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NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS 
 
 % 
 
 THE MERRY MEN AND OTHER 
 TALES AND FABLES 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON W 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 THE CO-OPERATIVE PUBLICATION SOCIETY 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBR/.i-, 
 CH’ESTNUT hill, mass. 
 
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 121092 
 
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 BOSTON COtJ^ 
 
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I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS 
 THE SUICIDE CLUB 
 
 PASE 
 
 Story of the Young Man with the Cream Tarts 7 
 
 Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk 47 
 
 The Adventure of the Hansom Cabs 80 
 
 THE RAJAH’S DIAMOND 
 
 Story of the Bandbox 106 
 
 Story of the Young Man in Holy Orders 137 
 
 Story of the House with the Green Blinds 157 
 
 The Adventure of Prince Florizel and a Detective 196 
 
 THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Tells how I Camped in Graden Sea-Wood and beheld a 
 
 Light in the Pavilion 205 
 
 II. Tells of the Nocturnal Landing from the Yacht 213 
 
 HI. Tells how I became Acquainted with my Wife 221 
 
 IV. Tells in what a Startling Manner I learned that 1 was 
 
 not alone in Graden Sea- Wood 232 
 
 V. Tells of an Interview between Morthmour, Clara, 
 
 and Myself 242 
 
 VI. Tells of my Introduction to the Tall Man 248 
 
 VII. Tells how a Word was Cried through the Pavilion 
 
 Window 256 
 
 VHI. Tells the Last of the Tall Man 264 
 
 IX. Tells how Northmour carried out his Threat 272 
 
 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT. 279 
 
 Stevkxsox. Vol. I. — 1 
 
NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS 
 
 THE SUICIDE CLUB 
 
 STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN WITH THE CREAM TARTS 
 
 During his residence in London, the accomplished 
 Prince Florizel of Bohemia gained the affection of all 
 classes by the seduction of his manner and by a well- 
 considered generosity. Pie was a remarkable man even 
 by what was known of him ; and that was but a 
 small part of what he actually did. Although of a 
 placid temper in ordinary circumstances, and accustomed 
 to take the world with as much philosophy* as any 
 plowman, the Prince of Bohemia was « not without , a 
 taste for ways of life more adventurous and eccentric 
 than that to which he was destined by his birth. Now 
 and then, when he fell into a low humor, when there 
 was no laughable play to witness in any of the Lon- 
 don theaters, and when the season of the year was 
 unsuitable to those field sports in which he excelled all 
 competitors, he would summon his confidant and Mas- 
 ter of the Horse, Colonel Geraldine^ and bid him pre- 
 pare himself against an evening ramble. The Master 
 of the Horse was a young officer of a brave and even 
 temerarious disposition. He greeted the news with de- 
 
 ( 7 ) 
 
8 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 light, and hastened to make ready. Long practice and 
 a varied acquaintance of life had given him a singular 
 facility in disguise ; he could adapt not only his face 
 and bearing, but his voice and almost his thoughts, to 
 those of any rank, character, or nation ; and in this 
 way he diverted attention from the Prince, and some- 
 times gained admission for the pair into strange so- 
 cieties. The civil authorities were never taken into the 
 secret of these adventures; the imperturbable courage 
 of the one and the ready invention and chivalrous de- 
 votion of the other had brought them through a score 
 of dangerous passes ; and they grew in confidence as 
 time went on. 
 
 One evening in March they were driven by a sharp 
 fall of sleet into an Oyster Bar in the immediate neigh- 
 borhood of Leicester Square. Colonel Geraldine was 
 dressed and painted to represent a person connected 
 with the Press in reduced circumstances; while the 
 Prince had, as usual, travestied his appearance by the 
 addition of false whiskers and a pair of large adhesive 
 eyebrows. These lent him a shaggy and weather-beaten 
 air, which, for one of his urbanity, formed the most 
 impenetrable disguise. Thus equipped, the commander 
 and his satellite sipped their brandy and soda in 
 security. 
 
 The bar was full of guests, male and female; but 
 though more than one of these offered to fall into talk 
 with our adventurers, none of them promised to grow 
 interesting upon a nearer acquaintance. There was noth- 
 ing present but the lees of London and the common- 
 place of disrespectability ; and the Prince had already 
 fallen to yawning, and was beginning to grow weary 
 
f<eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 9 
 
 of the whole excursion, when the swing doors were 
 pushed violently open, and a young man, followed by 
 a couple of commissionaires, entered the bar. Each of 
 the commissionaires carried a large dish of cream tarts 
 under a cover, which they at once removed; and the 
 young man made the round of the company, and 
 
 pressed these confections upon every one’s acceptance 
 with an exaggerated courtesy. Sometimes his offer was 
 laughingly accepted; sometimes it was firmly, or even 
 harshly, rejected. In these latter cases the new-comer 
 always ate the tart himself, with some more or less 
 humorous commentary. 
 
 At last he accosted Prince Plorizel. 
 
 “Sir,” said he, with a profound obeisance, proffering 
 the tart at the same time between his thumb and fore- 
 finger, “will you so far honor an entire stranger? I 
 
 can answer for the quality of the pastry, having eaten 
 two dozen and three of them myself since five o’clock.” 
 “I am in the habit,” replied the Prince, “of look- 
 ing not so much to the nature of a gift as to the 
 spirit in which it is offered,” 
 
 “The spirit, sir,” returned the young man, with 
 another bow, “is one of mockery.” 
 
 “Mockery?” repeated Plorizel. “And whom do you 
 propose to mock?” 
 
 “I am not here to expound my philosophy,” replied 
 
 the other, “but to distribute these cream tarts. If I 
 
 mention that I heartily include myself in the ridicule 
 of the transaction, I hope you will consider honor sat- 
 isfied and condescend. If not, you will constrain me 
 to eat my twenty-eighth, and I own to being weary 
 of the exercise.” 
 
10 U/orl^s of F^oberfc Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “You touch me,” said the Prince, “and I have all 
 the will in the world to rescue you from this dilemma, 
 but upon one condition. If my friend and I eat your 
 cakes — for which we have neither of us any natural 
 inclination — we shall expect you to join us at supper 
 by way of recompense.” 
 
 The young man seemed to reflect. 
 
 “I have still several dozen upon hand,” he said at 
 last; “and that will make it necessary for me to visit 
 several more bars before my great affair is concluded. 
 This will take some time; and if you are hungry — ” 
 
 The Prince interrupted him with a polite gesture. 
 
 “My friend and I will accompany you,” he said; 
 “for we have already a deep interest in your very 
 agreeable mode of passing an evening. And now that 
 the preliminaries of peace are settled, allow me to sign 
 the treaty for both.” 
 
 And the Prince swallowed the tart with the best 
 grace imaginable. 
 
 “It is delicious,” said he. 
 
 “I perceive you are a connoisseur,” replied the 
 young man. 
 
 Colonel Geraldine likewise did honor to the pastry; 
 and every one in that bar having now either accepted 
 or refused his delicacies, the young man with the cream 
 tarts led the way to another and similar establishment. 
 The two commissionaires, who seemed to have grown 
 accustomed to their absurd employment, followed imme- 
 diately after; and the Prince and the Colonel brought 
 up the rear, arm-in-arm, and smiling to each other as 
 they went. In this order the company visited two 
 other taverns, where scenes were enacted of a like 
 
I'(eu/ /irabiai) 
 
 11 
 
 nature to that already described — some refusing, some 
 accepting, the favors of this vagabond hospitality, and 
 the young man himself eating each rejected tart. 
 
 On leaving the third saloon the young man counted 
 his store. There were but nine remaining, three in one 
 tray and six in the other. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” said he, addressing himself to his two 
 new followers, “I am unwilling to delay your supper, 
 I am positively sure you must be hungry. I feel that 
 I owe you a special consideration. And on this great 
 day for me, when I am closing a career of folly by 
 my most conspicuously silly action, I wish to behave 
 handsomely to all who give me countenance. Gentle- 
 men, you shall w’^ait no longer. Although my constitu- 
 tion is shattered by previous excesses, at the risk of 
 my life I liquidate the suspensory condition.” 
 
