips. slowly he raised the winchester rifle, placed the muzzle against the boy's head and fired, dropping the eyeballs from their sockets. the murderer then calmly rifled the pockets of eversole of their contents and retreated, thus adding the crime of robbery to that of murder. judge combs, brought to himself, spurred his horse to utmost exertion and dashed like a maniac into hyden to bring the news. the scene of the crime was within about three hundred yards of a house. shortly after the shooting one fields, the owner of the house or cabin, and one campbell proceeded to the scene of the tragedy. they found the dead in a pool of blood, lying within a few feet of each other. they discovered eversole's pockets turned inside out. nick combs' horse was found, shot, in a little meadow by the side of the road, while eversole's horse was afterwards caught some miles further down the stream. the news of the tragedy aroused the people to instant action. a force of men was assembled, who started upon the trail of the murderers. the place of ambush was found. it was located exactly sixty-one feet from the point where the bodies had been found, in a dense spruce-pine thicket. several of the pine bushes had been bent over and the tops tied together, thus forming a complete screen and shelter. behind this blind or screen they found a considerable depression in the earth, a natural rifle pit. this had been filled with leaves and appeared packed and trodden into the ground. numerous footprints were plainly visible. remnants of meals were also found. everything tended to confirm the theory that the assassins had been there for at least two days before the killing. from this screen the trail was followed up the hill until it divided. one of the trails led to the top of a high ridge, one turned to the right, another to the left. this discovery proved that there had been at least three assassins. when this fact became known the pursuers retreated, seemingly afraid of an ambush. they reasoned that three or more men so desperate as to commit a cold-blooded double murder in the broad-open light of day, almost in sight of human habitation, would and could, in this wild mountain region, successfully fight an even larger force than was at the command of the pursuers. the bodies of eversole and combs were conveyed to hazard in the afternoon and consigned to their graves amid a great concourse of sorrowing people. thus the bloody drama ends. the sombre curtain of mourning falls. the story of the brutal assassination is finished. justice hides her head in shame for no one has ever been punished for it. the french faction was at once openly charged with responsibility for the outrage. french himself was indicted. so boldly and undisguised were these accusations circulated that french feared for his safety and again surrounded himself with men. he almost immediately withdrew from town and scouted through the country. if those who committed the murder of eversole, or their accessaries, had hoped to thereby crush the enemy, they found themselves sadly mistaken. the vacancy created by the death of joe eversole was quickly and ably filled by john campbell, a man of acknowledged bravery, as well as caution, and well-fitted as a leader in such a struggle. he surrounded the town with guards; squads of men patrolled the streets; his force made repeated scouts into the neighboring hills. no man not in possession of the password could enter town. an unauthorized attempt to do so drew upon the rash one the fire of many guns. campbell had been for days in hourly expectation of an attack by french. he, therefore, believed it wise to resort to military methods and discipline. the rigid order to shoot any one who dared to pass into town without first giving the pass-word resulted in his own death. he was returning one night from his usual rounds when, on approaching a sentry, he found him asleep. he ordered him harshly to arise, when the man, half asleep, and dazed, threw the gun to his shoulder and fired. campbell uttered a groan and fell heavily to the ground. the sentry, on perceiving his mistake, gave the alarm; the wounded chieftain was carried to his home, where an examination of his wound by the surgeons disclosed the fact that he had been fatally wounded. he lingered, however, for more than thirty days in intense agony before he died--the victim of his own precautions. during campbell's leadership one shade combs conceived the grand idea that he was the man who might summarily end the war by killing off certain obnoxious members of the french faction. he communicated his plans to campbell, who furnished him the required men. but by some means combs' intended victims had gotten wind of his scheme and forestalled it in such manner that the hunter now became the hunted. one fine morning, while saddling his horse, a well-directed shot from ambush ended his life. such were conditions in perry county during the summer and fall of . people who had continued entirely neutral, grew exceedingly nervous. one never knew when his turn would come next to die from a shot from the bushes. the law had utterly failed to give the citizens the protection to which they were entitled. the state and county government enforced the collection of taxes but seemed unable to enforce the law. had the people of perry county withheld their hands from their purse-strings and refused to pay taxes, we honestly believe that the high authorities would very quickly have found or invented a remedy for the lawlessness which was depriving the state of revenue. the citizens of perry county would have been justified in a rebellion against taxation, unless the government protected them in their rights. when people are taxed, they in turn are supposed to have their lives and property protected. when one consideration of a contract fails, the other may be avoided. on the th of october, , the news of another assassination increased the terror of the people. elijah morgan, a french adherent, a man of courage and unswerving determination, was shot and killed within less than two miles of hazard--shot from ambush. on the morning of his death he and one frank grace were on their way to town in pursuance of an agreement that had been entered into by him with members of the eversole faction. morgan was the son-in-law of judge combs, but in spite of all efforts from that direction to throw his influence with the eversoles he had continued to remain loyal to french and for this he was promptly slain. his death had been decreed some time before this, but his shrewdness and knowledge of the tactics of his enemies had made him a very slippery proposition. a ruse was, therefore, resorted to. for a short time previous to his death morgan had frequently expressed his desire for peace, an earnest wish to lay down his arms, and to be permitted to return to peaceful pursuits. this commendable desire on his part assisted his enemies in the formulation of plans for his destruction. they assured him with every pledge of sincerity that he should not be molested; that he might freely come to town whenever he wished; that on a certain day (the day of the murder) if he would meet them at hazard, they would all renew the friendship that had existed until the feud tore them asunder. morgan promised to attend the proposed peace jubilee. little did he dream that the pretended friends were cold-blooded, calculating enemies, seeking his life under the miserable mask of friendship; that to be certain of success, to avoid any possible miscarriage of the plot, every avenue of escape had been carefully considered and guarded against. assassins were placed at various points along the road and at convenient spots in town. the actors in the tragedy were all at their posts when morgan stepped upon the scene, unknowingly playing the chief role. within less than two miles, in fact, but little more than a mile from town, at a spot where the road is flanked by large overhanging cliffs on one side and the steep river bank on the other, morgan was fired upon. with a bullet in his back he sank to the ground. a number of shots followed the first one. grace was driven to cover. morgan, in his death struggle, rolled over the river bank where a small tree arrested further descent. grace, not daring to abandon his place of comparative safety, remained a helpless spectator of the agonies of his dying friend. country people, traveling toward town, at last came to morgan's relief, but he died within a few hours. as soon as the alarm had been given, a posse of his friends started in pursuit of the murderers, but nothing came of it. the french faction openly charged the eversoles with the murder. the eversoles expressed indignation at the imputation. they had no right to complain. on other occasions they had themselves preferred similar charges against french upon no better authority than suspicions based upon suspicious circumstances. the murder of morgan had followed closely upon the heel of the assassination of shade combs for which the eversoles held the french faction responsible. certainly there were some well-grounded suspicions that the slaying of morgan was an act of retaliation on the part of the eversoles. now the state government and the circuit judge began to take a hand in the matter. it was time. circuit judge lilly, a gentleman of the highest type, an able jurist, had somehow or other seemed unable to inspire the district with respects for his courts. this district embraced the counties of breathitt, letcher, perry, knott and others. in each of those lawlessness had spread to such an extent that the judge found himself defied on every hand and felt himself compelled to request the state to furnish troops for his courts. this led to the following spirited correspondence between the governor and judge lilly: hazard, ky., nov. , . to the governor of kentucky: sir:--captain sohan has succeeded in organizing a company of about state guards in perry county. he informs me that he has no orders and does not know whether he will be ordered back to louisville or to go with me to whitesburg, thence to hindman and thence to breathitt; but, in any event, expects to be ordered away from here very soon. mr. b. f. french is here with or perhaps more men, well armed, and the people are so much alarmed, fearing that they will be left to the mercy of these men, that i have decided that i will take the responsibility upon myself to order the perry guards on duty, hoping that you will approve my action and order them on duty, and let their pay begin on the th instant. i will not attempt to hold courts at letcher, knott, or breathitt unless you send guards along. no good can be accomplished by holding courts in any of those counties without a guard. if a sufficient guard is present, i think that much good will be accomplished in and by the moral effect it will have on the people by showing them that you are determined to have the courts held and the laws enforced, and to give protection to the good citizens. please write me and send by way of manchester, as i shall return that way, and if i do not receive your letter here, can get it on the road. if you order the guard to go with me i will go and hold the courts if not providentially hindered. i remain, yours truly, h. c. lilly. the governor answered in rather caustic manner. _governor buckner's reply._ executive department. frankfort, nov. th, . hon. h. c. lilly, judge, irvine, ky. dear sir:--i have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your communication of the th inst. from hazard, perry county, in which you say "mr. b. f. french is here with , or perhaps more, men, well armed, and the people are so much alarmed, fearing that they will be left to the mercy of those men, that i have decided that i will take the responsibility upon myself to order the perry guards on duty, hoping that you will approve my action and order them on duty, and let their pay begin on the th inst." at the time i received your communication i was in communication with the sheriff of perry county. i inferred from his statements that there was no immediate danger of an outbreak or opposition to the civil authorities; and, second, that but slight effort had been made by him to arrest violators of the law. your own statement does not inform me of anything more than a vague apprehension in the public mind, and does not advise me that the civil authorities cannot suppress any attempts at disturbance by employing the usual force of civil government. _i assume that if danger had been imminent, both you and the sheriff would have remained on the ground_. the object of furnishing troops on your application was to protect the court in the discharge of its duties, and not to supercede the civil authorities by a military force. under the circumstances i do not feel authorized to call the local militia into active service. respectfully, your obedient servant, s. b. buckner. the letter of judge lilly is significant as an admission of the cowardice of the entire population. he says "mr. b. f. french is here with _fifteen_, or perhaps, more men, well-armed, and the people are so much alarmed fearing that they will be left to the mercy of those men" and so on. had judge lilly been correctly informed? if so, what had become of the boasted bravery of kentucky mountaineers that the manhood of an entire county, containing many thousand inhabitants, should shiver and tremble like frightened sheep and tamely submit to the intimidations of a band of _fifteen_, or perhaps more, men. was it possible that in this land of the free and the brave the proportion of brave men stood fifteen to one thousand cowards? oh no! the authorities had simply never put the law-abiding, the true citizen element, in a position to show its mettle; it had never been given a proper test. the attempt to restore order had not been made at all; if it had, it would have succeeded. no outlaw band, however strong, can, or will, long defy the law when a firm and _determined_ move is made to enforce it. why is it that one courageous blue-coat policeman can scatter a crowd? it is not his bulk, his figure, but the uniform he wears, the badge of authority--the law. if he is a credit to that uniform he may, single-handed, disperse a mob. the consciousness of having the law behind him makes him dauntless; the thought of duty steels his nerves. if those entrusted with the execution of the law in perry county had made _one_ firm, unflinching effort to uphold its dignity, the period of assassinations would have ended then and there. the history of lawlessness in perry county furnishes ample lessons to other counties, and to other states, for that matter. governor buckner aptly expressed his opinion of the situation when he terms the "fears and alarms" of the people as "anything more than a vague apprehension in the public mind." judge lilly probably accepted the trembling cowardice of a few as the criterion by which to measure the manhood of an entire county. however, on the th of october, the governor notified the adjutant-general to forward troops to hazard. his report to the governor later on furnishes interesting reading, as does the report of the commander of the expedition, captain j. m. sohan.[ ] adjutant-general's office. frankfort, ky., nov. , . to his excellency, governor s. b. buckner. dear sir:--pursuant to executive order, bearing date the th ult., i left frankfort on st and proceeded to hazard, the county seat of perry county, arriving there noon of sunday, the th instant, where i remained till thursday, the th, when i left on my return, at o'clock a. m., arriving here saturday morning. hazard contains near inhabitants, when they are all at home, but i was told that not more than about thirty-five people were at home when i reached there, the rest of the population having refugeed in consequence of the french and eversole feud which has distracted the people of the town and county for more than two years, and during which some ten men have died by violence as the result thereof. many of the refugees returned before i left there, a number having joined the troops en route, and returned under their protection to hazard, arriving there on the afternoon of sunday, the th, while others returned sunday night and others as late as wednesday night. among those who had sought safety in flight were george eversole, county judge, and brother to joe eversole, the leader of the faction of that name; ira davidson, circuit and county court clerk, a sympathizer with that faction, josiah combs, late county judge and father-in-law of joseph eversole, and his son ---- combs, who is an officer of the circuit court, and fulton french, the leader of the french faction, together with the families of each, except davidson, who is a single man. these all returned, except the elder combs, either with the troops or after their arrival, and before i left. the killings above referred to were mostly assassinations from ambush, which seems to have been the favorite method of warfare adopted by both factions for ridding the community of the presence of persons who, from causes real or supposed, had made themselves obnoxious to the slayers, though one killing, that of mr. gambriel, was committed in the town of hazard, in broad daylight, by two eversoles and two of his henchmen, and was witnessed by a number of people; was committed without anything like adequate provocation, but for which no indictment had ever been found. grand juries and witnesses seem either to have sympathized with the law-breakers or to have been intimidated by them; but it is not improbable that both of these causes have operated to paralyze the administration of the law, and to correspondingly stimulate crime. as is usual in such cases, i found that the county authorities failed to act with any degree of promptness and vigor at the inception of the difficulties and the result was the inevitable one--the troubles soon grew beyond their control. josiah combs, the father-in-law of joe eversole, was county judge at the beginning of the feud and eversole and his friends were evidently the aggressors--at least were first to resort to violence--and when the county judge was appealed to by outsiders to issue warrants for their arrest, positively declined to do so, saying that eversole had done nothing to be arrested for, and that french ought to be driven away from town. thus the inaction of the authorities stimulated the friends of each faction, and each sought safety in arming such persons as would take service with them, and setting at defiance the law instead of looking to it as their best protection. finally, one sunday morning last april, joe eversole, in company with nick combs, his brother-in-law, and josiah combs, started from hazard to hyden to circuit court, and when about five miles out from hazard they were fired upon from ambush and eversole and young combs were instantly killed. fulton french was indicted for that killing, and while he may have instigated it, he certainly did not participate in the shooting. the killing of joe eversole seems to have demoralized his friends, the most prominent of whom soon after left hazard. the last assassination was that of elijah morgan, who was shot from ambush, near hazard, on the th of last month. his only crime appears to have been that he sympathized with french. morgan was also a son-in-law of josiah combs and brother-in-law of eversole. and now, perhaps, you are ready to ask what it was all about? well, i cannot say, although i very naturally sought to learn the cause. some of whom i enquired thought it was business rivalry, while others said there was a woman in the case, and i think it attributable in part to both those causes. french and eversole were both merchants and lawyers, and i was told that some three years ago a man who was clerking for french accused french of deflouring his wife, and quit french and took service with eversole, and told the latter that the former had offered him five hundred dollars to murder him, and soon afterwards silas gayheart, who was a friend of french, was murdered, as it is charged, by eversole and his friends, and from that time on the troubles have grown and assassinations multiplied, the victims being first from one side and then from the other. i thought it advisable to call out of the reserve militia, all that i had arms for, and selected these from the best, non-partisan people that i could. the list was not complete when i left, but i authorized capt. sohan, whom i found to be an excellent officer, to muster them in, and gave him similar instructions to those you gave me on the subject. judge lilly is very anxious that the troops