 With these words he crushed the nine remaining 
 tarts into his mouth, and swallowed them at a single 
 movement each. Then, turning to the commissionaires, 
 he gave them a couple of sovereigns. 
 
 “I have to thank you,” said he, “for your extraor- 
 dinary patience.” 
 
 And he dismissed them with a bow apiece. For 
 some seconds he stood looking at the purse from which 
 he had just paid his assistants, then, with a laugh, 
 he tossed it into the middle of the street, and signified 
 his readiness for supper. 
 
 In a small French restaurant in Soho, which had 
 exaggerated reputation for some little while, 
 but had already begun to be forgotten, and in a pri- 
 vate room up two pair of stairs, the three companions 
 made a very elegant supper, and drank three or four 
 
13 U/orK5 of Holiort C 0 U 15 Stev/eijjoij 
 
 bottles of champagne, talking the while upon indifEer- 
 ent subjects. The young man was fluent and gay, but 
 he laughed louder than was natural in a person of po- 
 lite breeding; his hands trembled violently, and his 
 voice took sudden and surprising inflections, which 
 seemed to be independent of his will. The dessert had 
 been cleared away, and all three had lighted their 
 cigars, when the Prince addressed him in these words: 
 
 “You will, I am sure, pardon my curiosity. "What 
 I have seen of you has greatly pleased but even more 
 puzzled me. And though I should be loth to seem in- 
 discreet, I must tell you that my friend and I are 
 persons very well worthy to be intrusted with a secret. 
 We have many of our own, which we are continually 
 reveahng to improper ears. And if, as I suppose, your 
 story is a silly one, you need have no delicacy with 
 us, who are two of the silliest men in England. My 
 name is Godall, Theophilus Godall; my friend is Major 
 AKred Hammersmith — or at least, such is the name by 
 which he chooses to be known. We pass our lives en- 
 tirely in the search for extravagant adventures; and 
 there is no extravagance with which we are not capa- 
 ble of sympathy.” 
 
 “1 like you, Mr. Godall,” returned the young man; 
 “you inspire me with a natural confldence; and I have 
 not the slightest objection to your friend the Major, 
 whom I take to be a nobleman in masquerade. At 
 least, I am sure he is no soldier.” 
 
 The Colonel smiled at this compliment to the per- 
 fection of his art; and the young man went on in a 
 more animated manner. 
 
 “There is every reason why I should not tell you 
 
I'/eu; /irabiai? J'/i<jl7t5 
 
 13 
 
 my story. Perhaps that is just the reason why I am 
 going to do so. At least, you seem so well prepared 
 to hear a tale of silliness that I cannot find it in my 
 heart to disappoint you. My name, in spite of your 
 example, I shall keep to myself. My age is not essen- 
 tial to the narrative. I am descended from my ances- 
 tors by ordinary generation, and from them I inherited 
 the very eligible human tenement which I still occupy 
 and a fortune of three hundred pounds a year. I sup- 
 pose they also handed on to me a hare-brain humor, 
 which it has been my chief delight to indulge. I re- 
 ceived a good education. I can play the violin nearly 
 well enough to earn money in the orchestra of a penny 
 gaff, but not quite. The same remark applies to the 
 flute and the French horn. I learned enough of whist 
 to lose about a hundred a year at that scientific game. 
 My acquaintance with French was sufficient to enable 
 me to squander money in Paris with almost the same 
 facility as in London. In short, I am a person full of 
 manly accomplishments. I have had every sort of ad- 
 venture, including a duel about nothing. Only two 
 months ago I met a young lady exactly suited to my 
 taste in mind and body; I found my heart melt; I 
 saw that I had come upon my fate at last, and was 
 in the way to fall in love. But when I came to 
 reckon up what remained to me of my capital, I found 
 it amounted to something less than four hundred pounds! 
 I ask you fairly — can a man who respects himself faU 
 in love on four hundred pounds? I concluded, certainly 
 not; left the presence of my charmer, and slightly ac- 
 celerating my usual rate of expenditure, came this 
 morning to my last eighty pounds. This I divided 
 
i4 U/orKs of l^obert Couij Steuep^op 
 
 into two equal parts; forty I reserved for a particular 
 purpose; the remaining forty I was to dissipate before 
 the night. I have passed a very entertaining day, and 
 played many farces besides that of the cream tarts 
 which procured me the advantage of your acquaintance; 
 for I was determined, as I told you, to bring a fool- 
 ish career to a still more foolish conclusion; and when 
 you saw me throw my purse into the street, the forty 
 pounds were at an end. Now you know me as well 
 as I know myself: a fool but consistent in his folly; 
 and, as I will ask you to believe, neither a whimperer 
 nor a coward.” 
 
 From the whole tone of the young man’s statement 
 it was plain that he harbored very bitter and con- 
 temptuous thoughts about himself. His auditors were 
 led to imagine that his love affair was nearer his 
 heart than he admitted, and that he had a design on 
 his own life. The farce of the cream tarts began to 
 have very much the air cf a tragedy in disguise. 
 
 “Why, is this not odd,” broke out Geraldine, giv- 
 ing a look to Prince Florizel, “that we three fellows 
 should have met by the merest accident in so large a 
 wilderness as London, and should be so nearly in the 
 same condition?” 
 
 “How?” cried the young man. “Are you, too, 
 ruined? Is this supper a folly like my cream tarts? 
 Has the devil brought three of his own together for a 
 last carouse?” 
 
 “The devil, depend upon it, can sometimes do a 
 very gentlemanly thing,” returned Prince Florizel; “and 
 I am so much touched by this coincidence, that, al- 
 though we are not entirely in the same case, I am 
 
)^^eu/ /Irabiaij 
 
 16 
 
 going to put an end to the disparity. Let your heroic 
 treatment of the last cream tarts be my example.” 
 
 So saying, the Prince drew out his purse and took 
 from it a small bundle of bank-notes. 
 
 “You see, I was a week or so behind you, but I 
 mean to catch you up and come neck and neck into 
 the winning-post,” he continued. “This,” laying one 
 of the notes upon the table, “will suffice for the bill. 
 As for the rest — ” 
 
 He tossed them into the fire, and they went up the 
 chimney in a single blaze. 
 
 The young man tried to catch his arm, but as the 
 table was between them his interference came too late. 
 
 “Unhappy man,” he cried, “you should not have 
 burned them all! You should have kept forty pounds.” 
 
 “Forty pounds!” repeated the Prince. “"Why, in 
 Heaven’s name, forty pounds?” 
 
 “Why not eighty?” cried the Colonel; “for to my 
 certain knowledge there must have been a hundred in 
 the bundle.” 
 
 “It was only forty pounds he needed,” said the 
 young man gloomily. “But without them there is no 
 admission. The rule is strict. Forty pounds for each. 
 Accursed life, where a man cannot even die without 
 money!” 
 
 The Prince and the Colonel exchanged glances. 
 
 “Explain yourself,” said the latter. “I have still a 
 pocketbook tolerably well lined, and I need not say 
 how readily I should share my wealth with Godall. 
 But I must know to what end: you must certainly 
 tell us what you mean.” 
 
 The young man seemed to awaken; he looked un- 
 
16 U/ork^s of f^oberfc Couis Sceuepsor? 
 
 easily from one to the other, and his face flushed 
 deeply. 
 
 “You are not fooling me?” he asked. “You are 
 
 indeed ruined men like me?” 
 
 “Indeed, I am for my part,” replied the Colonel. 
 “And for mine,” said the Pnnce, “I have given 
 you proof. Who but a ruined man would throw his 
 notes into the fire? The action speaks for itself.” 
 
 “A ruined man — yes,” returned the other suspi- 
 ciously, “or else a millionarie. ” 
 
 “Enough, sir,” said the Prince; “I have said so, 
 and I am not accustomed to have my word remain in 
 doubt.” 
 
 “Ruined?” said the young man. “Are you ruined, 
 like me? Are you, after a life of indulgence, come to 
 such a pass that you can only indulge yourself in one 
 thing more? Are you”— he kept lowering his voice as 
 he went on — “are you going to give yourselves that 
 last indulgence? Are you going to avoid the conse- 
 quences of your folly by the one infallible and easy 
 path? Are you going to give the slip to the sheriff’s 
 oJQ&cers of conscience by the one open door?” 
 
 Suddenly he broke off and attempted to laugh. 
 
 “Here is your health!” he cried, emptying his glass, 
 “and good-night to you, my merry ruined men.” . 
 
 Colonel Geraldine caught him by the arm as he was 
 about to rise. 
 
 “You lack confidence in us,” he said, “and you are 
 wrong. To all your questions I make answer in the 
 affirmative. But I am not so timid, and can speak 
 the Queen’s English plainly. We too, like yourself, 
 have had enough of life, and are determined to die. 
 
]^eu7 /Irabiap 
 
 17 
 
 Sooner or later, alone or together, we meant to seek 
 out death and beard him where he lies ready. Since 
 we have met you, and your case is more pressing, let 
 it be to-night — and at once — and, if you will, all three 
 together. Such a penniless trio,” he cried, “should go 
 arm-in-arm into the halls of Pluto, and give each other 
 some countenance among the shades!” 
 
 Geraldine had hit exactly on the manners and in- 
 tonations that became the part he was playing. The 
 Prince himself was disturbed, and looked over at his 
 confidant with a shade of doubt. As for the young 
 man, the flush came back darkly into his cheek, and 
 his eyes threw out a spark of light. 
 
 “You are the men for me!” he cried, with an al- 
 most terrible gayety. “Shake hands upon the bargain!” 
 (his hand was cold and wet). “You little know in 
 what a company you will begin the march! You little 
 know in what a happy moment for yourselves you par- 
 took of my cream tarts! I am only a unit, but I am 
 a unit in an army, I know Death’s private door. I 
 am one of his familiars, and can show you into eter- 
 nity without ceremony and yet without scandal.” 
 
 They called upon him eagerly to explain his mean- 
 ing. 
 
 “Can you muster eighty pounds between you?” h^ 
 demanded. 
 
 Geraldine ostentatiously consulted his pocketbook, and 
 replied in the afiirmative. 
 
 “Fortunate beings!” cried the young man. “Forty 
 pounds is the entry money of the Suicide Club.” 
 
 “The Smcide Club,” said the Prince; “why, what 
 the devil is that?” 
 
18 U/ori^s of F^obert Couis SteuepsoQ 
 
 “Listen,” said the young man; “this is the age of 
 conveniences, and I have to tell you of the last per- 
 fection of the sort. We have affairs in different places; 
 and hence railways were invented. Railways separated 
 us infallibly from our friends; and so telegraphs were 
 made that we might communicate speedily at great dis- 
 tances. Even in hotels we have lifts to spare us a 
 climb of some hundred steps. Now, we know that life 
 is only a stage to play the fool upon as long as the 
 part amuses us. There was one more convenience lack- 
 ing to modern comfort; a decent, easy way to' quit 
 that stage; the back stairs to liberty; or, as I said 
 this moment. Death’s private door. This, my two fel- 
 low-rebels, is supplied by the Suicide Club. Do not 
 suppose that you and I are alone, or even exceptional, 
 in the highly reasonable desire that we profess. A 
 large number of our fellowmen, who have grown heart- 
 ily sick of the performance in which they are expected 
 to Join daily and all their lives long, are only kept 
 from flight by one or two considerations. Some have 
 families who would be shocked, or even blamed, if the 
 matter became public; others have a weakness at heart 
 and recoil from the circumstances of death. That is, 
 to some extent, my own experience. I cannot put a 
 pistol to my head and draw the trigger; for something 
 stronger than myself withholds the act; and although 
 I loathe life, I have not strength enough in my body 
 to take hold of death and be done with it. For such 
 as I, and for all who desire to be out of the coil 
 without posthumous scandal, the Suicide Club has been 
 inaugurated. How this has been managed, what is its 
 history, or what may be its ramifications in other lands. 
 
)'(euf /Irabiap 
 
 19 
 
 I am myself uninformed; and what 1 know of its con- 
 stitution I ' am not at liberty to communicate to you. 
 To this extent, however, I am at your service. If you 
 are truly tired of life, I will introduce you to-night to 
 a meeting ; and if not to-night, at least some time 
 within the week, you will be easily relieved of your 
 existences. It is now (consulting his watch) eleven; by 
 half-past, at latest, we must leave this place; so that 
 you have half an hour before you to consider my pro- 
 posal. It is more serious than a cream tart,” he added, 
 with a smile; “and I suspect more palatable.” 
 
 “More serious, certainly,” returned Colonel Geraldine; 
 “and as it is so much more so, will you allow me five 
 minutes’ speech in private with my friend, Mr. Qodall?” 
 “It is only fair,” answered the young man. “If 
 you will permit, I will retire.” 
 
 “You will be very obliging,” said the Colonel. 
 
 As soon as the two were alone — “What,” said Prince 
 Florizel, “is the use of this confabulation, Geraldine? I 
 ‘ See you are fiurried, whereas my mind is very tran- 
 
 quilly made up. I will see the end of this.” 
 
 “Your Highness,” said the Colonel, turning pale; 
 “let me ask you to consider the importance of your 
 
 life, not only to your friends, but to the public inter« 
 
 est. ‘If not to-night,’ said this madman; but supposing 
 that to-night some irreparable disaster were to overtake 
 your Highness’s person, what, let me ask you, what 
 
 would be my despair, and what the concern and dis- 
 aster of a great nation?” 
 
 “I will see the end of this,” repeated the Prince in 
 his most deliberate tones; “and have the kindness. 
 Colonel Geraldine, to remember and respect your word 
 
20 U/orl ^5 of Coul 5 SCeueijsop 
 
 of honor as a gentleman. Under no circumstances, 
 recollect, nor without my special authority, are you to 
 betray the incognito under which I choose to go abroad. 
 These were my commands, which I now reiterate. And 
 now,” he added, “let me ask you to call for the bill.” 
 Colonel Geraldine bowed in submission; but he had 
 a very white face as he summoned the young man of 
 the cream tarts, and issued his directions to the waiter. 
 The Prince preserved his undisturbed demeanor, and 
 described a Palais Royal farce to the young suicide with 
 great humor and gusto. He avoided the Colonel’s ap- 
 pealing looks without ostentation, and selected another 
 cheroot with more than usual care. Indeed, he was 
 now the only man of the party who kept any com- 
 mand over his nerves. 
 
 The bill was discharged, the Prince giving the 
 whole change of the note to the astonished waiter; and 
 the three drove off in a four-wheeler. They were not 
 long upon the way before the cab stopped at the 
 entrance to a rather dark court. Here all descended. 
 
 After Geraldine had paid the fare, the young man 
 turned, and addressed Prince Florizel as follows: 
 
 “It is still time, Mr. Godall, to make good your 
 escape into thraldom. And for you, too. Major Ham- 
 mersmith. Reflect well before you take another step; 
 and if your hearts say no — here are the cross-roads.” 
 “Lead on, sir,” said the Prince. “I am not the 
 man to go back from a thing once said.” 
 
 “Your coolness does me good,” replied their guide. 
 “I have never seen any one so unmoved at this con- 
 juncture; and yet you are not the first whom I have 
 escorted to this door. More than one of my friends 
 
^eu; /IrabiaQ 
 
 21 
 
 has preceded me, where I knew I must shortly follow. 
 But this is of no interest to you. Wait me here for 
 only a few moments; I shall return as soon as I have 
 arranged the preliminaries of your introduction.” 
 
 And with that the young man, waving his hand to 
 his companions, turned into the court, entered a door- 
 way and disappeared. 
 
 “Of all our follies,” said Colonel Geraldine in a low 
 voice, “this is the wildest and most dangerous.” 
 
 “I perfectly believe so,” returned the Prince. 
 