go with him to knott and letcher counties, but i heard of no organized band of outlaws in those counties too strong for the civil authorities, if the latter will do their duty. the troops, officers and men comprising the detail, conducted themselves in a soldierly and appropriate manner, and i apprehend that they will have no trouble in protecting the court from violence should any be offered, which i think improbable. very respectfully, sam e. hill, adjutant-general. captain sohan's report contains additional facts of interest; the difficulty in reaching the remote, mountainous section, and facts connected with the conduct of the court. headquarters louisville legion. first reg. ky. state guard, adjutant's office. louisville, ky., november th, . to the adjutant-general, frankfort, ky. sir:--under instructions contained in your letter of march th, , handed me at hazard, perry county, kentucky, i have the honor to submit the following report:-- pursuant to general orders nos. and , issued from regimental headquarters, and authorized by executive orders, i left louisville october th, at . p. m. with a detail of four commissioned officers and non-commissioned officers and privates, and gatling gun, under instructions to report to hon. h. c. lilly, judge of the th judicial district, at hazard, perry county, kentucky. the detail occupied passenger coaches and baggage car, which were attached to the regular . p. m. train on the knoxville branch of the l. & n. railroad. we arrived at london, ky., about two o'clock, and there our cars were sidetracked and the command occupied them until daylight, when we disembarked, had breakfast and started for hazard, which is about miles distant. we traveled in wagons, which had been provided by lieutenant j. h. mansir, acting quartermaster, who had preceded the command to london for that purpose. to transport the command were required wagons and teams, and team for gatling gun. the officers were mounted. owing to the condition of the road, in places almost impassable, the march was very tedious; the men had frequently to dismount and help the teams up the hills or over rough places. about o'clock we went into camp for the night, and resumed the march next morning at good daylight. we continued the march in this manner from day to day, going into camp between and o'clock, and resuming the march between and . we reached hazard at three o'clock sunday afternoon, november rd, , it being the fifth day out from london. on the second day of the march we were joined by judge lilly, when about miles from london. he remained with or near the command until we reached hazard. at various points along the route we were met by the officials of the perry circuit court--the circuit court clerk, sheriff and deputy sheriffs--all of whom were awaiting escort, and who accompanied the troops into town. arrived at our destination, i found the court house unsuitable for a camp-ground, and selected for that purpose a hill in rear of the court house, and about yards distant. it proved an admirable site, being dry, easily picketed, in a manner secluded, and affording good opportunity to command the town in case of difficulty. we were comfortably encamped before dark, and entered at once upon the routine of camp life, the full particulars of which have been made known to you in my daily reports. i reported for duty to judge lilly at the court house on monday, the th inst., at o'clock a. m. he instructed me that he would not require a guard at the court house or town just then, not deeming it necessary, as but few people were in, and that in any case he did not intend to try to do anything until after the election, which occurred on the th, and that when he wanted a guard he would let me know. i returned to camp and the judge adjourned court until wednesday, the th. upon resuming wednesday, the town being well filled with people, the judge required a guard in the court room as a precautionary measure, and entered formally upon the business of the term. i noticed that in charging the grand jury he dwelt at considerable length upon the crimes of illegal selling of liquor and gaming, but passed murder with the remark that "it was unnecessary for him to call the attention of the jury to the fact that murder was a crime," and also when one of the attorneys at the bar wanted to introduce a motion to reorganize the grand jury, in order to get a jury that would indict certain persons for murder, the judge informed him that he would overrule any motion to that effect: "that if commenced, there would be no end to it; that the jury was carefully selected, and was as good as could be had in the county." the business of the court proceeded slowly, the great majority of the cases having to be passed, owing to the absence of the accused, or of important witnesses, whose attendance it seemed impossible to secure. a few convictions for minor offenses were secured, the penalty inflicted generally being the lowest prescribed by law; besides these, but one important case was decided, one man being sent to the state prison for one year for shooting and wounding, receiving the lowest penalty. the judge, in finally dismissing the jury, reprimanded them for their leniency, and called attention to the light sentence imposed as indicative of the state of feeling throughout the community. as far as i could judge the court officials used every endeavor to promote the ends of justice, but were effectually hampered by their inability to make arrests and secure the attendance of witnesses and get juries to convict. about the third or fourth day of the court, b. f. french, one of the principals in the french-eversole feud, was brought into town by the sheriff of breathitt county. he was surrounded by a posse of about twenty men who rode in in good order, in column of twos, each man holding his rifle at an "advance." they went at once to french's residence, where they remained during the court. i believe french was nominally surrendered to the sheriff of perry county, but was permitted to remain in his house and was constantly surrounded by the breathitt county posse, which was made up of his friends and followers, and which was represented to me as containing some of the worst men in breathitt county. so threatening was their appearance that the judge commanded them to surrender their arms to me. they at first refused, but finally brought nine rifles into camp, and, i suppose, hid the balance, as they did not appear any more under arms. the rifles surrendered to me were the -calibre springfield, exactly the same gun as the state guard was formerly armed with. i returned them to the posse, on an order from the judge, when they left town. french, although under arrest, went constantly armed, and seemed to be under no restraint. a day or so after his arrest he went into court, gave bond for himself and several of his followers and was released from arrest, but remained in town until near the end of the term, when he left for breathitt county, surrounded by an armed guard similar to that which brought him in. perhaps the most important event of the trip was the formation of a military company at hazard, the organization of which was commenced by yourself during your stay there, and completed by me, acting under your instructions. i have made full reports of this event to your office, with roster of company and report of election of officers. i respectfully recommend that this company be encouraged in every way possible, as in my opinion it will have a quieting effect upon the turbulent element in perry county. the company is largely made up of the men selected by yourself, and who are, as near as possible, unbiased in the feuds of the county. the officers appear to be good men for the positions to which they were elected, and enjoy the respect of the community. as the end of the term approached, and being without orders to govern my further movements, i despatched lieutenant gray, who volunteered for the service, to london, on saturday, the th inst., with a telegram to your office asking for instructions. i waited until the last day, knowing judge lilly had asked the governor for troops over his entire circuit. you had instructed me that definite orders would be sent me in time to act. the order did arrive monday afternoon, having been delayed two days in the mail, and was to return to louisville. i immediately made arrangements to break camp, and lieutenant gray having returned tuesday night with telegram confirming the above order, the command left hazard wednesday, the th. judge lilly remained in hazard, awaiting action of the governor in regard to his application for troops, and his request for these being refused, he decided not to go any farther on his circuit, and left hazard with us. he parted with us finally the next day, a few miles out from hazard, and i believe returned to his home. i desire to express my thanks to judge lilly for the uniform kindness and courtesy of his bearing toward myself and my command. the return trip was made in the same manner as the outward one, and by the same means, but was even more trying on the command, as the weather was colder and the roads worse. we reached london sunday, th, about three o'clock p. m. we found cars ready for us, and at once occupied them. they were attached to the one o'clock a. m. train and arrived at louisville monday morning, the th inst., where the command, having disembarked, were marched to the armory and disbanded. this ended a service somewhat unique, even in the varied experience in the kentucky state guard. that it was productive of good there can be no doubt. it impressed the people of the community that the state was determined to assert her power and majesty, and that they would no longer defy the law with impunity. the officials of the court and residents of the town and county were unanimous in the assertion, which was made to me repeatedly, that the term of the court could not have been held without bloodshed, except for the presence of the troops, and i believe this to be true. on the day of the national election there was not the slightest disturbance, although several murders and affrays were reported from adjoining counties, in hazard,--a thing almost unprecedented in its history. we had here the same experience that the state troops have always had on similar service, that is, the police power of the state is universally feared and respected. that there will be more bloodshed before this feud is settled was the opinion of all to whom i spoke on the subject. the men engaged in it are vindictive and daring, and will use any means to escape punishment or gratify their revenge. that the people really believe this, is shown by the fact that many of them had left the town permanently. the circuit clerk and county judge, both residents, left when we did with the intention of not returning. half the houses in town were unoccupied, and one of the citizens lamented to me the fact that whereas they formerly had inhabitants they now had but seventy. the moral condition of many of the people of this section is indeed deplorable. there is not a church of any kind in the county, but few schools, and they of the most primitive sort; not half of the murders committed are ever made known to the public; many of the people live in the most squalid poverty and social degradation; incest of the vilest sort is frequently practised, and the marriage ceremony is constantly ignored. i have counted as many as fifteen children, who, with their parents, occupied a small cabin, containing one room. it is from such conditions that the disordered state in the community arises, and in my opinion they cannot be fully removed until advancing civilization and development bring new people and new incentive to labor. this state of affairs renders it very difficult for the civil officers to perform the duties satisfactorily, as a majority of the people seem to have sunk into a kind of apathy regarding crime, and hold aloof from any effort to enforce the laws. the fear of secret assassination or "bushwhacking" hangs like a pall over the entire section, so that those who would otherwise aid in enforcing order do not care to risk their lives in the attempt. i will state an instance showing how widespread this fear is: several of the men in french's body guard were wanted in knott county, and the warrants for their arrest were brought to hazard by a _woman_. neither is this fear groundless, as is shown by the fact that more than twenty men have been killed in the french-eversole feud, most of them being shot from ambush. this is the secret of all the troubles. the people are held in terror by a few desperadoes. the peaceable and respectable citizens largely predominate in the county, and could they be assured of protection, would soon put an end to the disorders. in closing this report, it gives me great pleasure to refer to the conduct of the detail under my command. perhaps no part of the state guard has ever passed through more severe test of discipline and endurance. certainly none have ever responded more gallantly and faithfully to the demands made upon them. the march from louisville to hazard and back was particularly trying, the camp each night being but temporary, the men could not make themselves comfortable and suffered severely from the cold. the road is simply indescribable, being so rough that most of the command preferred walking to riding in the wagons provided. we frequently marched for hours in the water, the natural bed of the creeks being the only available way through the hills, and this was generally the best part of the road; at other times it took all hands to help the teams up the hills, or keep them from falling over precipices. through it all the men were cheerful and uncomplaining, and though allowed every possible liberty, there was not a single serious breach of discipline, and but few even of a trivial sort. this, i think, speaks well for the training and reliability of the command from which the detail was taken. the health of the detail.... very respectfully, your obedient servant, j. m. sohan, captain commanding. with the departure of the troops returned the same chaotic conditions which had characterized the county previous to the term of court which they had been sent to protect. during the spring term, however, a number of indictments were found against law violators. this would, of course, bring the accused, their friends and many witnesses to court, at the following november term. judge lilly refused to share the belief of the governor that the home guards would be able to suppress disorders and properly protect the court. he failed to appear. an election for special judge resulted in the seating of hon. w. l. hurst as judge pro tem. the battle of hazard. (november th and th, .) court had proceeded with unimportant business until the fourth day of the term. considerable disorder had occurred on the night of the third day of court, but actual hostilities did not open until the following morning. during the forenoon a heavy volley of shots suddenly rang clear and sharp in the cold november air and echoed through the valley. there was a momentary silence in the crowded court room. every man looked at his neighbor, questioningly and uncertain. then with one impulse judge, lawyers, jurors, officers and bystanders sprang to their feet, rushed for exits and into the street. there the crowd scattered like sheep in all directions, some to seek the protection of the walls of buildings, others to depart from town without the ceremony of a good-bye. not until after the first stampede had somewhat abated was it that the factions began to take cognizance of the situation and prepare plans for concerted action. when the first volley fired, no one about the court house knew what had really happened. no one took the time to ask. it was instinctively assumed that it was the beginning of the long-expected general battle between the french and eversole forces. the shooting had been done by the owner of a glorious jag, and if cooler heads had prevailed a battle might have been averted, but once the factions had reached their arms and assembled, peace was out of the question. the instigator of the trouble, one campbell, had been engaged with several others of his friends, in a game of cards, on a hill overlooking the village. the hill is known as the graveyard hill. in a spirit of excessive hilarity, produced by over-indulgence in fire-water, he had stepped to the side of a tree and fired his pistol. at the upper end of town one davidson kept a store. at the reports of the pistol davidson looked out of a rear window of his place of business. he saw campbell standing on the hill waving his still smoking gun. davidson procured his winchester rifle, took deliberate aim, then fired. campbell sank dead to the ground. as soon as the panic-stricken crowd had left the court house the eversoles rushed into it and took possession of it. two french men, jesse fields and bob profitt, found themselves isolated in a jury room on the second floor, while the court room proper was already occupied by their enemies, the eversoles. the two were in a precarious situation and thoroughly realized it. there seemed but one chance for escape open to them--a leap through the windows into the yard below. they saw themselves outnumbered twenty to one. resistance would have been folly and surrender did not appeal to them. neither side had thus far in the "war" exhibited much respect for principles of civilized warfare. the moment the eversoles took possession of the rooms beyond, fields and profitt locked the door of their room and as noiselessly as possible hoisted one of the windows. on looking into the yard below they hesitated. it was a high jump, with many chances in favor of their breaking their necks, or at least a limb or two. but when the enemy attempted to break through the door all hesitation vanished. both leaped and landed on the ground below without sustaining injury. this daring leap had been perceived by the eversoles. the two men were fired upon as they ran for life toward and into the jailer's residence for cover. this building, as well as the court house, was of brick. the two structures stood within fifteen feet of each other and fronted the same street. the eversoles now passed their time in ventilating the thin brick walls of the little building. fields and profitt began to feel uncomfortably warm, but held the fort. they had an ample supply of ammunition and continued to pour volley upon volley into the windows and through the walls of the court house. all through the long afternoon the guns roared. clouds of smoke hung low and heavy over the unfortunate town. constant was the clatter of firearms. the incessant hiss of leaden missiles was interspersed with shouts and defiant curses while the silent terror of women and children was pitiful to behold. the whole presented a scene not easily forgotten by those who were compelled to witness it. thus far the battle had proved bloodless, notwithstanding the tremendous expenditure of ammunition. neither of the belligerent armies had dared an open attack. they fought now as they had practically always fought during the war--from well-secreted places. fortified in their quarters, they took care not to expose their persons. it was no senseless caution, for upon the appearance of an object anywhere, behind, in or under which a human being might be suspected, it became at once the target of many guns and received very close attention indeed. with the approach of night fields and his comrade felt that they must evacuate the premises or succumb to an attack by superior forces under cover of darkness, but to join their friends some distance away they must necessarily run a dangerous gauntlet. however, they preferred dying in the open to being caught like rats in a trap. it was dark when the two desperate men started on their perilous journey. with heads bent down upon their breasts, like men facing a beating hail, they ran for their lives. every gun of the enemy was trained upon them, and fired. presently defiant yells from the french position announced to the crestfallen eversoles that their prey had escaped them. when the battle started french was absent from town. he arrived during the night. all night long the battle continued with scarcely an intermission in the firing. during the night tom smith and jesse fields succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the eversoles and occupied the graveyard hill. when the first ray of dawn approached, fields and smith opened a terrific fire upon the eversoles in the court house, the balls crashing