 “We have still,” pursued the Colonel, “a moment to 
 ourselves. Let me beseech your Highness to profit by 
 the opportunity and retire. The consequences of this 
 step are so dark, and may be so grave, that I feel 
 myself justified in pushing a little further than usual 
 the liberty which your Highness is so condescending as 
 to allow me in private.” 
 
 “Am I to understand that Colonel Geraldine is 
 afraid?” asked his Highness, taking his cheroot from 
 his lips, and looking keenly into the other’s face. 
 
 “My fear is certainly not personal,” replied the 
 other proudly; “of that your Highness may rest well 
 assured.” 
 
 “I had supposed as much,” returned the Prince, 
 with undisturbed good humor; “but I was unwilling to 
 remind you of the difference in our stations. No more 
 — no more,” he added, seeing Geraldine about to apolo- 
 gize, “you stand excused.” 
 
 And he smoked placidly, leaning against a railing, 
 until the young man returned. 
 
 “Well,” he asked, “has our reception been ar- 
 ranged?” 
 
 Stevenson. Tol. I. — 2 
 
22 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 “Follow me,” was the reply. “The President will 
 see you in the cabinet. And let me warn you to be 
 frank in your answers. I have stood your guarantee; 
 but the club requires a searching inquiry before admis- 
 sion; for the indiscretion of a single member would 
 lead to the dispersion of the whole society forever.” 
 
 The Prince and Geraldine put their heads together 
 for a moment. “Bear me out in this,” said the one; 
 and “bear me out in that,” said the other; and by 
 boldly taking up the characters of men with whom 
 both were acquainted, they had come to an agreement 
 in a twinkling, and were ready to follow their guide 
 into the President’s cabinet. 
 
 There were no formidable obstacles to pass. The 
 outer door stood open; the door of the cabinet was 
 ajar; and there, in a small but very high apartment, 
 the young man left them once more. 
 
 “He will be here immediately,” he said with a nod, 
 as he disappeared. 
 
 Voices were audible in the cabinet through the fold- 
 ing doors which formed one end; and now and then 
 the noise of a champagne cork, followed by a burst of 
 laughter, intervened among the sounds of conversation. 
 A single tall window looked out upon the river and the 
 embankment; and by the disposition of the lights they 
 judged themselves not far from Charing Cross station. 
 The furniture was scanty, and the coverings worn to 
 the thread; and there was nothing movable except a 
 Vand-bell in the center of a round table, and the hats 
 Hnd coats of a considerable party hung round the wall 
 on pegs. 
 
 “What sort of a den is this?” said Geraldine. 
 
I^eu; /Irabiap 2 ^ 
 
 “That is what I have come to see,” replied the 
 
 Prince. “If they keep live devils on the premises, the 
 
 thing may grow amusing.” 
 
 Just then the folding door was opened no mos-o 
 than was necessary for the passage of a human body; 
 and there entered at the same moment a louder buzz 
 of talk, and the redoubtable President of the Suicide 
 Club. The President was a man of fifty or upward; 
 large and rambling in his gait, with shaggy side- 
 whiskers, a bald top to his head, and a veiled gray 
 
 eye, which now and then emitted a twinkle. His 
 
 mouth, which embraced a large cigar, he kept continu- 
 ally screwing round and round and from side to side, 
 as he looked sagaciously and coldly at the strangers. 
 He was dressed in light tweeds, with his neck very 
 open in a striped shirt collar ; and carried a minute 
 book under one arm. 
 
 “Good-evening,” said he, after he had closed the 
 door behind him. “I am told you wish to speak with 
 me.” 
 
 “We have a desire, sir, to join the Suicide Club,” 
 replied the Colonel. 
 
 The President rolled his cigar about in his mouth. 
 
 “What is that?” he said abruptly. 
 
 “Pardon me,” returned the Colonel, “but I believe 
 you are the person best qualified to give us information 
 on that point.” 
 
 “I?” cried the President. “A Suicide Club? Come, 
 come! this is a frolic for All Pools’ Day. I can make 
 allowances for gentlemen who get merry in their liquor; 
 but let there be an end to this.” 
 
 “Call your Club what you will,” said the Colonel, 
 
24 U/orl^8 of I^oberc Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “you have some company behind these doors, and we 
 insist on joining it.” 
 
 “Sir,” returned the President, curtly, “you have 
 made a mistake. This is a private house, and you 
 must leave it instantly.” 
 
 The Prince had remained quietly in his seat through- 
 out this httle colloquy; but now, when the Colonel 
 looked over to him, as much as to say, “Take your 
 answer and come away, for God’s sakel” he drew 
 his cheroot from his mouth, and spoke: 
 
 “I have come here,” said he, “upon the invitation 
 of a friend of yours. He has doubtless informed you 
 of my intention in thus intruding on your party. Let 
 me remind you that a person in my circumstances has 
 exceedingly little to bind him, and is not at all likely 
 to tolerate much rudeness. I am a very quiet man, as 
 a usual thing; but, my dear sir, you are either going 
 to oblige me in the little matter of which you are 
 aware, or you shall very bitterly repent that you ever 
 admitted me to your ante-chamber.” 
 
 The President laughed aloud. 
 
 “That is the way to speak,” said he. “You are a 
 man who is a man. You know the way to my heart, 
 and can do what you like with me. Will you,” he 
 continued, addressing Geraldine, “will you step aside 
 for a few minutes? I shall finish first with your com- 
 panion, and some of the club’s formalities require to be 
 iulfilled in private.” 
 
 With these words he opened the door of a small 
 Hoset, into which he shut the Colonel. 
 
 “I believe in you,” he said to Plorizel, as soon as 
 they were alone; “but are you sure of your friend?” 
 
25 
 
 J4eu; /irabiai) 
 
 “Not so sure as I am of myself, though he has 
 more cogent reasons,” answered Florizel, “but sure 
 enough to bring him here without alarm. He has had 
 enough to cure the most tenacious man of life. He 
 was cashiered the other day for cheating at cards.” 
 
 “A good reason, I dare say,” replied the President; 
 “at least, we have another in the same case, and I 
 feel sure of him. Have you also been in the Service, 
 may I ask?” 
 
 “I have,” was the reply; “but I was too lazy, I 
 left it early.” 
 
 “What is your reason for being tired of life?” pur- 
 sued the President. 
 
 “The same, as near as I can make out,” answered 
 the Prince; “unadulterated laziness.” 
 
 The President started. “D— n it,” said he, “you 
 must have something better than that.” 
 
 “I have no more money,” added Florizel. “That is 
 also a vexation, without doubt. It brings my sense of 
 idleness to an acute point.” 
 
 The President rolled his cigar round in his mouth 
 for some seconds, directing his gaze straight into the 
 eyes of this unusual neophyte; but the Prince sup- 
 ported his scrutiny with unabashed good temper. 
 
 “If I had not a deal of experience,” said the Presi- 
 dent at last, “I should turn you off. But I know the 
 world; and this much any way, that the most frivolous 
 excuses for a suicide are often the toughest to stand by. 
 And when I downright like a man, as I do you, sir, I 
 would rather strain the regulation than deny him.” 
 
 The Prince and the Colonel, one after the other, 
 were subjected to a long and particular interrogatory* 
 
26 U/orKs of Hol^erfc Couis Steueijjoij 
 
 the Prince alone ; but Geraldine in the presence of the 
 Prince, so that the President might observe the counte- 
 nance of the one while the other was being warmly 
 cross-examined. The result was satisfactory ; and the 
 President, after having booked a few details of each 
 case, produced a form of oath to be accepted. Nothing 
 could be conceived more passive than the obedience 
 promised, or more stringent than the terms by which 
 the juror bound himself. The man who forfeited a 
 pledge so awful could scarcely have a rag of honor or 
 any of the consolations of religion left to him. Florizel 
 signed the document, but not without a shudder; the 
 Colonel followed his example with an air of great de- 
 pression. Then the President received the entry money; 
 and, without more ado, introduced the two friends into 
 the smoking-room of the Suicide Club. 
 
 The smoking-room of the Suicide Club was the same 
 height as the cabinet into which it opened, but much 
 larger, and papered from top to bottom with an imita- 
 tion of oak wainscot. A large and cheerful fire and a 
 number of gas-jets illuminated the company. The 
 Prince and his follower made the number up to 
 eighteen. Most of the party were smoking, and drink- 
 ing champagne; a feverish hilarity reigned, with sudden 
 and rather ghastly pauses. 
 
 **Is this a full meeting?” asked the Prince. 
 
 “Middling,” said the President. “By the way,” he 
 added, “if you have any money, it is usual to offer 
 gome champagne. It keeps up a good spirit, and is 
 one of my own little perquisites.” 
 
 “Hammersmith,” said Florizel, “I may leave the 
 champagne to you.” 
 
'ROSTTON COLLEGE LIBR- .w 
 CFtESTNUT HILL. 
 
 ]^euj /irabiai) 27 
 
 And with, that he turned away and began to go 
 round among the guests. Accustomed to play the host 
 in the highest circles, he charmed and dominated all 
 whom he approached ; there was something at once 
 winning and authoritative in his address; and his ex- 
 traordinary coolness gave him yet another distinction in 
 this half maniacal society. As he went from one to 
 another he kept both his eyes and ears open, and soon 
 began to gain a general idea of the people among 
 whom he found himself. As in all other places of 
 resort, one type predominated ; people in the prime of 
 youth, with every show of intelligence and sensibility 
 in their appearance, but with little promise of strength 
 or the quality that makes success. Few were much 
 above thirty, and not a few were still in their teens. 
 They stood, leaning on tables and shifting on their 
 feet; sometimes they smoked extraordinarily fast, and 
 sometimes they let their cigars go out; some talked 
 well, but the conversation of others was plainly the 
 result of nervous tension, and was equally without wit 
 or purport. As each new bottle of champagne was 
 opened, there was a manifest improvement in gayety. 
 Only two were seated — one in a chair in the recess of 
 the window, with his head hanging and his hands 
 plunged deep into his trouser pockets, pale, visibly 
 moist with perspiration, saying never a word, a very 
 wreck of soul and body; the other sat on the divan 
 close by the chimney, and attracted notice by a trench- 
 ant dissimilarity from all the rest. He was probably 
 upward of forty, but he looked fully ten years older; 
 and Florizel thought he had never seen a man more 
 naturally hideous, nor one more ravaged by disease and 
 
28 H/orK5 of I^oberfc C0U15 Steueijsoi? 
 
 ruinous excitements. He was no more than skin and 
 bone, was partly paralyzed, and wore spectacles of such 
 unusual power that his eyes appeared through the 
 glasses greatly magnified and distorted in shape. Ex- 
 cept the Prince and the President, he was the only 
 person in the room who preserved the composure of 
 ordinary life. 
 
 There was little decency among the members of the 
 club. Some boasted of the disgraceful actions, the con- 
 sequences of which had reduced them to seek refuge 
 in death; and the others hstened without disapproval. 
 There was a tacit understanding against moral judg- 
 ments ; and whoever passed the club doors enjoyed 
 already some of the immunities of the tomb. They 
 drank to each other’s memories, and to those of notable 
 suicides in the past. They compared and developed 
 their dijfferent views of death — some declaring that it 
 was no more than blackness and cessation; others full 
 of a hope that that, very night they should be scaling 
 the stars and commercing with the mighty dead. 
 
 “To the eternal memory of Baron Trenck, the type of 
 suicides!” cried one. “He went out of a small cell into 
 a smaller, that he might come forth again to freedom.” 
 
 “For my part,” said a second, “I wish no more 
 than a bandage for my eyes and cotton for my ears. 
 Only they have no cotton thick enough in this world.” 
 
 A third was for reading the mysteries of life in a 
 future state ; and a fourth professed that he would 
 never have joined the club, if he had not been in- 
 duced to believe in Mr. Darwin. 
 
 “I could not bear,” said this remarkable suicide, “to 
 be descended from an ape.” 
 
]^eu; /Irabiaij j^i^l7t8 
 
 39 
 
 Altogether, the Prince was disappointed by the bear- 
 ing and conversation of the members. 
 
 “It does not seem to me,” he thought, “a matter 
 for so much disturbance. If a man has made up his 
 mind to kill himself, let him do it, in God’s name, 
 hke a gentleman. This flutter and big talk is out of 
 place.” 
 
 In the meanwhile Colonel Geraldine was a prey to 
 the blackest apprehensions; the club and its rules were 
 still a mystery, and he looked round the room for 
 some one who should be able to set his mind at rest. 
 In this survey his eye lighted on the paralytic person 
 with the strong spectacles; and seeing him so exceed- 
 ingly tranquil, he besought the President, who was going 
 in and out of the room under a pressure of business, 
 to present him to the gentleman on the divan. 
 
 The functionary explained the needlessness of all 
 such formalities within the club, but nevertheless pre- 
 sented Mr. Hammersmith to Mr. Malthus. 
 
 Mr. Malthus looked at the Colonel curiously, and 
 then requested him to take a seat upon his right. 
 
 “You are a newcomer,” he said, “and wish in- 
 formation? You have come to the proper source. It 
 is two years since I first visited this charming club.” 
 
 The Colonel breathed again. If Mr. Malthus had 
 frequented the place for two years there could be little 
 danger for the Prince in a single evening. But Ger- 
 aldine was none the less astonished, and began to sus- 
 pect a mystification. 
 
 “What!” cried he, “two years! I thought — but 
 indeed I see I have been made the subject of a 
 pleasantry.” 
 
30 
 
 U/orl^3 of I^obert C 0 U 15 Steueijjop 
 
 “By no means,” replied Mr. Malthus mildly. “My 
 case is peculiar. I am not, properly speaking, a suicide 
 at all; but, as it were, an honorary member. I rarely 
 visit the club twice in two months. My infirmity and 
 the kindness of the President have procured me these 
 little immunities, for which besides I pay at an ad- 
 'anced rate. Even as it is my luck has been extraor- 
 dinary.” 
 
 “I am afraid,” said the Colonel, “that I must ask 
 you to be more explicit. You must remember that I 
 am still most imperfectly acquainted with the rules of 
 the club.” 
 
 “An ordinary member who comes here in search of 
 death like yourself,” replied the paralytic, “returns 
 every evening until fortune favors him. He can even, 
 if he is penniless, get board and lodging from the 
 President: very fair, I believe, and clean, although, of 
 course, not luxurious ; that could hardly be, consider- 
 ing the exiguity (if I may so express myself) of the 
 subscription. And then the President’s company is a 
 delicacy in itself.” 
 
 “Indeed I” cried Geraldine, “he had not greatly 
 prepossessed me.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Mr. Malthus, “you do not know the 
 man: the drollest fellow! What stories! What cynicism! 
 He knows life to admiration, and, between ourselves, is 
 probably the most corrupt rogue in Christendom.” 
 
 “And he also,” asked the Colonel, “is a permanency 
 — like yourself, if I may say so without offense?” 
 
 “Indeed, he is a permanency in a very different 
 sense from me,” replied Mr. Malthus. “I have been 
 graciously spared, but I murt go at last. How he 
 
I^eui /^rabiaij 31 
 
 never plays. He shuffles and deals for the club, and 
 makes the necessary arrangements. That man, my dear 
 Mr. Hammersmith, is the very soul of ingenuity. For 
 three years he has pursued in London his useful and, 
 I think I may add, his artistic calling; and not so 
 much as a whisper of suspicion has been once aroused. 
 I believe him myself to be inspired. You doubtless 
 remember the celebrated case, six months ago, of the 
 gentleman who was accidentally poisoned in a chemist’s 
 shop? That was one of the least rich, one of the least 
 racy, of his notions; but then, how simple! and how 
 ‘ safe!” 
 
 “You astound me,” said the Colonel. “Was that 
 unfortunate gentleman one of the — ” He was about to 
 say “victims”; but bethinking himself in time, he sub- 
 stituted — “members of the club?” 
 