through the windows, driving the occupants to seek safety by throwing themselves upon the floor. during the early morning hours two of the eversole men attempted to cross a street near the court house, when fields and smith opened fire upon them. one of the men, j. mcknight, was instantly killed, while his companion escaped. smith and fields used a sunken grave as a rifle pit and from a tombstone smith took the rest for the shot that killed mcknight. the strategic advantage of french's men perplexed the eversoles, who, penned up in the court house, were rendered practically helpless. the fusilade was so continuous that an attempt to return the fire from the windows would have meant certain death. the balls crashed through the windows, tearing the wood casings to splinters and the shutters were completely shot away. the furniture in the court room was thrown about and knocked into atoms. the building, from which the eversoles had expected so much as a point of vantage, proved a death trap. to retire from it the eversoles appeared as anxious as they had been to take possession of it. their retreat to the river bank was effected in safety, but to prevent attack while crossing the river, green morris and a companion remained concealed under the banks of the river. fields and smith on the graveyard hill were the first to see the eversoles in retreat and started in pursuit. approaching the hiding-place of morris, the latter fired, wounding fields severely in the arm and thus effectually checked further pursuit. if smith and fields had reached the river unharmed, the record of the fight might present an increased list of casualties, as both were men of great courage and good marksmanship. on the records of the perry circuit court appears an order of special judge hurst, giving his reason for the unceremonious adjournment of court. it is an interesting document. certainly judge hurst's reason for adjournment seems a valid one: perry circuit court. th day nov., term . at this term of the court there were two armed factions in the town of hazard, the french and eversole factions, antagonistic to each other. on the second night of the court, the acting judge was shot but not wounded (?) in the french end of the town, french not being in the town at the time, but some of his men were and the next evening at dusk a "dinamite" or other cartridge with burning fuse attached was thrown over the judge's room or house in which he stayed and exploded heavily on the other side of the house. court continued till the evening of the th day, when the two factions began heavy cross-firing at each other in earnest about and near the court house, which completely "correlled" the court, the jury, the officers and people in court for some time, and before the firing abated, the judge plainly seeing, that it was not intended that court should be further held, and it being impossible to further progress with the business and live, the court ordered the clerk to adjourn the court, and the non-combatants to save themselves as best they could. they did so, but one shot was fired at them from the eversole quarters as they left. the fighting continued through the next night and until about o'clock the next day excepting some intervals of rest. the french side received reinforcement from breathitt county. during this fight two men, friends of eversoles, were killed in the battle, and it was rumored that one of the french party was badly wounded and perhaps killed and another one wounded. the eversole party claimed that they were destitute of ammunition next morning and retired from town without being injured thereby. the clerk left with his keys, the jury left, the judge remained till the next morning in the town and after the retreat of the eversole party, when he received news as coming from the french side that he and the women and children could leave the town unmolested provided he did not go back to the court house, whereupon the court and some of the women and commonwealth's attorney quietly marched away and in pursuance to the court's orders this court is hereby adjourned in course. this order was signed at the august special term of the court and on the th day of august, . * * * * * immediately after the battle the factions scattered through the neighboring counties, scouting in small detachments, and continually shifting quarters. a special term of the perry circuit court was called for august, . on the night of july th, however, a deed was perpetrated which was intended to and did block the business of the court. the town was awakened by the shrill cry of "fire," the crackling and crashing of burning and falling timbers--the court house was a seething mass of fire, and the people could only look on as the structure succumbed to the consuming element. there was never any question as to the origin of the fire. it was the work of incendiaries. fortunately, most of the records were saved. many of the feudists now began to tire of the constant scouting. there was not enough real fighting to make it interesting. occasional ambuscades had lost their charm. many longed for peace and home. among these was robin cornett, an eversole man. pretending friends encouraged him to return to his home. he did so, and as day after day passed without the least mishap, he often visiting hazard in apparent safety, he relaxed his vigilance, and fell,--a victim of relentless assassins. one morning (july, ) cornett, in company of his little brother, started to the field to cut oats. finding the grain not ripe enough, he abandoned the field work and proceeded to the woods to peel logs. a tree, which he had cut, fell across a narrow ravine, elevating portions of the trunk several feet above the ground. he leaped upon it, ax in hand, when shots from the near bushes accomplished another foul assassination. cornett sank dead upon the log, while his little brother ran for life and escaped. there can be no doubt that cornett's doom had been sealed the instant he returned home. the murder had been planned and was executed with cruel cunning and occupies a front rank among the many infamous assassinations, which have given this feud such notoriety. at the special term of the circuit court, judge lilly appeared, accompanied by a detachment of state guards, commanded by adjutant-general gaithers of louisville, ky. the court house had not been rebuilt and a large tent served the purpose. it soon became evident that the court meant business. a large number of deputy sheriffs were sworn in to supplant the inefficient home guards. these were at once disbanded and ordered to return the accoutrements they had received, but the few articles turned over were hardly worth the shipping expenses, many of the guns being broken. within a few days after court had begun, prisoners were brought into court as fast as indictments were found. the jail became so crowded that many prisoners were kept in a strongly guarded tent. as rapidly as the cases were called up and the accused were presented in court, they were transferred to the clark county circuit court for trial. it was a wise and necessary step indeed. not only would it have been impossible to secure qualified jurors in perry county, but the attendance of the accused, their friends and witnesses would most probably have invited a clash between the contending factions. the last days of the term of court, commonly called the "blanket court" had come and gone without the least disturbance, and the removal of the prisoners to the winchester jail was also effected without mishap. the backbone of the war was at last broken. a strange, but welcome, calm succeeded turbulence, bloodshed, and anarchy. a great change had come over the caged warriors. disarmed and crowded in the narrow confines of a prison, they faced each other but the deadly winchesters were no longer in reach. fast in the clutches of the law, the law which for so long they had disregarded, evaded, shamefully violated, they now had ample opportunity for reflection and sober reasoning. the absorbing and very pertinent question: how to escape the punishment of the law worried them. it was a knotty problem indeed. the lions, made captives, were now tame and submissive. for the first few days after these foes met in prison, hatred and bitter feeling found vent in abusive epithets and fistic encounters, but the realization of helplessness reminded them of the need of making friends out of enemies. they realized their power to destroy each other in the courts, but would not the destroyer himself be destroyed? revenge could only open more cell doors, or furnish culprits for the gallows. it was this prospect of conviction, of punishment, which effected at last what bloodshed could never have accomplished--it reconciled in a measure the enemies of old, some of them actually becoming friends, and thus again effectually clogging the legal machinery. the necessity of self-preservation brought matters around in such shape that we find men who had opposed each other in deadly combat, fighting side by side the legal battles in court. none of the prisoners was allowed bail, but after removal to clark county, one after another of the accused demanded examining trials and upon being allowed bail, readily executed bonds and returned to their homes and families, which many of them had not seen for months. with the removal of french, judge combs and others of the feudists returned an era of peace which continued uninterrupted until , with the exception of a street fight in the town of hazard between some of the eversole faction and jesse fields, a french follower. in this battle some of the eversoles and fields were wounded, and a colored bystander was killed by a stray bullet. in occurred the last assassination as the direct outcome of the feud. tired with a life that now separated old judge combs from his family and friends, he determined to and did return to hazard to round out the declining years of his life. he might have lived in perfect peace and security elsewhere, but the humble mountain home in the village of hazard, so dear to him through the associations of his youth and manhood, now attracted him more than any other spot on earth. he could not bring himself to desert it once and for all, in the chilly winter of old age. notwithstanding his faults, and his record during the feud shows him to have been at fault on more than one occasion, he had a host of friends, and these tried hard to dissuade him from his purpose. but he had formed his resolve, and refused to be guided by well-meant advice. there is something very pathetic in this old man's attachment for a home which, for years, had offered him danger instead of peace, sorrow instead of happiness. he had visited his home surreptitiously on several occasions since his removal therefrom. on one of these visits he had narrowly escaped death by assassination. this attempt upon his life should have convinced him that his doom was sealed, that his death had been decreed. yet, notwithstanding all this, judge combs returned to hazard to reside. but a little while afterwards he succumbed to the assassins' bullets. the murder was committed in broad-open daylight, in plain view of many townspeople, and, also from ambush. at the moment the fatal shot was fired, the old man was engaged with several of his friends and neighbors in commonplace conversation. within a few feet of the group of men stood a fence enclosing a lot planted with corn, which, together with the thick and tall growth of weeds and bushes, offered the assassins admirable opportunity to approach their victim to within a few feet without danger of discovery. no one noticed the slight rustling of the corn blades. no one saw the hand that parted them skilfully to make way for the gun which accomplished its deadly work. there was a puff of smoke, a loud report and judge combs reeled. suddenly he straightened himself up, stood apparently undecided for a moment, then walked across the street toward home. at its threshold he sank to the ground and expired without a groan. the murderers had evidently been determined to guard against any possible blunders which had, on former occasions, saved the old man's life. for from the moment the shot was fired up to the time the old man fell dead, the murderous gun continually covered him, ready for instant service should it appear that the first shot had not been fatal. after the victim had fallen to the ground, the principal of the assassins deliberately walked to the rear of the lot. here he was joined by one of his confederates. a third had already opened fire and continued a fusilade from across the river for the evident purpose of pretending the presence of a large force and thus by intimidation to prevent pursuit. the three confederates then proceeded calmly down the river. their retreat was deliberate. at no time did they exhibit the slightest apprehension of danger or fear of pursuers. the utter recklessness and boldness with which the crime had been committed completely stupefied the townspeople. intelligent, prompt action was out of the question for a time. not until the murderers had had a long start did it become possible to organize a posse. at last the fugitives were sighted by the pursuers. a general exchange of shots followed. one of the outlaws was wounded. he continued his flight with difficulty. a running fight was now kept up for a great distance. then the fugitives disappeared in the dense mountain forests and the chase was given up. but one member of the posse was wounded. several of the eye-witnesses of the tragedy and members of the pursuing posse had recognized joe adkins, jesse fields and one boon frazier as the fugitives. joe adkins was the man who had fired the fatal shot which took the life of the old man combs. the three parties mentioned were in due time indicted. adkins and fields were arrested. frazier was never caught. the cases against adkins and fields were transferred to another district in kentucky for trial. the best legal talent of the state participated in the famous trial. honorable w. c. p. breckinridge, a lawyer and orator of national fame, had been retained as counsel for the defence. fields and adkins had been french men all through the feud, in fact, had been among his most trusted lieutenants since its commencement. rumor, therefore, quickly associated the name of french with the murder of judge combs. french stoutly denied any complicity in this affair. then, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the startling intelligence that tom smith, another french warrior, had given out a confession which seriously compromised french. smith was then under sentence of death at jackson, breathitt county, for the murder of dr. john e. rader. as is usual with doomed felons, he became converted and sought to wash his sin-stained soul whiter than snow by a confession. it set forth that he had been present at the home of jesse fields on buckhorn creek, breathitt county, at a time when french, adkins and fields discussed and perfected plans for the assassination of judge combs; that he, smith, would have assisted in the dastardly murder but for a wound which he had a short time before received in a pistol duel with town marshal mann on the streets of jackson. this confession resulted in french also being indicted. the confession itself was of no importance from a legal standpoint. it, however, materially assisted and strengthened the prosecution by uncovering certain circumstances of which it might otherwise have remained in ignorance. the friends of the murdered judge pointed out with emphasis and logic that smith had always been a french confederate, had fought for him, taken life for him; that he had told the truth about his participation in the murders of joe eversole, nick combs, shade combs, cornett, mcknight and doctor rader. was there any reason, they asked, why smith should have lied in regard to french's complicity in the murder of judge combs, yet had told the truth concerning all things else. why, they argued, should smith desire the ruin of his friend, his companion in arms, his chieftain, and accomplish it by false statements, when the truth would save him? french was indicted, tried and acquitted. on the first trial of adkins and fields both received life sentences. the cases were taken to the court of appeals and there, in an exhaustive opinion, reversed. the second trial resulted in a life sentence for adkins and the acquittal of jesse fields. adkins, however, has been a free man again, lo--these many years. a life sentence in kentucky is not what it seems. thus ended the last act of the bloody drama--the assassination of judge combs. he was murdered because he had espoused the cause of joe eversole at the breaking out of the war. joe was his kinsman. as has been said, judge combs undoubtedly contributed to the state of anarchy which continued for so long in perry county and disgraced american civilization. as a sworn officer he had no right to permit love for his kinsman, his friendship and affection for eversole, to swerve him from plain duty. judge combs' partiality in the discharge of his duties as judge of the county doubtlessly hastened the conflict, for while it protected one faction, it furnished good and sufficient reasons to the other side to place no confidence in his administration of the law, and roused them to savage, retaliatory crimes. notwithstanding all this, this last assassination was cowardly, as all the others, for that matter. if judge combs deserved death, we may well ask how many of the other participants in this feud ought to have shared a similar fate at the hands of the law? bloody breathitt. several bloody feuds, innumerable assassinations, demoralized courts, the purchase with money of slayers, anarchy in its most atrocious and hideous forms--such has been the history of breathitt county since the days of the civil war. breathitt county is not a remote section, out of touch with civilization, where ignorance might be pleaded in extenuation of the shameful lawlessness. breathitt county has furnished men of brains, of power, and of the highest integrity. in breathitt county, as well as in all the other feud-ridden sections, the good citizens are in the majority. yet there, as in the other lawless communities of which this history treats, the good element suffered itself to become intimidated to such an extent as to eliminate it as a factor to be employed and relied upon in restoring order. it may also be stated that breathitt's chief feudists, murderers, conspirators and perjurers have counted men of brains among them, who, however, delegated their work of bloody revenge for real or fancied injuries to persons of a lower degree of mentality. ignorant, half-savage tools serve better. the murder lust has been rampant there for many years, and it is there yet. the outside world has heard only of the most important tragedies, that is, tragedies which involved men "of brains and power." the "little fellow" is murdered without much attention being paid to it. within eleven months during the years and , nearly forty men had been slain in cold blood, and for which crimes not one has suffered the extreme penalty of the law. why is it, then, that since the good citizens are in the majority, they are willing to submit to terrorization by a few? why do they stand idly by instead of rising in their might and punish? will the reader answer another question: why is it that an entire train load of men will tremble and shake in their shoes, throw up their hands, and allow one or two bandits to take possession of their property? it has happened in a few instances that bandits have come to grief through the intrepidity of an individual who acted in spite of any fear of impending death. we remember an incident of that kind during a hold-up on a western road a few years back. the engineer, fireman, conductor and brakesmen were lined up and held under the guns of one of the bandits. two of his confederates went through the coaches. the engineer, a small but determined man, watched his chance, made a sudden lurch forward, with his head butted the bandit in the stomach, crumpled him up and put him out of commission. the train crew then possessed itself of the guns and started for the coaches, firing a few shots as they went. this disconcerted the robbers within. they made for the doors to see what the shooting outside meant. it was their finish. several of the passengers who had been standing, trembling, with their hands in the air, believing help had come, regained their courage, sprang upon the outlaws, disarmed and securely tied them. no one was hurt. it is the fear of the bushwhacker