 In the same flash of thought it occurred to him 
 that Mr. Malthus himself had not at all spoken in the 
 tone of one who is in love with death; and he added 
 hurriedly : 
 
 “But I perceive I am still in the dark. You speak 
 of shuffling and dealing; pray for what end? And 
 since you seem rather unwilling to die than otherwise, 
 I must own that I cannot conceive what brings you 
 here at all.” 
 
 “You say truly that you are in the dark,” replied 
 Mr. Malthus with more animation. “Why, my dear 
 sir, this club is the temple of intoxication. If my en- 
 feebled health could support the excitement more often, 
 you may depend upon it I should be more often here. 
 It requires all the sense of duty engendered by a long 
 habit of ill-health and careful regimen, to keep me from 
 
32 
 
 U/orl^5 of Robert Couis Steuepsoi) 
 
 excess in this, which is, I may say, my last dissipa- 
 tion. I have tried them all, sir,” he went on, laying 
 his hand on Geraldine’s arm, “all without exception, 
 and I declare to you, upon my honor, there is not one 
 of them that has not been grossly and untruthfully 
 overrated. People trifle with love. Now, I deny that 
 love is a strong passion. Fear is the strong passion; 
 it is with fear that you must trifle, if you wish to 
 taste the intensest joys of living. Envy me — envy me, 
 sir,” he added with a chuckle, “I am a coward!” 
 
 Geraldine could scarcely repress a movement of re- 
 pulsion for this deplorable wretch; but he commanded 
 himself with an effort, and continued his inquiries. 
 
 “How, sir,” he asked, “is the excitement so artfully 
 prolonged? and where is there any element of uncer- 
 tainty?” 
 
 “I must tell you how the victim for every evening 
 is selected,” returned Mr. Malthus; “and not only the 
 victim, but another member, who is to be the instru- 
 ment in the club’s hands, and death’s high priest for 
 that occasion.” 
 
 “Good God!” said the Colonel, “do they then kill each 
 other?” 
 
 “The trouble of suicide is removed in that way,” 
 returned Malthus with a nod. 
 
 “Merciful Heavens!” ejaculated the Colonel, “and 
 may you — may I — may the— my friend I mean — may 
 any of us be pitched upon this evening as the slayer 
 of another man’s body and immortal spirit? Can such 
 things be possible among men born of women? Oh ! 
 infamy of infamies!” 
 
 He was about to rise in his horror, when he 
 
j'/eu; /irabiap 
 
 33 
 
 
 caught the 'Prince’s eye. It was fixed upon him from 
 
 across the room with a frowning and angry stare. And 
 in a moment Geraldine recovered his composure. 
 
 “After all,” he added, “why not? And since you 
 say the game is interesting, vogue la galere — I follow 
 the club!” 
 
 Mr. Malthus had keenly enjoyed the Colonel’s amaze- 
 ment and disgust. He had the vanity of wickedness; 
 and it pleased him to see another man give way to a 
 generous movement, while he felt himself, in his entire 
 corruption, superior to such emotions. 
 
 “You now, after your first moment of surprise,” 
 said he, “are in a position to appreciate the delights of 
 our society. You can see how it combines the excite- 
 ment of a gaming-table, a duel, and a Roman amphi- 
 theater. The Pagans did well enough; I cordially ad- 
 mire the refinement of their minds; but it has been 
 reserved for a Christian country to attain this extreme, 
 this quintescence, this absolute of poignancy. You will 
 understand how vapid are all amusements to a man 
 who has acquired a taste for this one. The game we 
 play,” he continued, “is one of extreme simplicity. A 
 full pack — but I perceive you are about to see the 
 thing in progress. Will you lend me the help of your 
 arm? I am unfortunately paralyzed.” 
 
 Indeed, just as Mr. Malthus was beginning his de- 
 scription, another pair of folding-doors was thrown open, 
 and the whole club began to pass, not without some 
 hurry, into the adjoining room. It was similar in 
 every respect to the one from which it was entered, 
 but somewhat differently furnished. The center was 
 occupied by a long green table, at which the President 
 
34 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 sat shuffling a pack of cards with great particularity. 
 Even with the stick and the Colonel’s arm, Mr. Mal- 
 thus walked with so much difficulty that every -one 
 was seated before this pair and the Prince, who had 
 waited for them, entered the apartment; and, in conse- 
 quence, the three took seats close together at the lower 
 end of the board, 
 
 “It is a pack of fifty-two,” whispered Mr. Malthus. 
 “Watch for the ace of spades, which is the sign of 
 death, and the ace of clubs, which designates the 
 official of the night. Happy, happy young men!” he 
 added. “You have good eyes, and can follow the 
 game. Alas! I cannot tell an ace from a deuce across 
 the table.” 
 
 And he proceeded to equip himself with a second 
 pair of spectacles. 
 
 “I must at least watch the faces,” he explained. 
 
 The Colonel rapidly informed his friend of all that 
 he had learned from the honorary member, and of the 
 horrible alternative that lay before them. The Prince 
 was conscious of a deadly chill and a contraction about 
 his heart; he swallowed with difficulty, and looked from 
 side to side like a man in a maze. 
 
 “One bold stroke,” whispered the Colonel, “and we 
 may still escape.” 
 
 But the suggestion recalled the Prince’s spirits. 
 
 “Silence!” said he. “Let me see that you can play 
 like a gentleman for any stake, however serious.” 
 
 And he looked about him, once more to all appear- 
 ance at his ease, although his heart beat thickly, and 
 he was conscious of an unpleasant heat in his bosom. 
 The members were all very quiet and intent; every 
 
J'/eu; /Irabiai? f/i<fI?C3 
 
 35 
 
 one was pale, but none so pale as Mr. Malthus. His 
 eyes protruded; his head kept nodding involuntarily 
 upon his spine; his hands found their way, one after 
 the other, to his mouth, where they made clutches at 
 his tremulous and ashen lips. It was plain that the 
 honorary member enjoyed his membership on very 
 startling terms. 
 
 “Attention, gentlemen!” said the President. 
 
 And he began slowly dealing the cards about the 
 table in the reverse direction, pausing until each man 
 had shown his card. Nearly every one hesitated; and 
 sometimes you would see a player’s fingers stumble 
 more than once before he could turn over the moment- 
 ous slip of pasteboard. As the Prince’s turn drew 
 nearer, he was conscious of a growing and almost 
 suffocating excitement; but he had somewhat of the 
 gambler’s nature, and recognized almost with astonish- 
 ment that there was a degree of pleasure in his sensa- 
 tions. The nine of clubs fell to his lot; the three of 
 ^spades was dealt to Geraldine; and the queen of hearts 
 to Mr. Malthus, who was unable to suppress a sob of 
 relief. The young man of the cream tarts almost im- 
 mediately afterward turned over the ace of clubs, and 
 remained frozen with horror, the card still resting on 
 his finger; he had not come there to kill, but to be 
 killed; and the Prince in his generous sympathy with 
 his position almost forgot the peril that still hung over 
 himself and his friend. 
 
 The deal was coming round again, and still Death’s 
 card had not come out. The players held their respira- 
 tion, and only breathed by gasps. The Prince received 
 another club; Geraldine had a diamond; but when Mr. 
 
36 U/orl^s of I^obert C0U15 Steuep50Q 
 
 Malthus turned up his card a horrible noise, like that 
 of something breaking, issued from his mouth; and he 
 rose from his seat and sat down again, with no sign 
 of his paralysis. It was the ace of spades. The hon- 
 orary member had trifled once too often with his terrors. 
 
 Conversation broke out again almost at once. The 
 players relaxed their rigid attitudes, and began to rise 
 from the table and stroll back by twos and threes into 
 the smoking-room. The President stretched his arms 
 and yawned, like a man who has finished his day’s 
 work. But Mr. Malthus sat in his place, with his head 
 in his hands, and his hands upon the table, drunk and 
 motionless — a thing stricken down. 
 
 The Prince and Geraldine made their escape at once. 
 In the cold night air their horror of what they had 
 witnessed was redoubled. 
 
 “Alas!” cried the Prince, “to be bound by an oath 
 in such a matter! to allow this wholesale trade in mur- 
 der to be continued with profit and impunity! If I but 
 dared to forfeit my pledge!” 
 