that prevents concerted action of the law-abiding element in a community where assassinations from ambush are the common methods employed to rid one's self of an enemy. and it is no idle fear. for one man to set himself up as the champion of law and order and to defy the outlaws to do their worst, is equivalent to signing his own death-warrant. he is liable to be picked off as an undesirable citizen. assassinations from ambush are always difficult to prove and alibis are manufactured at small cost. perjury, too, is common. it is the favorite weapon of the defense in such cases. then the successful assassin is shrewd enough to conduct himself usually, though not always, in such manner as to have friends among all classes of people, even among the best. many of the worst men have used the cloak of religion, or church-membership, to hide their black hearts. the masonic lodge has been prostituted by such men of shrewd deceit. it is no assurance of a man's goodness to find him sitting in a church pew on a sunday, with the bible in his hand, for even within the holy sanctum of the lord the foulest conspiracies and crimes have been hatched in the brains of men. this does not apply to breathitt county or kentucky alone. some of the most noted feudists never fired a gun themselves, but in their daily intercourse kept themselves unspotted before the world, and used willing, paid tools to accomplish their bloody ends. such men always indignantly deny any imputation of wrong-doing. they have been known to condemn in the loudest and the most emphatic terms outrages against the peace and dignity of the state, the result of their own planning. the writer once pointed out to a gentleman from another state a certain chieftain of murderers. he shook his head. "that man a murderer?" he said. "why, he is the most amiable person with whom i have come in contact with in a long time. that man has brains, he has education. that man is wrongfully accused, i know. no red-handed murderer could look you in the eye like that, or counterfeit the innocence imprinted upon his countenance." the truth was, this particular outlaw had never murdered any one with his own hands, but he had been the directing, managing spirit of foul conspiracies and of wholesale assassinations. this adoption of the mask of deceit serves another purpose. since you can never tell by a man's looks what is in his heart, citizens grow suspicious of one another, and fear to express their opinions. that this vastly increases the difficulty of concerted action looking toward the eradication of crime, is apparent. reverting again to the murder lust: what is it's origin? what keeps it aflame? what inspires it? is it that the savage of the stone age is not yet dead? that the veneer of civilization has in all those thousands of years not become thick enough to prevent its wearing off so readily? perhaps. at least, it seems so. let us quote a recent example of this fearful blood lust:-- jackson, ky., aug. , . "don't you want to see a nigger die," witnesses report were the introductory remarks offered by breck little, who sunday shot and killed henry crawford, colored, years old, on old buck creek in breathitt county. the shots were fired from a barn door which crawford was passing while going up the road, and the victim fell dead in the road. this illustrates the lust for blood. "don't you want to see a man killed?" if you do, say so and you may be accommodated. we have pointed out heretofore in a former history that there is much similarity between the old scottish feuds and those of kentucky; that the clan spirit is yet alive; that kentucky feuds are nothing more nor less than transplanted scottish feuds. this view has been adopted by other writers and sociologists as furnishing the solution of the riddle: what is the cause of these feuds? but can such incidents as the one cited above be attributed to the clannishness of the people. no. such individual acts of savage ferocity can have but one source--an inborn, natal craving for blood. this and this alone can furnish us any sort of explanation why men slay without provocation or purpose. bad tom smith, of perry county feud fame, slew to satisfy this craving for blood. according to his own admission, it had made itself felt when he was a mere youth. he was a degenerate pure and simple. his last murder, that of dr. rader, was committed without any motive whatever. "i just raised up and killed him while he was asleep!" that was the only statement he would ever make concerning that bloody deed. environment has, of course, much to do with it. yet if we look about us, we find that counties in the very midst of feud-ridden sections have remained free of the murder craze. many years ago breathitt, along with practically all the other mountain counties of the state, decided to abolish the saloon. local option has been in force there now for years. it was hoped that the elimination of the legalized liquor traffic would eradicate crime, or, at least, enormously diminish it. prohibition is supposed to exist in jackson and the county at large. it will not do to say that notwithstanding the local option law is in operation, liquor is still at the root of the evil. we must presume that the prohibition of the sale of liquor is enforced. to presume otherwise would be to acknowledge the inefficacy of prohibition laws. doubtless the local option law is enforced in breathitt as much so as anywhere else where similar laws prevail, or, better said, the laws in this respect are enforced as far as is possible with interstate shipment of whiskey into local option territory remaining unobstructed. the "liquor argument" is no solution of the sociological question in hand. during all those years that prohibition has existed in breathitt, ostensibly so, at least, without apparent diminution of crime, without any receding of the murder wave, other counties, neighbors to it, we might say, have rejected local option laws, and permitted saloons without any apparent increase in the crime rate. reverting again to the spirit of the scottish highlander as responsible in part for the murder lust: nearly all of southeastern kentucky is peopled by the same stock. jackson and laurel counties have never been contaminated with the feuds which have raged on their very borders. jackson county in all its history has not seen as many murders committed as have stained the soil of breathitt in less than one year. jackson county has never had a feud; its chief lawlessness has been the promiscuous sale of whiskey, illicitly, of course. the argument has been advanced that the lawlessness which has disgraced breathitt and other mountain counties is directly traceable to the contempt for law instilled in the growing up generations during the period immediately following the civil war. it doubtless furnished the foundation for the deadly feuds which have in times passed ravaged the border counties of bell and harlan. these counties were frequently subjected to invasion by rebel and union troops, with their attendant elements of lawless camp followers, deserters and guerillas. kentucky attempted to remain neutral at the outbreak of the war. but the people divided sharply. the state guards and home guards frequently clashed. they ravaged the country without regard to military proprieties or discipline. the civil authorities had been superseded by military courts which often dealt more harshly than wisely with the people they attempted to govern. in harlan and bell counties bad blood was caused by these retaliatory invasions of rebels and home guards. many men took advantage of the opportunity to wreak vengeance upon an enemy they had feared to attack single-handed and did so under the protection of the mass. crimes went unpunished because committed under the guise of military operations. but in breathitt county there did not exist a border war. after all the matter sifts itself down to what has been pointed out in the introduction: lawlessness can exist only so long as the good element of a community refuses to rise up against it, and suffers itself to be intimidated. it should be needless to say that in a republic the people must rule supreme. by their formation of republican form of government they have declared themselves capable and willing to govern themselves, and to enforce the laws they have themselves made. if a people fails to discharge the duty of properly governing themselves, they forfeit their right of citizenship. if a community persists in its refusal to avail itself of the right of self-government, that right should be abrogated until such time as it shall be able to guarantee not only willingness, but capability for self-government. where anarchy exists, government has fled. where a people supinely lay upon their backs and permit anarchy, are they longer entitled to the citizenship of a great state and of a greater nation? the people of breathitt county, by their long years of inaction and submission to terrorization by a few, have shown that they do not or did not consider themselves longer the most potent factor in the conservation of order in society. public sentiment had lost its health. the people of breathitt county owe it to their manhood, their county, their state, to the nation, to redeem themselves. for the horrors of strife there have been published broadcast to the world. "breathitt" has become synonymous with blood, murder, anarchy, the world over. we have read of it in foreign newspapers. the united states only recently demanded of mexico that the disorders there, especially along the borders, must cease. the federal government threatened that republic with war even, unless citizens of this country and their property are protected. government might have found as good grounds for intervention in breathitt during the past, and may yet--if the murder mills there do not some of these days shut up shop. america demands of foreign governments protection of the lives and property of our citizens. yet, owing to the complexity of our governmental structure, it may not extend that protection to its citizens within her own territory. the outlawry along the mexican border within the last three years has not been as great in proportion to size of territory and population involved as has been the destruction of lives in breathitt county at intervals for years. yet with regard to mexico this government has seen fit to say that conditions along the border had become "intolerant" and must cease even at the risk of war. the people of breathitt county are citizens of the united states, as well as of their state and county. as such they ought to hasten to restore the good name and the honor of the country to which they belong, and of which they should be proud. the murderous, lawless mexican bandit is no more a knave than the american guilty of similar atrocities. there did come, a few years ago, a wave of reaction, an upheaval which brought into the limelight of publicity the fearful state of affairs existing there. murders in the streets of the county seat and throughout the county had occurred with such frequency and boldness as to at last attract the attention of the press of the entire country. at last a man of wide prominence in the state was struck down. this man was j. b. marcum, a united states commissioner, and a trustee of kentucky state college, as well as lawyer of prominence and a leading republican. the circumstances attending this murder and the prominence of the man slain aroused at last a storm of indignation throughout the land. newspapers of other states condemned kentucky so severely that public sentiment within the state itself became aroused and forced the investigations which revealed breathitt county's history of blood and crime. in spite of the most strenuous efforts from certain quarters to hush the matter up and to block investigations of the damnable plots and murderous conspiracies by men entrusted with the enforcement of the law, the public was at last made acquainted with conditions of affairs in breathitt county, which presented a picture so harrowing and degrading that the civilized world stood aghast and for a time refused to believe. * * * * * breathitt is a beautiful mountain county along the kentucky river, scarcely forty miles distant from lexington, the metropolis of the kentucky bluegrass, famous the world over for the refinement of her people. jackson is the county seat, a small but thriving town on the kentucky river, built upon numerous hills, which give it an irregular, though by no means displeasing appearance. commercially, jackson is prosperous, surprisingly so under the circumstances. how much more rapid and greater might have been its progress but for the deplorable epidemics of murder, none can tell. jackson is also the terminus of three railroads. the town has good schools and several churches, but church-going, schools and trading were sadly interrupted and at times completely stopped during the reign of terror which held breathitt in its bloody clutches during the first decade of the present century. it is impossible in a limited space to give more than passing notice to all of the feudal wars which have been fought from time to time in breathitt county. to do so would fill a volume. what the reader finds detailed in this chapter relates principally to the hargis-cockrell-marcum-callahan vendetta. it is the most recent feud. what transpired during it is but a repetition of what had occurred in others. the first widespread feud in breathitt county originated immediately after the civil war. in that national conflict the county furnished soldiers to the south and to the union. john amis and william (bill) strong raised a company for the federal cause. it became a part of the so-called "greasy fourteenth," and was commanded by col. h. c. little. it was in this regiment that the noted amis-strong feud arose. it was the first of a series of bloody internecine strifes in that county. the hatred engendered during the amis-strong feud was more bitter than the sectional strife between the armies of the north and of the south. a feud between the two factions was not recognized to have existed, however, until about . in that year open and serious hostilities were precipitated by a fight during circuit court. in the battle bob little, a nephew of captain strong, was killed, and an amis seriously wounded. from that time on fights grew more numerous. charges and countercharges were made on both sides. the county was in a ferment. finally, nearly every family became involved in one way or another. how many men were killed in this feud will, perhaps, never be known, but many graves were filled. in this connection it may be well to state that the county has rarely had a coroner and no records were kept of deaths. it is thus an impossibility to ascertain the number of violent deaths which have occurred in the past. john amis himself, the head of the faction of that name, was killed in . the feud finally "burned itself out." a few years after the termination of this one another started, under the name of the strong-callahan feud. some of the members of the factions in the strong-amis feud also participated in this one. in this war capt. bill strong headed his faction. wilson callahan, the father of ed. callahan, who figures so prominently in the hargis-cockrell feud, commanded the opposing forces. a number of men were killed off before wilson callahan's death by assassination put an end to it. the jett-little feud next stained the history of breathitt county. it was brought to a close about fifteen years ago, and after the principal participants therein had all been killed off. as bad as conditions had been prior to , they grew decidedly worse in that year, when judge william randall, the presiding judge of the criminal court of the district, was compelled to desert the bench in the midst of a court session to seek safety in flight. the county was in a state of revolution brought about by the assassination of judge john burnett, then the county judge. this crime was laid at the door of the gambles and littles. the uprising of the factions was precipitated by judge randall's declaration that his court would see to it that the criminals were punished. judge randall never returned to breathitt county during his term of office. during the latter part of the eighties another reign of terror was initiated, and continued until the close of the decade. lest we might be accused of exaggeration and sensationalism, we insert here the acrimonious, bitter correspondence between governor buckner and judge lilly, the presiding judge of the criminal court of the district which included breathitt. the letters are a matter of public record, and are instructive, interesting, and will no doubt materially aid the reader to understand the nature of frequent clashes between state, district and county authorities. _judge lilly to governor buckner._ frankfort, ky., dec. , . to his excellency, the governor of kentucky. dear sir:--from a full investigation and inquiry into the condition of the affairs in breathitt county, i am fully satisfied that the civil authorities cannot hold a circuit court in that county and enforce the law without the aid of the state guard. that the people are divided to such an extent that a sheriff's posse will not be sufficient. several murders have been committed in the county since the last term, and the offenders are not yet indicted, and cannot be, unless the witnesses can be protected. charges are made against a brother of the sheriff, and the son-in-law of the jailer, and the witnesses cannot be induced to go before the grand jury unless they have assurance of protection. there is a number of felony cases in the court, which i think will be ready for trial.... _governor buckner's reply._ hon. h. c. lilly, judge th judicial district, irvine, kentucky. dear sir:--i have fully considered your letter of the fifth inst. in reference to the condition of affairs in breathitt county in which communication you say that you are "fully satisfied that the civil authorities cannot hold a circuit court in that county and enforce the law without the aid of the state guard; that the people are divided to such extent that a sheriff's posse will not be sufficient; several murders have been committed in the county since the last term, and the offenders are not yet indicted, and cannot be, unless the witnesses can be protected; charges are made against a brother of the sheriff, and the son-in-law of the jailer, and the witnesses cannot be induced to go before the grand jury unless they have assurance of protection." and you further say: "i, as judge of the breathitt circuit court, call upon you to furnish fifty of the state guard, properly officered and equipped, to aid the civil authorities in holding said court and in enforcing the law." it is needless for me to say that in a republic the employment of the military arm in enforcing the law is of rare necessity, and the occasion for its use should not be of doubtful propriety. the law invests the civil authorities with ample powers to enforce the observance of law, and expects those officers to exert their authority with reasonable diligence. when this is done there is seldom an occasion when the military arm can be employed without detriment to the public interests and without bringing the civil authorities into discredit. when a people are taught that they are not themselves the most important factor in the conservation of order in society, and that they must depend upon the exertion of extraneous forces to preserve order among themselves, they have lost their title to self-government, and are fit subjects to a military despotism. i do not believe that any portion of this commonwealth has reached that degree of political degradation. as far as breathitt county is concerned, while there have been acts of individual lawlessness, i do not find in your statement, or from any other source, an evidence of any organized opposition to the civil authorities. on the contrary, i am convinced that a reasonable exertion of their legitimate power would cause the masses of the people to rally to their support more effectually than could be done in the presence of the military force. the latter, whatever their numbers, could not influence, and ought not to influence, the character of the testimony of a single witness before the grand jury, but their presence would be a confession of weakness on the part of the civil authorities before they had made any attempt to discharge their duties, and to this extent would lessen respect for their authority, and render the subsequent discharge of their duties more difficult. a