 “That is impossible for your Highness,” replied the 
 Colonel, “whose honor is the honor of Bohemia. But I 
 dare, and may with propriety, forfeit mine.” 
 
 “Geraldine,” said the Prince, “if your honor suffers in 
 any of the adventures into which you follow me, not only 
 will I never pardon you, but — what I believe will much 
 more sensibly affect you — I should never forgive myself.” 
 “I receive your Highness’s commands,” replied the 
 Colonel. “Shall we go from this accursed spot?” 
 
 “Yes,” said the Prince. “Call a cab in Heaven’s 
 name, and let me try to forget in slumber the memory 
 of this night’s disgrace.” 
 
jVeu; /irabiap jVi^Jlpts 
 
 37 
 
 But it was notable that he carefully read the name 
 of the court before he left it. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as the Prince was stir- 
 ring, Colonel Geraldine brought him a daily newspaper, 
 with the following paragraph marked: 
 
 “Melancholy Accident. — This morning, about two 
 o’clock, Mr. Bartholomew Malthus, of 16 Chepstow 
 Place, Westbourne Grove, on his way home from a 
 party at a friend’s house, fell over the upper parapet 
 in Trafalgar Square, fracturing his skull and breaking 
 a leg and an arm. Death was instantaneous. Mr. 
 Malthus, accompanied by a friend, was engaged in 
 looking for a cab at the time of the unfortunate oc- 
 currence. As Mr. Malthus was paralytic, it is thought 
 that his fall may have been occasioned by another seiz- 
 ure. The unhappy gentleman was well known in the 
 most respectable circles, and his loss will be widely and 
 deeply deplored. ’ ’ 
 
 “If ever a soul went straight to hell,” said Geral- 
 dine solemnly, “it was that paralytic man’s.” 
 
 The Prince buried his face in his hands, and re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 “I am almost rejoiced,” continued the Colonel, “to 
 know that he is dead. But for our young man of the 
 cream tarts I confess my heart bleeds.” 
 
 ‘Geraldine,” said the Prince, raising his face, “that 
 unhappy lad was last night as innocent as you and I; 
 and this morning the guilt of blood is on his soul. 
 When I think of the President, my heart grows sick 
 within me. I do not know how it shall be done, but 
 I shall have that scoundrel at my mercy as there is a 
 God in heaven. What an experience, what a lesson, 
 was that game of cards!” 
 
 SrsVENSON. VOL. 1.-3 
 
38 U/orl^s of r^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “One,” said the Colonel, “never to be repeated.” 
 
 The Prince remained so long without replying, that 
 Geraldine grew alarmed. 
 
 “You cannot mean to return,” he said. “You have 
 suffered too much and seen too much horror already. 
 The duties of your high position forbid the repetition 
 of the hazard.” 
 
 “There is much in what you say,” replied Prince 
 Florizel, “and I am not altogether pleased with my 
 own determination. Alas! in the clothes of the great- 
 est potentate, what is there but a man? I never felt 
 my weakness more acutely than now, Geraldine, but it 
 is stronger than I. Can I cease to interest myself in 
 the fortunes of the unhappy young man who supped 
 with us some hours ago? Can I leave the President to 
 follow his nefarious career unwatched? Can I begin an 
 adventure so entrancing, and not follow it to an end? 
 No, Geraldine: you ask of the Prince more than the 
 man is able to perform. To-night, once more, we take 
 our places at the table of the Suicide Club.” 
 
 Colonel Geraldine fell upon his knees. 
 
 “Will your Highness take my life?” he cried. “It 
 is his — his freely; but do not, oh, do not! let him ask 
 me to countenance so terrible a risk.” 
 
 “Colonel Geraldine,” replied the Prince, with some 
 haughtiness of manner, “your life is absolutely your 
 own. I only looked for obedience; and when that is 
 unwillingly rendered, I shall look for that no longer . 
 I add one word: your importunity in this affair has 
 been sufficient.” 
 
 The Master of the Horse regained his feet at once. 
 
 “Your Highness,” he said, “may I be excused in 
 
jfifeu; /irabiar? 
 
 39 
 
 my attendance this afternoon? I dare not, as an hon- 
 orable man, venture a second time into that fatal house 
 until I have perfectly ordered my affairs. Your High- 
 ness shall meet, I promise him, with no more opposi- 
 tion from the most devoted and grateful of his serv- 
 ants.” 
 
 “My dear Geraldine,” returned Prince Plorizel, “I 
 always regret when you oblige me to remember my 
 rank. Dispose of your day as you think fit, but be 
 here before eleven in the same disguise.” 
 
 The club, on this second evening, was not so fully 
 attended; and when Geraldine and the Prince arrived, 
 there were not above half-a-dozen persons in the smok- 
 ing room. His Highness took the President aside and 
 congratulated him warmly on the demise of Mr. Mal- 
 thus. 
 
 “I like,” he said, “to meet with capacity, and cer- 
 tainly find much of it in you. Your profession is of 
 a very delicate nature, but I see you are well qualified 
 to conduct it with success and secrecy.” 
 
 The President was somewhat affected by these com- 
 pliments from one of his Highness’s superior bearing. 
 He acknowledged them almost with humility. 
 
 “Poor Mai thy!” he added, “I shall hardly know 
 the club without him. The most of my patrons are 
 boys, sir, and poetical boys, who are not much com- 
 pany for me. Not but what Mai thy had some poetry, 
 too; but it was of a kind that I could understand.” 
 
 “I can readily imagine you should find yourself in 
 sympathy with Mr. Malthus,” returned the Prince. 
 “He struck me as a man of a very original disposi- 
 tion.” 
 
40 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 The young man of the cream tarts was in the room, 
 but painfully depressed and silent. His late companions 
 sought in vain to lead him into conversation. 
 
 “How bitterly I wish,” he cried, “that I had never 
 brought you to this infamous abode! Begone, while you 
 are clean-handed. If you could have heard the old man 
 scream as he fell, and the noise of his bones upon the 
 pavement! Wish me, if you have any kindness to so 
 fallen a being — wish the ace of spades for me to- 
 night!” 
 
 A few more members dropped in as the evening 
 went on, but the club did not muster more than the 
 devil’s dozen when they took their places at the table. 
 The Prince was again conscious of a certain joy in his 
 alarms ; but he was astonished to see Geraldine so 
 much more self-possessed than on the night before. 
 
 “It is extraordinary,” thought the Prince, “that a 
 will, made or unmade, should so greatly influence 
 a young man’s spirit.” 
 
 “Attention, gentlemen!” said the President, and he 
 began to deal. 
 
 Three times the cards went all round the table, and 
 neither of the marked cards had yet fallen from his 
 hand. The excitement as he began the fourth distribu- 
 tion was overwhelming. There were just cards enough 
 to go once more entirely round. The Prince, who sat 
 second from the dealer’s left, would receive, in the re- 
 verse mode of dealing practiced at the club, the second 
 last card. The third player turned up a black ace — it 
 was the ace of clubs. The next received a diamond, 
 the next a heart, and so on; but the ace of spades 
 was still undelivered. At last Geraldine, who sat upon 
 
J^feu/ /Irabiaij 41 
 
 the Prince’s left, turned his card; it was an ace, but 
 the ace of hearts. 
 
 When Prince Florizel saw his fate upon the table 
 in front of him, his heart stood still. He was a brave 
 man, but the sweat poured oiff his face. There were 
 exactly fifty chances out of a hundred that he was 
 doomed. He reversed the card ; it was the ace of 
 spades. A loud roaring filled his brain, and the table 
 swam before his eyes. He heard the player on his 
 right break into a fit of laughter that sounded between 
 mirth and disappointment; he saw the company rapidly 
 dispersing, but his mind was full of other thoughts. 
 He recognized how foolish, how criminal, had been his 
 conduct. In perfect health, in the prime of his years, 
 the heir to a throne, he had gambled away his future 
 and that of a brave and loyal country. “God,” he 
 cried, “God forgive me!” And with that, the confu- 
 
 sion of his senses passed away, and he regained his 
 self-possession in a moment. 
 