healthy public sentiment, and not the presence of an armed force, is the best support of government; and the powers conferred upon a circuit judge, both as a judge, and as a conservator of the public peace, are so unlimited that a firm and judicious discharge of his duties will almost invariably mould public sentiment in support of his judicial actions. under all the circumstances, i do not believe that the presence of troops in breathitt county is necessary to maintain the laws. with every purpose to support the judicial tribunals in the effective discharge of their duties, i feel constrained to decline the request which you make to order a detachment of the state guard to breathitt county. but if my own presence will be of any service to you, i will take pleasure in accompanying you to the breathitt circuit court if you conclude, on reconsideration, to hold it. in your letter, november th, you say: "i will not attempt to hold courts at letcher, knott or breathitt unless you send guards along." this is a matter on which the executive can take no action. it is for the legislative department of the government to judge of the facts which will justify an official in thus abdicating the duties imposed upon him by law. but on this subject i trust you will permit me, without obtruding on your consideration any views of my own, to invite your attention to an act passed by the general assembly at its last session, and approved march th, . amongst other things this act provides that "if, at any term of circuit court, the presiding judge thereof shall be absent ... it shall be lawful for any other circuit judge of this commonwealth to attend and hold such term of court, and while so engaged he shall have and exercise all the powers and authority of the regular judge of such court." i am informed that under authority of this act, some circuit judges have already interchanged courts, and if there are any reasons why you prefer not to hold the court in breathitt, i have no doubt that many of the circuit judges would be willing to interchange with you. i happen to know that honorable lucius p. little is willing to hold the breathitt circuit court for you, if you will hold the mclean circuit court for him.... your obedient servant, s. b. buckner. _judge lilly to governor buckner._ irvine, ky., february th, . governor s. b. buckner. dear sir:--your letter dated th december, and postmarked on the th, was received by me on the night of the th, at jackson, breathitt county. on the third page you proposed to accompany me to jackson in the following words: "but if my own presence will be of any service to you, i will take pleasure in accompanying you to breathitt court, if you conclude, on reconsideration, to hold it." you were advised that the breathitt court would begin on the th, and i suppose your adjutant-general had informed you that i had decided to go and hold court if i could do so. i told him on the morning of the eighth that i would go to breathitt court. you must have believed that i would leave irvine for jackson as early as the morning of the th, and before you wrote your letter. why did you make such a proposition to me at the time you did? i fear you will have a little trouble in making people believe that you made the offer in good faith. on page of your letter you say "i happen to know that hon. lucius p. little is willing to hold the breathitt circuit court for you, if you will hold the mclean circuit court for him." i thank judge little for his kind offer, and believe he made it in good faith, but why did you withhold the information from me until it was too late for me to confer with him. he lives in the western part of the state. you must have known that i had no time to make any arrangements with him. you must have known that the offer was futile, and that it could not be carried into effect. can you make the public believe that you were acting in good faith? in speaking of the application made to you on the th of december, you failed to make any reference to the papers filed with it. why did you conceal from the public the fact that a majority of the attorneys who practice at the breathitt circuit court ... and divers other prominent men, had requested you to send a guard, and gave it as their opinion that the court could not be held without a guard? i am at a loss to know why you sought to throw the whole responsibility upon me. that the public may know something about the condition of breathitt county at the time, it is only necessary to say that between the first day of august and the fifth day of december, , the following men were killed, to wit: lewis taulbee, james shockey, david barnett, and isaac combs, "shooting ike;" and the following men were shot and wounded, viz: crain flinchem, john smith, jeff smith, marion lawson, curtis spicer, luther abner, john campbill, jack barnett, pearl strong, wm. frances, and breck miller. there were also a large number of other felonies committed in the county, and all this, in addition to the old docket, which shows a large number of felony cases. knowing their system of combining their strength to help one another, to prevent any one being punished by the law, i submit to you if it would not have been better if you had sent a guard there to encourage the good citizens to attend court. i held court there three weeks, and there was no outbreak, that is true, and it is also true that we got no verdicts in important cases. we tried four murder cases and had hung juries in each case. except those required to be in attendance, the good citizens of the county were not there. why were they absent? i think it was because they thought it unsafe to be there. for the same reason nearly all the attorneys who practice at that bar failed to attend the court. theories look well on paper, but when you come to put them in practice they often fail to work well. what do murderers and outlaws care for theories. i hope you will not think i put it too strong when i say that your course has given comfort, if not aid, to those who are charged with crime. they feel that they are able to prevent the civil authorities from enforcing the law, and, in view of your letter, they feel that no help will be given the civil officers, and hence they will do as they please. judge w. h. randall, judge robert riddle, judge cole and judge jackson and other judges have thought it advisable to have a guard. judge finley failed to attend his courts in letcher, perry and knott for several terms before his term of office expired. they, like myself, had better opportunities of knowing the real status of affairs in their counties than people who live far away, and do not understand the people. it has been published in the newspapers of the state that a certain judge of the state held his courts in breathitt county and had no trouble. that judge, previous to his election, had been employed as counsel for nearly every one charged with high crime in that county, and, as a consequence, did not have to try them. on the contrary, he was doing all he could to prevent their conviction and to prevent the laws being enforced upon them. he is yet the employed counsel of six persons charged with murder and other high crimes in that court. of course, he had no trouble. who can say, whether, if he had tried to bring them to justice, he would have gotten along so easily. as the papers pretty generally throughout the state have published your letter to me, i hope they will do me the favor to publish this, my answer. hoping you will find it easy to answer the interrogations propounded to you in this letter, i remain, yours respectfully, h. c. lilly. _governor buckner's reply._ commonwealth of kentucky. executive office. feb. , . hon. h. c. lilly, judge nineteenth judicial district, irvine, kentucky. dear sir:--your letter of the th inst. reached me yesterday. you seemed to impute want of good faith on my part in offering to attend you to the breathitt circuit court. this charge on your part is based on the erroneous and gratuitous assumption that the adjutant-general had doubtless informed me that it was your intention to hold the breathitt circuit court on the regular day. the adjutant-general informs me to-day that he did not himself know that it was your determination to hold the court, and that the remark you made to him on the subject left him in the belief that you had not reached a determination as to what you would do in the premises. you wrote me that you would not hold court in knott or letcher, and in your conversation with me gave me no ground to believe that you had concluded to hold the court in breathitt. my conclusion was therefore logical and necessary that you would not hold the court. your assumption that i knew that you would hold it is therefore entirely erroneous, and the decision you reach in consequence of this assumption is fallacious. you ask me a number of questions in your letter, but as you proceed to make replies to suit yourself, and to reach conclusions favorable to your own views, you spare me the necessity of giving them any response. i limit myself to stating what alone is relevant to this question, that having concluded that there was no necessity of sending troops at great expense to the state, i offered to accompany you so that, if my views should have proved erroneous, i would have been on the ground to have called to your aid such assistance as may have been needed. as the session of court was to continue during three weeks, and as you could have taken your seat on the bench at any time during the term, there was ample time, after writing my letter, for you to have reconsidered your determination, if you had been at irvine, where i supposed you were, and to which place i addressed my letter to you, and to have gone afterwards to breathitt long before the term of court should have closed. so far from knowing that it was your purpose to hold court, i had not the slightest idea that you would do so, until i learned after the adjournment of the court that you had held it. i am gratified that you did so, for it was a demonstration that troops were not necessary for your protection. in like manner there would have been time for you to have made an interchange with judge little, by telegraphic correspondence, if such had been your desire. you seem to charge that i have aided and abetted criminal classes by declining to place troops at your disposal in breathitt county, and attribute to their absence the non-conviction of criminals. if their absence produced such a result in breathitt county, their presence at your court in perry county should have produced, according to your logic, a large number of convictions. but i am advised that the result was the same in both counties. we must, therefore, look for some other reason than the presence or absence of the military to account for such uniformity of results. i believe myself that the court is and ought to be, an important factor in the administration of justice, and that the presence or absence of the military should have no weight in its decisions, and ought not to influence its actions. you ask why i throw "the whole responsibility" of making an application for troops upon you? it was because you were the judge who made the application; who demanded protection, and averred you would not hold court unless i sent guards along. there was no one else with whom the responsibility could be divided, and as you must have acted from your convictions of duty, i do not see why you should seek to avoid the responsibility, or desire me to place it where it does not belong. i have no criticisms to make in reference to other judges who have asked for troops, or in reference to judge finley, who, you say, failed to attend certain courts. these were occurrences under former administrations, and were doubtless considered by the executives of the time in the light of facts, which i do not pretend to know. much less will i offer my comment upon the grave charges you insinuate against another judicial officer in connection with the breathitt court. but i cannot refrain from expressing regret at what seems to be the manifestation of feeling on your part, which does not impress me as strictly judicial, but, notwithstanding this, i beg you to rest assured of my desire to support your authority in every way that the executive can do, consistent with the public welfare. i have no objection to your giving the fullest publicity to your letter. respectfully yours, s. b. buckner. the last feud in breathitt county, during which the most horrible assassinations were committed, was the hargis-cockrell-marcum-callahan vendetta. the hargises and the cockrells claimed that the name is a misnomer--that no feud existed. capulet once said: "the montagues are furnishing all the trouble and we are only innocents slaughtered." montague said: "the capulets are making the war. we are only defending our lives and property." an apt quotation, here. a political race first engendered the bitterness which led to the murders narrated later on. in this race the democratic candidates were elected, at least declared to have been elected. their ticket was headed by james hargis for county judge and ed. callahan for sheriff. the fusion ticket, which was defeated _in toto_, contested the election, alleging fraud. at that time one j. b. marcum and o. h. pollard were partners in the practice of the law. marcum had accepted a fee for the contestants, the fusionists, and pollard for the democratic contestees. marcum and hargis were said to have had a difficulty about a year prior to this contest, but the breach between them seemed to have been healed. marcum had been attorney for the hargises for a number of years. it appears that during the taking of depositions in the contest case the first open rupture occurred. what actually transpired has been told in conflicting stories. it seems that marcum, pollard, james hargis and ed. callahan were in marcum's law office. they differed in regard to some testimony of certain witnesses and nearly came to blows. pistols were drawn by some of the men and marcum ordered each and all from his office. police judge cardwell issued warrants. marcum at once surrendered and paid his fine. hargis declared his refusal to appear before judge cardwell, whom he regarded as an enemy, and had so considered him for years. he therefore surrendered to magistrate edwards, a personal friend. a controversy arose as to justice edwards' jurisdiction in the matter. the dispute threatened to create still further trouble, to allay which mr. marcum moved the case against judge hargis to be dismissed, which was done. here starts the war. in making the arrest of judge hargis, the town marshal, tom cockrell, assisted by james cockrell, his brother, were said to have drawn guns on hargis and that only the intervention of sheriff callahan prevented the two from killing hargis. this the cockrells indignantly denied. they asserted that in making the arrest of judge hargis they had used no more force than was necessary. hargis swore they would pay for their audacity in drawing a gun upon his person, and he made good his threats, that is, others did make it good for him. numerous unsavory charges now began to be made first on one side and then the other. marcum at one time charged ed. callahan with assassinating his, marcum's, uncle, capt. bill strong, who was shot from ambush in front of his home in either or . callahan in turn charged marcum's uncle, the deceased capt. bill strong, with the assassination of wilson callahan, the father of sheriff callahan. each faction charged the other with the murder of some one. shortly after this occurred a pistol duel between tom cockrell and ben hargis, in which the latter was shot and killed on the spot. the two had met at a "blind tiger" saloon in jackson and quarreled, with the result that both drew their pistols and fired upon each other. before hargis sank dying to the floor, he had succeeded in seriously wounding his antagonist. the hargises at once began an active prosecution of cockrell and kept it up. dr. cox had married a kinswoman of the cockrell boys and had also become their guardian, both of them being under age. the cockrells were also related to marcum, who had volunteered in tom cockrell's defense for the killing of ben hargis. marcum also was an intimate friend of dr. cox, who practised in jackson and vicinity. not long after the killing of ben hargis another brother of judge hargis met his death at the hands of a man charged by the hargis clan as being a cockrell man. john hargis was the man slain; "tige" was his nickname. he was killed by jerry cardwell. hargis had boarded the train at jackson on his way to beattyville. cardwell was the train detective. it is claimed that hargis had been drinking and became disorderly. the conductor in charge of the train asked cardwell to preserve the peace. as soon as cardwell entered the car hargis sprang to his feet and drew his gun. cardwell and he fired simultaneously. cardwell was wounded, hargis shot through the heart. the hargis clan always claimed that the killing of john hargis was the issue of a well-laid conspiracy with the cockrells at the bottom of it. they attempted to connect them with the shooting, but nothing ever came of it. dr. cox, guardian and kinsman of the cockrell boys, and j. b. marcum, their cousin, were intimate friends and frequently discussed the foreboding aspect the community was taking on. rumors came to them frequently now that they were marked for assassination. at first neither dr. cox nor marcum gave them much credence. finally, about the first of april, , marcum went to washington on business. while there, dr. cox was assassinated. marcum was convinced that he, too, was marked for death. the proof in the case shows that dr. cox had left his home about eight o'clock one night to make a professional call. the conspirators had for many nights been watching his movements. he had almost reached the corner of the street diagonally across from the court house, and directly opposite judge hargis' stable, when he was fired on and he fell dead, riddled with small shot. after he had fallen to the ground the assassins fired another volley into his body and easily escaped. there was persistent rumor at the time of the killing that the shots had been fired from hargis' stable, but witnesses were afraid to swear positively about anything. indictments against parties for the murder were not returned until some time afterwards. it has been told that judge hargis had been heard to laughingly say, after the fall of dr. cox, "great scot! didn't he bellow like a bull when that shot hit him?" while people in town entertained their own opinions as to the guilty parties, but refused to express them, the cockrells openly charged hargis with complicity and of having hired the assassins that committed the cowardly murder, and maintained, seemingly with good reasons, that dr. cox's only offence had been his friendly relation with the cockrells and his interest in the defense of tom cockrell on the charge of the murder of ben hargis. the next victim of the assassin's bullets was jim cockrell. he was murdered in , in broad day, from the court house. jim had been active in collecting evidence for his brother in his coming trial for the ben hargis murder. rumors had come to him that he would be killed if he did not desist. he continued, however, and ignored the warning. by this time the cockrells, marcum and many other residents of the town kept closely within doors at night. no one traveled the streets without a lantern. this might have been some protection for absolute neutrals, but must have been only an increasing source of danger to those who had grounds to fear for their lives. confinement at home was therefore the best and the only reasonably safe policy. cockrell was shot at noon, july th, , from the second floor of the court house. he was standing on the opposite side of the "temple of justice," talking to friends, when the shots were fired that took his young life. he was not dead when taken from the street. he was hurriedly removed to a hospital at lexington the same afternoon, where he died on the following morning. cockrell was town marshal at the time of his death. curtis jett was later on indicted for the murder, together with others, and convicted, but not until after the death of marcum was it that these prosecutions were set on foot. marcum had repeatedly declared before his death that he had ample evidence to prove that jett and two others fired the shots that killed cockrell, and that the assassins had remained concealed in the court house the remainder of the day and made their escape at nightfall. jett and cockrell had been enemies for some time prior to the murder. the week before the two had fought a pistol duel in the arlington hotel's dining-room. neither was wounded, friends interfered, and the affair ended without arrests being made. curtis jett was a deputy sheriff under ed. callahan. capt. john patrick, a fugitive "from injustice," as he put it, went to lexington and there gave out a statement to the effect that he, one mcintosh and others had seen and recognized the cockrell murderers. patrick then left the country, but offered to return and testify if sufficient protection was afforded him. he did return and testified in the succeeding trials, although he dodged the officers sent after him for some time. mcintosh was taken before the grand jury, but refused to testify. he was remanded to jail for contempt of court and remained there for four days. when finally he made up his mind to talk, he testified that he knew nothing whatever of the matter. in the meantime, jim cockrell's brother tom had secured a change of venue to wolfe county, to be tried there for the murder of ben hargis. the trial was to take place at campton. cockrell was taken there under an armed guard of twelve men. he was himself given a gun for defence. when the trial was about to begin judge hargis refused to have anything further to do with the prosecution of the case, alleging that the transfer to campton was but a scheme to assassinate him on the road thither. in the meantime marcum had become a voluntary prisoner at his home. clients that wished to see or consult him went to his house to do so. he appeared on the streets of the town but few times. his fears were laughed at by some; the hargis faction, including callahan, pronounced him a coward. his end proved the correctness of his judgment and how well founded had been his fears. the story of plots and conspiracies against his life, his many marvelous escapes from assassination, were graphically told by himself but a short time before his death. the interview occurred in lexington on november th. he told the same story to the writer with whom he had been on intimate terms of friendship. the story told to the lexington reporters and given out in the press was as follows:-- "i will begin my story with last march ( ) when persistent rumors had it that doctor cox and i were slated to be assassinated. "dr. cox and i discussed these rumors frequently and i finally came to the conclusion that they were groundless. i went to washington and stayed a month. while i was there dr. cox was assassinated. "i was attorney for mose feltner. on the night of march th he came to my home in jackson, and stated that he had entered into an agreement with certain parties (naming them) to kill me and that his accomplices were to be three men whom he also named. "he said that their plan was to entice me to the office that night when they would kill me. he said he had been provided with a shotgun and $ . to get me. he displayed the gun which was a new one, had never been shot, and also exhibited to me the money. i know he did not previously have the money. "a few mornings later feltner took me to the woods near by and showed me four winchester rifles concealed there, and stated that he and three companions had been leaving them there in the day time and carrying them about at night to kill me with. "of course he did not intend to kill me, but by pretending that he would assassinate me certain persons, he said, would guarantee him his acquittal in the coming trial for the killing of jesse fields. "he continually led them on in this belief to secure his own protection and immunity in the fields murder case against him. at the same time he continually warned me of the various plans perfected to kill me. "on the following morning after feltner first warned me of my danger, i sent my wife and little boy by way of a deep ravine two hundred yards from my house in good rifle range. this was the only place where assassins could conceal themselves and kill me at my house, for by this time i had ceased visiting my office, and their only chance was to kill me at my house. it was early in the morning when my wife and little boy arrived at the ravine. they saw four men carrying guns run away. my son recognized two of them, but did not recognize the other two, one of the latter, feltner told me afterwards was himself. "finally, i decided to leave jackson. in the early evening i went to the arlington hotel with my wife and made arrangements to be rowed across the river to the tunnel early the next morning and board the train unobserved. later in the day feltner came to my room and stated that the party i had seen had told them that i was preparing to leave town, and that thereupon certain high officials of the county placed four men at the depot, two men at the tunnel and two men at the railway station to kill me. "i took his word and did not attempt to leave town. i sent the next morning for my wife and baby, and carried the baby in my arms to my office, and at noon from there to my home. "i was later informed by feltner that a party was waiting in the upper rooms of a store to kill me. he wanted to shoot me with a rifle, but others insisted that he use a shotgun, saying that doctor cox had been killed with a shotgun. after i passed by they asked the man with the shotgun why he didn't shoot, and he answered that with a shotgun he would have killed the baby, but if they had let him have his way and he had been given a rifle, he would have shot me through the head without endangering the baby. "the night previous to my decision to leave jackson my sister came to me and warned me that another plan had been formulated to kill me. her informant was mose feltner, who was engaged until at a late hour in discussing the best plan. when this meeting had adjourned it was then too late to come to my house. so he went to my sister's house in his sock feet and told her. "i was awakened at daybreak sunday morning, june th, by a messenger who had ridden eighteen miles that night to bring me a note from a friend who was also a friend of my enemies and who was in their counsels. the note stated that two men would come to town the following tuesday morning; that court would adjourn at noon and that an attempt would then be made to assassinate me in the afternoon. i knew the men had been out of town but was inclined to disbelieve their statement because i had not heard that court would adjourn on tuesday, in fact, i had every reason to believe that it would not adjourn until saturday. i asked every member of the bar in regard to this and their unanimous opinion was that court would not adjourn until friday evening or saturday morning. this also was the opinion of the circuit court clerk. "tuesday morning i sent my friends ahead and slipped out to day brothers' store near the court house, they having reported that the coast was clear. then i found out that the men selected to kill me had sure enough arrived in town. "i returned home at ten o'clock, for it was then getting too close to my funeral time, if reports i had were true. _court adjourned just as the clock struck twelve on tuesday._ "i do not mean to cast any reflections upon the judge. you can explain it to suit yourself. but i assure you i kept to my room that day. "on another occasion i slipped away to visit my sister's house. on the way i met a sympathizer of those whose enmity i had incurred. i decided not to return and sent my two sisters and wife ahead. they passed a ravine on the way and there saw two men with guns. later, after they had turned out their lights, they observed one man take his station in front of my house, and the others, all heavily armed and dressed as women, below my window in an adjoining garden. "last sunday morning a messenger came to my house at daylight. he had been sent by a neutral party who did not want me killed. he told me that two men had arrived the night before and were to have taken a front room in a house near by and from there ambush me. the next morning i observed the window raised about four inches and the curtain drawn, in which position the curtain and the window have remained since. the men occupy rooms in that house and i suppose the front rooms. i have not been even on the porch since i received that message." marcum at one time had succeeded in escaping from jackson. he remained away for some time. but when the leading officials of the county laughed at the idea that he would be in the least danger if he returned, he believed them. lured by the reports that he would not be molested, and having considerable interests at stake, he returned home and went to his death. both judge hargis and callahan gave out statements to the press to the effect that marcum would be as safe at jackson as anywhere. in the light of what occurred, this statement may have been true. the statements were ambiguous, susceptible of various constructions. he may have been as safe at jackson as elsewhere, for it is quite possible that assassins were at his heels wherever he went. on monday morning a messenger from a distant part of the county rode hot haste to jackson to warn him of renewed attempts upon his life. the messenger did not reach him in time. when he found him the bloody work had been accomplished--marcum was dead. the story of the assassination is horrible and pathetic. as has been said, despite all warnings marcum had begun to feel safe again and resumed his interrupted law practice. he had business at the court house in connection with the reopening of the contest cases. at eight o'clock monday morning, may th, , he proceeded to the court house with affidavits for filing. from the clerk's office he walked to the front door of the court house, and, facing the street, engaged in conversation with his friend, capt. b. j. ewen. the corridors stretching out at his back were full of men. marcum was leaning on ewen's shoulder. the two men had been conversing for possibly three minutes, when, at . a. m., a shot rang out in the rear of the corridor. marcum staggered and as he sank to the floor another shot fired. the first shot entered his back and the ball came out through the breast. the next shot passed through the top of his head and was doubtlessly aimed as he reeled. just before the shots were fired, one tom white passed marcum at the door and gazed into his face in a manner calculated to draw marcum's attention. as white had passed, marcum turned to ewen and said: "that's a bad man and i am afraid of him." the body of marcum lay where it had fallen for at least fifteen minutes before any of his friends dared approach it. marcum's wife, on hearing of the murder of her husband, rushed to the court house, knelt by the side of the body and in the blood and brains that had spattered the floor, drenched her handkerchief. what sort of a vow she made then may be imagined. we shall draw the curtain over the scene of sorrow and grief at the home of the murdered man. he left a wife and five children. marcum had been a practising lawyer for seventeen years. he was, at the time of his death, a trustee of the kentucky state college, a united states commissioner, and represented the lexington & eastern railway company as well as other large corporations in a legal capacity. the reign of terror. immediately after the assassination of marcum, and for a long time afterwards, conditions at jackson were terrible. there was consternation among all who had in the least degree incurred the enmity of the tyrants who now controlled both county and town. judge hargis appeared in the newspapers with a lengthy accusation against the dead man marcum, practically declaring that the assassination was a good deed and deserved. many relatives of marcum, the cockrells and their sympathizers, left town and sought refuge elsewhere. no one dared travel the streets of jackson at night who was not sure of the protection of those who held it in their grasp. churches were deserted; for many months no services were held. it was with the utmost difficulty that any person could be brought to even speak of the matter in any way. everybody was suspicious of everybody else. in the meantime the murderers were still at large. no earnest effort had been made by the "authorities" to apprehend them. it would not have been difficult to have done so, for it was an open secret as to who they were. the difficulty lay in getting witnesses to talk. some of these left town and placed themselves beyond the jurisdiction of the court, and absolutely refused to return unless protected by troops. b. j. ewen, who was with marcum at the time of the murder, had at first declared that he did not know who the assassins were. judge hargis and sheriff callahan admitted that they saw the slayer in the court house corridor but had failed to recognize him. then, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the announcement that capt. ewen had decided to tell the facts as he knew them, even at the risk of his life. he did so, charging jett with the actual shooting of marcum, and tom white as an accessory. the hargis faction laughed at this declaration, hinted broadly at perjury, pointing to the fact that capt. ewen had already stated he did not know the assassins, and that therefore his declaration was not entitled to belief. ewen explained his change of attitude in the matter by saying that, at first, he had decided to keep his knowledge to himself, for his own protection, but that since then he had come to the conclusion that it was the duty of a citizen, who respected the law, to tell what he knew, even if he risked his life in doing so. he told the story, time and again, without a tremor,--outwardly at least. jett was arrested at winchester without a struggle and taken to jackson. the governor at once forwarded troops to the ill-fated town and martial law continued there for several months. the presence of the troops somewhat reassured the citizens. many of those who had departed returned. the grand jury assembled and jointly indicted curtis jett and tom white, who had also been arrested. many exciting events took place during the presence of the troops at jackson, but order was gradually restored and people took heart. services at the churches were resumed, after months of suspension. in the midst of one of the trials capt. ewen, who lived in camp with the troops, not daring to return to his own fireside, saw his house, his home, the fruit of many years of labor and saving, go up in flames. it was not accident. it was the reward for his fidelity to good citizenship and his willingness to tell the truth. ewen also declared that bribery had been attempted by certain parties. later on the matter was aired in the courts, but nothing ever came of it. ewen removed from jackson after the trials. no one acquainted with the situation in breathitt at that time doubted for a moment that jett and white were but the tools of men higher up. it is not our province to make charges based upon mere rumor, but this may be said without fear of contradiction--that the testimony brought out at the various trials which followed established utter corruption on the part of those whose duty it was to see to it that the guilty parties were brought to justice. these "officers" stood idly by, permitted men to be shot down while calmly watching the proceedings, and made no attempt whatever to arrest them. when outside pressure and extraneous influence and help at last forced investigations and the criminals were apprehended and brought to the bar of justice, these "officers" visited the murderers in jail, supplied them with delicate food, money and counsel, consulted witnesses, hunted up persons willing to serve as defense witnesses for a consideration, drilled them, tutored them, and through intimidation and threats of death forced men to commit the crime of perjury to save the necks of the assassins. let us cite an example: a young man of previously good repute, a school teacher, was indicted in the harrison circuit court at cynthiana, where the trials of jett and white occurred, for having sworn falsely as a witness for the defendants. he was found guilty as charged. when the judge pronounced sentence, the convicted man broke down completely and admitted his guilt, but pleaded in extenuation of his crime that high officials of breathitt county, enemies of marcum and cockrell, had coerced him into becoming a witness for the defense and had drilled him for hours so he would make no blunders in the prepared testimony. his story had the true ring about it. so pathetic was the story told by the young man, that both judge and state's attorney instantly released the man on his own recognizance, although he asked to be sent to the penitentiary, where he might be reasonably safe from assassination. let us see where the county judge hargis, and sheriff callahan were at the time of the marcum assassination. let us examine their actions; they speak louder than words. the reader may draw his own conclusions and arrive at them without assistance. both the county judge, hargis, and sheriff callahan hated marcum and had been his sworn enemies for a long time. the statements of feltner made by him to marcum from time to time implicated both these officials as the chief conspirators, although mr. marcum at the time he gave out his statement to the press, refrained from quoting their names. he had, however, done so to the writer on several occasions. at the time of marcum's assassination judge james hargis and sheriff callahan were seated comfortably in front of the hargis store. (probably the seats had been reserved in advance so as to be certain of not missing any scene or act of the tragedy.) they had an unobstructed view of the court house door, were bound to have seen what occurred there, yet continued to sit unmoved, and never made the least effort to locate or ascertain the assassins. they appeared not in the least disturbed, certainly exhibited no surprise. why should they? the conclusion is irresistible--but we shall let the reader draw it. capt. ewen testified that he was standing at the side of marcum when he was killed. marcum was leaning heavily upon his shoulder. just before the shots were fired tom white passed by the two men, turned and gazed into marcum's face. marcum said "that's a bad man, and i'm afraid of him." the next moment the shots were fired. as white passed marcum the latter turned his back to the rear of the corridor and the witness ewen turned with him. this put his face to the rear of marcum and he recognized curtis jett and saw him standing there with a pistol in each hand. marcum having fallen to the floor, capt. ewen stepped out of doors to save his own life. the position of jett and of his gun made ewen believe that he would be shot next. a few moments later jett appeared at the side door of the court house, looked out, then walked calmly down the steps and mingled with the crowd. tom white, so the testimony of other witnesses shows, was standing in front of day brothers' store just before the murder. an acquaintance invited him to take a drink. he refused, saying he had not time, that he was looking for a man. he caught sight of curtis jett, motioned to him, and the two entered the side door of the court house. white then passed on through the corridor to the front door, and in the manner detailed attracted marcum's attention, while jett took his position behind him. white immediately turned to the side of the front door to escape the bullets he knew would be coming. after the murder jett and white came immediately together again at or near the jail and walked down the street unmolested. tom white had come to jackson several days before the murder, ostensibly to secure work, but only one man was introduced to prove that he made any sort of attempt to obtain employment. jett and white were seen together before the shooting and immediately afterwards. it was the contention of the commonwealth that the defendants had been hired to do the murder. one need only read the statement of marcum to see with what hellish coolness and deliberation these plots had been arranged. the defense was precluded, of course, under the circumstances, from relying upon the plea of self-defense, so it proceeded at once to hatch up an alibi. this, however, proved so transparent a fabrication that the jury ignored it altogether and promptly returned a verdict of guilty against both of the accused. the sentence was for confinement in the penitentiary for life. but for the persistency of one juror, who refused to join in a death verdict, they would have been hanged, perhaps. curtis jett was a sworn officer of the county at the time of the murder of marcum, _a deputy under sheriff callahan_. he was proven guilty also of the assassination of cockrell by shooting him from the court house, the temple of justice, prostituted and turned over to the service of murderers by those in control of it. jett's record previous to these assassinations was bad. twice he had been accused of rape, had repeatedly been confined in jail on various other charges, for shooting at persons with intent to kill, for malicious shooting and wounding and had been indicted for the ruin of a young girl. he was a moral degenerate. his very appearance proclaimed to the physiognomist the cruel, heartless nature of the man. his chin was short and receding, the cheek bones prominent, hair bristly red, eyes deep set and countenance scowling and bad. jett had been for a time confined in the louisville jail until his trial at cynthiana. while in prison he had given the jail officials no end of trouble on account of his violent disposition toward the other prisoners. one and all feared him. after his removal to the penitentiary he pursued similar tactics for a time, but there they broke him. he is still confined and is now said to have become a model prisoner. it is said he intends to preach after his release,--it must be remembered that a life sentence in kentucky does _not_ mean confinement for life. judge hargis and callahan were in due time arraigned for various murders in connection with the feud. although curtis jett, john abner, john smith and mose feltner (who figures so prominently in the marcum statement), confessed in one way or another that the accused were the leaders in the assassinations of dr. cox, cockrell and marcum, the chief conspirators, for whose benefit the murders were done and who had furnished the sinews of war--money and ammunition--they were acquitted. the widow of james b. marcum, regardless of the verdicts of acquittal rendered in the various murder trials of hargis and callahan, brought suit in the civil courts and secured a judgment against them for several thousand dollars for having been the instigators of the murder of her husband. the judgment was paid without appeal. retribution. "he that sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." this threat was fulfilled to the letter in the cases of both judge hargis and sheriff callahan. both men died with their boots on. judge hargis was shot and killed at his store in jackson in the winter of _by his own son_, beach hargis. the young man was indicted for murder february th, , tried and found guilty. he escaped the death penalty, and received a life sentence, but is already at large, having been paroled . the judgment of the court was appealed from and strenuous efforts were made by the widow of the slain man to secure a new trial and save her son from conviction for the murder of her husband. hers was indeed a pathetic situation. mrs. hargis employed the best counsel obtainable. senator william o. bradley, a lawyer of national fame, argued the case exhaustively before the court of appeals. the judgment of the lower court was affirmed. the case was one of widespread interest. the facts and circumstances attending the murder appear at length and are commented upon in an opinion of the court of appeals, written by judge hobson, and reported in kentucky reports. judge hobson, in his statement of the case, says:-- "the proof for the commonwealth on the trial showed in brief these facts:-- "on the night before the homicide beach hargis had gone to his father's store and asked one of the clerks for a pistol. the clerk declined to give him a pistol out of the stock, but told him that his father's pistol was there in a drawer of his desk and he could take that. the defendant secured the pistol, but said nothing to his father, although he was then in the store. the next morning between nine and ten o'clock the defendant was sitting in the barber shop. his face was swollen. he told the barber that his father had hit him in the mouth and hurt him there. a man who looked like his father passed. he raised up in the chair, threw his hand back and said: 'i thought that was the old man.' about an hour later he drank a bottle of brown's bitters, and said to a bystander: 'did you hear about the old man mashing my mouth?' and added that it was hard to take. some two hours later he appeared at a drug store kept by his brother-in-law, dr. hogg, drew his pistol, and was waving it about, pointing it in the direction of a bystander and his brother-in-law. from this drug store, after a few minutes, he went to his father's store. it was a double storeroom. his father was in one room and he entered the other and took a seat in a chair not far from the front door. while he was sitting there in a chair, a man in the other room asked his father where beach was. his father pointed him out to the man and said: 'there he sits. i have done all i can for him and i cannot go about him or have anything to do with him.' a few minutes later his father said to another man who was in the room: 'i don't know what to do with beach. he has got to be a perfect vagabond, and he is destroying my business, and if dr. hogg let's him stay there he will ruin his business.' after saying this to the man the father walked in the direction of where the defendant was sitting. there were a number of persons in the store. as his father approached, the defendant got out of his chair and walked around behind a spool case that was setting on the end of the counter. no words were spoken. the first sound that anybody heard was the report of a pistol. his father was then about three feet from him. a struggle ensued between them, during which the pistol was shot four times more, all five of the shots taking effect in the father. persons in the store ran up, and when they got to them the father had the son down and had the pistol, which he handed to one of them, saying: 'he has shot me all to pieces.' the father died in a few minutes. "the proof for the son was in substance that the father came up to him, struck him in the face, and began choking him. when he felt his eyes bulging out, he drew his pistol and shot him, and his father continuing to choke him, he fired the other four shots in the struggle; the last two being fired from the floor. the proof for the defendant also showed that the father was drinking. taking all the evidence, we think it reasonably clear that the father was unarmed and that he was shot by the son while he was approaching him, and before he had touched him. two witnesses who were on the outside of the store, were looking through the windows, and their testimony, as well as the testimony of persons in the store, confirms this conclusion. we think it also reasonably clear that the son was maudlin drunk, and but for this the unfortunate homicide would not have occurred. he showed that he was under the impression that his father had left the store, and that he went there to meet an uncle, but expecting no difficulty. he also showed that about a week before his father had beat him unmercifully with a ramrod, that previous to this he had whipped him with a rope, and on the last occasion had struck him in the mouth with his fist, and got upon him on the floor and churned his head against the floor; that he had taken his pistol from him, and had threatened to shoot him with it and had been prevented from doing this by the interference of bystanders, and that he had then declared he would kill him. there was also evidence that the son had said that the old man had beaten him up, but that he would never get the chance to do it again. also that he had declared when his father had taken the pistol from him when drunk, that every time he got drunk and was having a good time, they had to do something to him, and that he aimed to kill his father and certain other persons whom he named. "the defendant offered to prove by his grandmother and others that his father had taught him to carry a weapon, encouraged him to drink whiskey, and had caused him to associate with disreputable men, thus rearing him in a manner calculated to bring about the result which followed." the lower court refused to permit this testimony and the court of appeals affirmed the ruling in this as in practically all other respects. to the opinion of the court judges barker and nunn dissented. certain excerpts of judge barker's opinion are of prime importance here and corroborate what has been said concerning judge hargis in even stronger language than we have employed. this opinion says (in part):-- "james hargis is shown in this record to have been a savage, cruel man; that he had a high, vindictive temper, and allowed neither fear, nor remorse, nor pity to come between him and the objects of his passionate resentment.... james hargis was a man of violence and of blood. he had established in the county of breathitt a reign of terror under the influence of which the law was paralyzed and its ministers overrun. he is pictured as a man of gigantic frame, savage temper and indomitable courage. he had surrounded himself with armed mercenaries, whose minds he inflamed with drink, and who seemed to be willing to do his bidding even to the point of assassinating his enemies without fear of the consequences of their crimes and without remorse or pity for the result. "he had not only broken down the law and terrorized its officers, but he had made the temple of justice itself the rendezvous for assassins who, sheltered behind walls, reddened its portals with the blood of its votaries. _he literally ingrafted upon the civilization of the twentieth century the savagery of the fifth, and introduced into a community of law and order the merciless ferocity of the middle ages._" ed. callahan goes under. the other leader of the hargis faction, ed. callahan, died as violently as did the victims which he has been accused of sending to their deaths. the assassination took place saturday, may th, , in the middle of the forenoon, at crocketsville, a village some twenty miles from jackson. some two years before a similar attempt had miscarried, although callahan was then seriously wounded. it has already been stated that mose feltner, john smith and others had in their confessions implicated ed. callahan and judge hargis in various murders. after the confession john smith had been released from custody on the murder charges against him, and he became the bitter, unrelenting enemy of callahan and hargis. john smith was accused with several others of shooting and wounding callahan from ambush. callahan escaped death then by a narrow margin. from that time on he felt that his end was near. he had been heard to say on several occasions that his enemies would eventually get him, and they did. after this attempt on his life he fortified his home and yard with a palisade. it was so arranged that he could pass from the store to his home under the protection of this stockade. but just two years later even these precautions failed to save him. he was shot from an ambush across the narrow valley while in his store. he stood practically on the same spot when killed as he had been standing two years and one day previous when he was shot from the same place and seriously wounded. after the murder the commonwealth found much difficulty in ferreting out the murderers, or to secure proof which would convict them in a court of law. rumor readily pointed out the guilty men, but the state could not rest its case on rumor alone. it must have competent evidence. in the difficult task of securing it the commonwealth was ably assisted by a daughter of the murdered man. she, in fact, had taken the initiative in the matter, rode fearlessly and untiringly night and day making inquiries, listening, watching, employing spies to assist her, until at last a number of men were arrested and held in the toils of the law. the men indicted were "fletch" deaton, dan deaton, james deaton, dock smith, elisha smith, asberry mcintosh, andrew johnson, abe johnson, billy johnson, abe's son, willie johnson, john's son, "red tom" davidson, john clear and tom deaton, bill's son. the story of the conspiracy which resulted in callahan's final removal from earthly activities, is a long one. it reads like a dime novel. the setting of the story is dramatic. the court's opinion traces almost step by step the various movements of the conspirators. there are about seven principal places that figure in this tragedy (quoting in substance the opinion): the home of ed. callahan on long's creek, about one mile from the middle fork of the kentucky river; abe johnson's residence on the same river, about three or four miles above the mouth of long's creek; the town of buckhorn on the middle fork river, about two miles above abe johnson's home; the home of john e. deaton, at the mouth of caney on the north fork of the kentucky river; james deaton's home on caney creek, about two miles above its mouth, and the town of jackson, the county seat of breathitt county, located further down the north fork, are the principal places referred to. fletch deaton resided in jackson; callahan conducted a general store next to his residence on long's creek, twenty miles from jackson. two years and one day before the killing of callahan he had been shot and dangerously wounded by unknown persons concealed on the hillside directly across the creek from the store. the palisade built after that extended from his residence to the rear of his store so that he could pass from one to the other without being seen from the mountain across the creek. the murder occurred on saturday, may th, , about the middle of the forenoon. on the sunday before he went from his home in a gasoline boat in company with clifton gross, his son-in-law, to athol, a railroad station on the middle fork of the kentucky river, and thence on the following monday he went to jackson, which was the home of fletch deaton and of his codefendants, red tom davidson and govan smith. callahan was seen on the streets of jackson on that day by several people. he left jackson on the train at . p. m. for louisville to buy a spring stock of goods for his store. his presence in jackson, as well as his departure for louisville and the purposes of his visit, were well known in jackson. several of the defendants who lived on the middle fork, had gone down the stream on timber rafts and on their return by way of jackson saw callahan at the railroad station at beattyville junction on his way to louisville. it was callahan's habit to ship his goods to elkatawa, on the lexington & eastern railroad, where he would place them on freight boats and take them up the river to the mouth of long's creek, thence on wagons to his home. he usually accompanied the goods in person. several years ago fletch deaton's brother, james deaton, was killed at the mouth of long's creek in a fight, and ed. callahan and several other persons were jointly indicted for that killing, but with his usual luck escaped punishment for he was acquitted. fletch deaton aided in the prosecution of callahan, and bad blood had existed between them since that time. furthermore, shortly before the killing of callahan in may, , john davidson, a nephew of fletch deaton, and a brother of "red tom" davidson, and levi johnson were killed at buckhorn, in perry county. four men were jointly indicted for these murders. fletch deaton and several of the others indicted with him for murdering callahan assisted and took an active part in the prosecution of the men charged with the murder of davidson and johnson. callahan was accused by them of complicity in those murders and of aiding the defendants to escape punishment. fletch deaton had been heard to say on various occasions that it would be impossible to secure the conviction of the slayers of davidson and johnson so long as callahan was alive, and that he must be killed before those cases came up for trial. again it developed in the proof that jase deaton, fletch deaton's nephew, and red tom davidson, also accused of killing callahan, were tried in the bourbon circuit court on the charge of killing john abner in the town of jackson several years before, and that callahan had been active in the prosecution against them, employing counsel and supplying money. it further appears that jase deaton referred to above had been killed at the home of anse white, some while before the killing of callahan, by anse white. white was tried for this killing in the montgomery circuit court and also acquitted. this acquittal had been attributed to the activity in behalf of white on the part of ed. callahan. the proof on the trial of fletch deaton and of andrew johnson showed that callahan came to his death at the hands of three men, who had concealed themselves on the mountainside across the creek from callahan's store. one of the witnesses for the prosecution testified that he recognized dock smith and andrew johnson as two of the assassins, that he saw a third, but failed to recognize him. dock smith himself testified that the third man was james deaton of caney creek, a son of fletch deaton. all the trials of the men accused of the murder of callahan were held at winchester, clark county. in each of the cases, with the exception of the one against red tom davidson, the defense relied upon alibis, claiming that they were in jackson on the day of the killing. dock smith and govan at the critical moment, realizing their situation, made a full and voluntary confession of all they knew regarding the murder of callahan. as heretofore stated, callahan was shot on saturday forenoon. on the preceding wednesday, about two o'clock p. m., dock smith met andrew johnson on the middle fork just below the mouth of gay's creek. johnson there told dock smith that james deaton wanted dock and andrew johnson to help kill callahan, and for dock to go to deaton's house that night. smith says that johnson asked him if he had a gun, and he told johnson that his gun was at his father's; that johnson then told him he would go back home to granville johnson's, and would meet smith there that night; that smith went to his father's, got his gun, ate his supper, and then went to the mouth of orville's branch and there met andrew johnson, willie johnson, tom deaton and billie johnson. from that point smith and andrew johnson proceeded to the house of james deaton on caney creek, which they reached late in the night, finding james and dan deaton there. that night the four discussed the proposed killing of callahan. james deaton told his confederates that on the next morning he would go to his father's at jackson, and learn from him, fletch deaton, what definite plans had been made about the killing of callahan, and would get "red tom" davidson's savage rifle. the next morning, thursday, james deaton and dan deaton left james deaton's house and went down caney creek towards john e. deaton's, dock smith and andrew johnson remaining at james deaton's. late on thursday evening james deaton came home from jackson riding "red tom" davidson's mule, and brought along a gun which he said belonged to red tom. after supper smith, johnson and james deaton left the latter's residence, dock smith riding and carrying the gun, johnson and deaton on foot. they proceeded to the home of john e. deaton, where they met bob deaton, another of the accused. here bob joined them in the expedition. the four then went to abe johnson's, on the middle fork, about three miles above the mouth of long's creek, arriving there after midnight on friday morning. friday was spent around abe johnson's. at noon they sent for dan deaton, whom they had left at the home of james deaton on the morning of thursday. dan responded, and all of them again discussed plans for the murder of callahan. james deaton told abe johnson and billy johnson that his father, fletch deaton, wanted them to come to jackson on the train saturday morning, so they could be there as witnesses to prove the alibi, and that willie johnson was to come with them. it was arranged that dock smith, andrew johnson, bob deaton and dan deaton were to go down to the grand sire rock on the middle fork, below the mouth of long's creek, to watch for callahan and anse white, who were expected to come up on callahan's boats on that day. this arrangement was carried out. before starting, however, they procured two quarts of whiskey, and drank about half of it before they left abe johnson's, about two o'clock on saturday morning. abe johnson, billie johnson and willie johnson went to jackson; and the other five men, dock smith, andrew johnson, james deaton, dan deaton and bob deaton, went toward long's creek. all had guns. before leaving abe johnson's they procured a bucket of provisions, and went by the home of granville johnson, where they procured another bucket of provisions. there they boarded granville johnson's boat and started down the river, but the boat began to leak, and being too small to carry them all, they procured another boat. at the mouth of long's creek the boats were abandoned. from there they went to the home of willie deaton, son of james deaton, to inquire whether callahan had returned home, and were told that callahan had left the boats and gone home the evening before. after borrowing a gun from willie deaton, dan and bob deaton went to the grand sire rock for the purpose of watching for callahan's boats and to kill anse white, who had remained in charge of them. in the meantime dock smith, andrew johnson and james deaton went to the hillside across the creek from callahan's store, arriving there shortly before daylight on saturday morning. they placed themselves at a point where they could see the front of callahan's store. two of them prepared forks about inches long, which they drove in the ground to use as rests in shooting, one of them piling up some rocks upon which to rest his weapon. they watched for callahan until between nine and ten o'clock, without catching sight of him. the front of callahan's store contained a glass window, and they could see the outline or form of a man passing behind the window on the inside of the store. concluding that the shadow thus cast must be that of callahan, they fired six shots through the window, three of them taking effect and mortally wounding him. then the assassins became panic-stricken and left the places of concealment hurriedly, going through the backwoods to the home of abe johnson, where they got their dinner. after dinner "trigger eye" deaton carried them across the middle fork river, and from there to john e. deaton's home, where they arrived shortly after dark. by devious routes the three assassins reached jackson and the home of fletch deaton shortly before daylight sunday morning. there they found a number of the men present who were to serve as witnesses to establish an alibi for the slayers. the alibi was, however completely broken down by witnesses for the commonwealth, with the result that a number of the conspirators are now doing time in the state penitentiary. this closes the chapter on the hargis-cockrell-marcum-callahan feud, one of blood, terrorization, dark age savagery in the twentieth century; in the very midst of our country which prides itself upon a civilization superior to that of other countries. but for the blunder the despots committed in slaying marcum, whose prominence and the peculiarly atrocious circumstances of his murder at last forced a thorough airing of conditions, they might have gone on unmolested, continued the record of assassination, and have added many more pages of blood to the county's history. the prosecution of the slayers of marcum, dr. cox, james cockrell, judge hargis and ed. callahan was prompt and energetic. it shows a return of a more healthy public sentiment. yet, murders are entirely too frequent in breathitt, and in kentucky at large, for that matter. breathitt has been termed "the plague spot of the commonwealth." it cannot wipe out the past; what has been done is done. but it may yet redeem itself by making such horrors as we have depicted here, impossible in the future. there is a fine citizenship in the county. it has suffered much, and deserves sympathy along with censure. it is up to the good people to see that peace and order return and is maintained henceforth and forever. we trust they will never more submit to unbridled crime and anarchy. it is up to them to prove themselves american citizens by exerting true patriotism at home. conclusion. it would be erroneous to conclude that the history of kentucky's famous, or notorious feuds is completed here. the material at hand has, unfortunately, not been exhausted by any means. while the hatfields and mccoys fought to the death in pike county, kentucky, and along the borders of west virginia, a bloody drama was being enacted in rowan county. while the french-eversole war raged in perry county, many other counties suffered similarly during identically the same period. the eighties were a decade of blood, for during those years harlan was in the clutches of murderers and anarchy reigned supreme. letcher, bell and knott passed through like bloody experiences. in clay county feudal wars raged for years and never disappeared completely until the close of the last century. the list of counties drenched with the blood of their citizens might yet be extended. to describe all the feuds in detail would, however, prove repetitive, even monotonous, and be only cumulative. to lengthen the list of assassinations could serve no beneficent purpose. some years ago we published an edition of kentucky's famous feuds and tragedies. we closed the volume in the belief that feuds had ended once and for all times. but the worst period in all the bloody history of breathitt was since then. at the time of the publication of the first edition (from which some writers have quoted freely without giving us credit), we were charged with defaming the state, although it was admitted that the truth had been faithfully portrayed. it was not our intention then to malign the state, nor is it now. we have simply compiled from facts a history of past events. of what use is any history but to record past events that future generations might take lessons therefrom and be guided thereby? ignorance of true conditions does not, and never did bring about correction of evils. the crusade against commercialized vice, the liquor traffic and other body and soul destroying evils can succeed only through full and complete publicity. this history furnishes a study for the psychologist as well as for the criminologist. we cannot study crime and its manifold phases or point out remedies by studying the lives of saints. to find the original causes of social and political diseases we must go where these have existed or still exist. it would be silly to attempt to prove the result of the drink habit by the lives of teetotalers. there are those who would be overcautious, who believe in the policy enunciated by the proverb: "never mention a rope in the home of a man that has been hanged." had this principle at all times been adhered to, reforms would have been few. people will not rise to battle against evils until they are first made acquainted with the fact that the evils exist. it was due to the publicity given by the newspapers of conditions in breathitt county that a thorough clean-up was inaugurated there. if it be proper and right to publish nothing of a criminal or degrading nature, then we must of necessity put the ban upon the bible. what was the crucifixion of jesus christ but a bloody tragedy. the bible gives us a detailed account of the awful, cruel, lawless conspiracy to do murder upon an innocent being. judas prepared the ambush, as it were. he had the decency to go and hang himself, although he had nothing to fear from the authorities who had hired him to betray the master. the story of david and absalom is the bloody history of a family feud on a large scale. the murder of abel by his brother cain is taught the children at sunday school, not for the purpose of entertaining them with bloodshed, or to encourage them to go and do likewise, but to make crime odious. the history of the moabites and other races and tribes is one long chapter of outrages. crimes of unnamable character are recited at length in the holy book. the history of the reformation is one of blood and crime. to exclude secular or sacred history because they narrate crimes and bloodshed and horrors, would mean the withdrawal of the greatest weapons with which modern progress fights its battles in shaping the minds of men. we may gain invaluable lessons from this history if it be read with that intention. it is an appeal to people everywhere to be true to their citizenship. that kentucky has furnished suitable material with which to illustrate and demonstrate the results of a weak, unpatriotic, disloyal citizenship, is not the fault of the historian. the facts were at hand, they were apt, and were used. just now there is a nation-wide appeal made for a true americanism. the fact that the appeal is being made, seems to us an acknowledgment that true americanism has deteriorated and needs ingrafting anew. we join in this appeal, and shall add that had true americanism prevailed in the feud-cursed sections of kentucky, this bloody history could never have been written--there would have been a total absence of material for one. what is true americanism? it is not place of birth. it is nothing more, but nothing less, than undivided loyalty to country. what is loyalty? when is a citizen loyal to his country? waving his country's flag and cheering it on a fourth of july is but an outward demonstration of loyalty. a citizen is never loyal until he becomes and is faithful to the law; when he upholds and assists others in upholding the lawful authorities unswervingly. that is loyalty. there is no other definition for the word. so the citizen who refuses to obey the law himself in the first place, and makes no efforts to assist others in its enforcement, is not loyal to his country. when he has ceased to be loyal he becomes disloyal, and disloyalty is treason. the true american, therefore, is loyal and has the courage to prove that loyalty whenever occasion arises. one need not put on a uniform and fight battles against a foreign enemy to prove his patriotism. the patriot--the truly loyal citizen serves his country well by exercising that loyalty at home. good citizenship carries with it more than the simple right to vote. that right has obligations attached to it. the chief obligation is loyalty. the moment loyalty weakens, a wedge of social and political corruption enters; once that wedge is driven deeper government must totter and fall, and anarchy steps in its place. during the civil war hundreds of thousands of americans gave up their lives "that the nation might live." the nation is an aggregation of states, the state a union of communities, and communities are formed by families. to preserve a nation healthy that it may live, the states must also be so. but a state cannot be so if portions of it are diseased with social and political corruption. when a sore spot appears it ought to be cauterized at once without waiting for it to develop into an eating, destroying cancer. the spirit of loyalty must be revived and kept alive in the minds and hearts of all citizens. only through it can the evil impulses of the criminally inclined be controlled. the citizen who is loyal should always reflect, when he begins to lose courage, that the good citizens are in the majority, and that the vicious element is almost universally cowardly. the criminal has the fear of the law although he defies it for a time. we have narrated at great length the stealthy preparations made by the murderers of callahan. the cool and apparently deliberate manner with which their plans were executed would lead one to believe that they feared no law. yet we have seen how a moment after the crime had been committed and its perpetrators realized that they were murderers in fact, they "stampeded," the proof shows; they trembled with fear, though no one was on their tracks then. their hearts turned to water. what did they fear? punishment. the bloody dictators of breathitt county had abrogated the law, as they believed, yet feared the law they pretended to despise. this is clearly established by the methods with which they killed off their enemies. they resorted to secret assassination in each case because it would make discovery and punishment difficult, if not impossible. each assassination had been shrewdly and carefully planned. notwithstanding their temporary power and supremacy they lived in constant fear and dread, believing that punishment would and must sooner or later overtake them. this belief was strengthened by the fate of other criminals elsewhere. if, then, the criminal fears the arm of the law, it requires very simple reasoning to come to the conclusion that the criminally inclined can, by the sure guaranty of swift, condign punishment be intimidated and forced into abstaining from following that inclination, and be so put in fear that he will think twice before he gives his atavistic tendencies free rein. this history was written to teach a moral. the remedies suggested here for lawlessness and contempt for the law, may be applied with equal benefit where mob spirit is rampant. the mobist, to coin a phrase, that starts out to do murder upon a defenceless prisoner, is on a par with the bushwhacker--even inferior to him in courage. for mobs are courageous only through mass numbers; or when under strong and aggressive leadership. mobs have been known to slink away ignominiously when confronted by one or two loyal citizens. disloyalty has been at the bottom of all great social disturbances. let the spirit of true americanism, which is loyalty to country, return and with it will come the courage to uphold the law at whatever cost. then and not till then is our flag the true symbol of american liberty; then and not till then will the phrase "american citizen" cease to be a banality, as it now is with many, and become what it is intended to be, a badge of honor, the most precious a man can wear on this earth. footnotes: [ ] collin's "history of kentucky." [ ] roosevelt's "winning of the west." [ ] "rowan county feud," chapter . [ ] documents (ky.) . [ ] records pike circuit court, commonwealth versus val hatfield, etc., opinion of court of appeals, no. , . [ ] these reports corroborate my own investigation and statements in every particular.--author. is this your son, my lord? by helen h. gardener. one of the most powerful and realistic novels written by an american author in this literary generation. it is a terrible _exposé_ of conventional immorality and hypocrisy in modern society. every high-minded woman who desires the true progression of her sex will want to touch the inspiriting power of this book. "no braver voice was ever raised, no clearer note was ever struck, for woman's honor and childhood's purity."--=the vanguard, chicago.= "a novel of power, and one which will stir up a breeze unless certain hypocritical classes are wiser than they usually are."--=chicago times.= "it comes very close to any college man who has kept his eyes open. when we finish we may say, not, 'is this your son, my lord?' but 'is it i?'"--=nassau literary magazine, princeton.= =cloth, price, postpaid, $ . .= pray you, sir, whose daughter? by helen h. gardener. "every legislator in every state should read it and ask his conscience whether, if such iniquitous laws are on the statute books of his state, he should hasten to move their repeal." "she has not written for effect! nor fame! for amusement! nor money! but out of her great heart and soul she has preached a sermon for the masses."--=humanity and health.= =cloth, price, postpaid, $ . .= r. f. fenno & company new york the modern mother _a guide to girlhood, motherhood and infancy_ by dr. h. lang gordon _size, Ã� ¾; pages; fully illustrated._ _price, $ . _ this work marks in its own line the opening of a new epoch. hitherto such works have been devoted to treatment and a study of the abnormal; here these subjects yield precedence to prevention and a common-sense exposition of the normal. the author, imbued with the spirit of modern preventive medicine, points out the errors and abuses of modern life (so easily avoided and yet so easily yielded to) which affect injuriously the health of women and children. at the same time he clearly assists the mother and others to understand the physiology of womanhood and motherhood, the care of the infant and young girl and the detection and treatment of common complaints. the subjects of heredity, environment, education and schools, the home-training of children, the physical development of the body and the position of woman in modern life, are among the topics of the day which are touched upon in a new light in this concisely written book. each of its three sections, _girlhood_, _motherhood_ and _infancy_, provides the mother, the schoolmistress, and the intelligent nurse with a fascinating and easily understood guide and high ideals. r. f. fenno & company east th street new york the lover's world by alice b. stockham, m. d. through a long medical practice, extensive travel and many years of research, dr. stockham has come to know the heart of humanity. she now returns this knowledge in a message to all lovers. love is the expression of the divine in man! love of self, love between man and woman, love of child, love of friends and comrades, and finally the love of the race, each and all are expressions of cosmic or universal love. the man seeking a wife seeks her through his love nature; in this work he is directed to seek wisely. the woman, no more a child, learns that natural desires and functions should be dedicated to sacred uses. "the lover's world" not only contains everyday helps for everyday needs, but gives the key to life, revealing the secret of adepts and mystic orders. these, as herein presented, are no more secrets, but knowledge of faculties and functions giving power, health and happiness. =prof. oscar l. triggs, university of chicago=: "i have read =the lover's world= with great interest. at length there is a chance that the world will take a right attitude toward sex now that so many voices, such as yours and carpenter's, are raised in behalf of love and a true interpretation of sex." =samuel m. jones= (mayor of toledo, ohio): "it is the most helpful work on the subject of unity and the sacredness of all life that i have seen." pages, bound in cloth, postpaid, $ . . r. f. fenno & company east th street, new york tokology a book for every woman by alice b. stockham, m. d. "tokology" teaches possible painless pregnancy and parturition, giving full, plain directions for the care of a woman before, during and after confinement. the ailments of pregnancy can be prevented as well as the pains and dangers of childbirth avoided without drugs or medicines. women need not go down to death giving birth to children. physicians say that the chapter on constipation is the best treatise ever written on the subject, and alone is worth the price of the book. chapters on menstruation and the diseases of women and children. change of life is handled in a plain, common-sense style. =mrs. j. m. davis, sabula, iowa, says=: "i have two dear =tokology= babies, and during the whole nine months, both times, had neither ache nor pain." =mrs. a. l. t.=: "an hour after the labor-pain began the baby was delivered. if i could not get another =tokology=, i would not part with mine for a thousand dollars." =mrs. j. b. mcd.=: "i followed =tokology= and now, after fifteen years of childless married life, a sweet baby boy has come as a gift from god." the illustrations are accurate and carefully made. nearly pages. cloth, $ . morocco, $ . r. f. fenno & company east th street, new york the mystic will by charles g. leland. this book gives the methods of development and strengthening the latent powers of the mind and the hidden forces of the will by a simple, scientific process possible to any person of ordinary intelligence. the author's first discovery was that memory, whether mental, visual, or of any other kind, could, in connection with art, be wonderfully improved, and to this in time came the consideration that the human will, with all its mighty power and deep secrets, could be disciplined and directed, or controlled, with as great care as the memory or the mechanical faculty. in a certain sense the three are one, and the reader who will take the pains to master the details of this book will readily grasp it as a whole, and understand that its contents form a system of education, yet one from which the old as well as young may profit. table of contents: attention and interest. self-suggestion. will-development. forethought. will and character. suggestion and instinct. memory culture. the constructive faculties. fascination. the subliminal self. paracelsus. last words. popular priced american edition, bound in cloth, pages, postpaid, cents r. f. fenno & company - new york transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including some inconsistencies in hyphenation. some minor corrections of spelling and puctuation have been made. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. oe ligatures have been expanded. none