 To his surprise, Geraldine had disappeared. There 
 was no one in the card-room but his destined butcher 
 consulting with the President, and the young man of 
 the cream tarts, who slipped up to the Prince and 
 whispered in his ear: “I would give a million, if I 
 
 had it, for your luck.” 
 
 His Highness could not help reflecting, as the young 
 man departed, that he would have sold his opportunity 
 for a much more moderate sum. 
 
 The whispered conference now came to an end. The 
 holder of the ace of clubs left the room with a look 
 of intelligence, and the President, approaching the un* 
 fortunate Prince, proffered him his hand. 
 
43 U/orl^s of Hot>o*“t Coui 3 Steueijjop 
 
 “I am pleased to have met you, sir,” said he, “and 
 pleased to have been in a position to do you this tri- 
 fling service. At least, you cannot complain of delay. 
 On the second evening — what a stroke of luck!” 
 
 The Prince endeavored in vain to articulate some- 
 thing in response, but his mouth was dry and his 
 tongue seemed paralyzed. 
 
 “You feel a little sickish?” asked the President, 
 with some show 'of solicitude. “Most gentlemen do. 
 Will you take a little brandy?” 
 
 The Prince signified in the affirmative, and the other 
 immediately filled some of the spirit into a tumbler. 
 
 “Poor old Malthy!” ejaculated the President, as the 
 Prince drained the glass. “He drank near upon a pint, 
 and httle enough good it seemed to do him!” 
 
 “I am more amenable to treatment,” said the Prince, 
 a good deal revived. “I am my own man again at 
 once, as you perceive. And so, let me ask you, what 
 are my directions?” 
 
 “You will proceed along the Strand in the direction, 
 of the City, and on the left-hand pavement, until you 
 meet the gentleman who has just left the room. He 
 will continue your instructions, and him you will have 
 the kindness to obey ; the authority of the club is 
 vested in his person for the night. And now,” added 
 the President, “I wish you a pleasant walk.” 
 
 Ploiizel acknowledged the salutation rather awk- 
 wardly, and took his leave. He passed through the 
 smoking-room, where the bulk of the players were still 
 consuming champagne, sonie of which he had himself 
 ordered and paid for ; and he was sm'prised to find 
 himself cursing them in his heart. He put on his hat 
 
I^eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 43 
 
 and greatcoat in the cabinet, and selected his umbrella 
 from a corner. The familiarity of these acts, and the 
 thought that he was about them for the last time, be- 
 trayed him into a fit of laughter which sounded un- 
 pleasantly in his own ears. He conceived a reluctance 
 to leave the cabinet, and turned instead to the win- 
 dow. The sight of the lamps and the darkness recalled 
 him to himself. 
 
 “Come, come, I must be a man,” he thought, “and 
 tear myself away.” 
 
 At the corner of Box Court three men fell upon 
 Prince Florizel and he was unceremoniously thrust into 
 a carriage, which at once drove rapidly away. There 
 was already an occupant. 
 
 “Will your Highness pardon my zeal?” said a well- 
 known voice. 
 
 The Prince threw himself upon the Colonel’s neck 
 in a passion of relief. “How can I ever thank you?” 
 he cried. “And how was this effected?” 
 
 Although he had been willing to march upon his 
 doom, he was overjoyed to yield to friendly violence, 
 and return once more to life and hope. 
 
 “You can thank me effectually enough,” replied 
 the Colonel, “by avoiding all such dangers in the 
 future. And as for your second question, all has been 
 managed by the simplest means. I arranged this after- 
 noon with a celebrated detective. Secrecy has been 
 promised and paid for. Your own servants have been 
 principally engaged in the affair. The house in Box 
 Court has been surrounded since nightfall, and this, 
 which is one of your own carriages, has been await- 
 ing you for nearly an hour.” 
 
44 U/orKs of F^obert Couij Steueij$oi> 
 
 “And the miserable creature who was to have slain 
 me — what of him?” inquired the Prince. 
 
 “He . was pinioned as he left the club,” replied the 
 Colonel, “and now awaits your sentence at the Palace, 
 where he will soon be joined by his accomplices.” 
 
 “Geraldine,” said the Prince, “you have saved me 
 against my explicit orders, and you have done well. I 
 owe you not only my life, but a lesson; and I should 
 be unworthy of my rank if I did not show myself 
 grateful to my teacher. Let it be yours to choose the 
 manner.” 
 
 There was a pause, during which the carriage con- 
 tinued to speed through the streets, and the two men 
 were each buried in his own reflections. The silence 
 was broken by Colonel Geraldine. 
 
 “Your Highness,” said he, “has by this time a con- 
 siderable body of prisoners. There is at least one crim- 
 inal among .the number to whom justice should be 
 dealt. Our oath forbids us all recourse to law; and 
 discretion would forbid it equally if the oath were 
 loosened. May I inquire your Highness’s intention?” 
 
 “It is decided,” answered Plorizel; “the President 
 must fall in duel. It only remains to choose his ad- 
 versary.” 
 
 i 
 
 “Your Highness has permitted me to name my own 
 recompense,” said the Colonel. “Will he permit me to 
 ask the appointment of my brother? It is an honorable 
 post, but I dare assure your Highness that the lad wiU 
 acquit himself with credit.” 
 
 “You ask me an ungracious favor,” said the Prince, 
 “but I must refuse you nothing.” 
 
 I The Colonel kissed his hand with the greatest affec* 
 
/lrabiai> 
 
 45 
 
 tion; and at that moment the carriage rolled under the 
 archway of the Prince’s splendid residence. 
 
 An hour after, Plorizel in his official robes, and cov- 
 ered with all the orders of Bohemia, received the mem- 
 bers of the Suicide Club. 
 
 “Foolish and wicked men,” said he, “as many of 
 you as have been driven into this strait by the lack 
 of fortune shall receive employment and remuneration 
 from my officers. Those who suffer under a sense of 
 guilt must have recourse to a higher and more gener- 
 ous Potentate than I. I feel pity for all of you, deeper 
 than you can imagine; to-morrow you shall tell me 
 your stories; and as you answer more frankly, I shall 
 be the more able to remedy your misfortunes. As for 
 you,” he added, turning to the President, “I should 
 only offend a person of your parts by any offer of as- 
 sistance; but I have instead a piece of diversion to 
 propose to you. Here,” laying his hand on the shoul- 
 der of Colonel Geraldine’s young brother, “is an officer 
 of mine who desires to make a little tour upon the 
 Continent; and I ask you, as a favor, to accompany 
 him on this excursion. Do you,” he went on, chang- 
 ing his tone, “do you shoot well with the pistol? Be- 
 cause you may have need of that accomplishment. 
 When two men go traveling together, it is best to 
 be prepared for all. Let me add that, if by any 
 chance you should lose young Mr. Geraldine upon the 
 way, I shall always have another member of my house- 
 hold to place at your disposal; and I am known, Mr. 
 President, to have long eyesight, and as long an arm.” 
 With these words, said with much sternness, the 
 Prince concluded his address. Next morning the mem- 
 
46 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 bers of the club were suitably provided for by his 
 munificence, and the President set forth upon his trav- 
 els, under the supervision of Mr. Geraldine, and a pair 
 of faithful and adroit lackeys, well trained in the 
 Prince’s household. Not content with this, discreet 
 
 agents were put in possession of the house in Box 
 Court, and all letters or visitors for the Suicide Club 
 or its officials were to be examined by Prince Plorizel 
 in person. 
 
 [Here, says my Arabian author, ends “The Story of the 
 Young Man with the Cream Tarts,” who is now a comfort- 
 able householder in Wigmore Street, Cavendish Square. The 
 number, for obvious reasons, I suppress. Those who care to 
 pursue the adventures of Prince Plorizel and the President 
 of the Suicide Club, may read the “History of the Physician 
 and the Saratoga Trunk.”] 
 
 Mk M: Mk Mk 
 
 STORY OF THE PHYSICIAN AND THE 
 SARATOGA TRUNK 
 
 Me. Silas Q. Scuddamoee was a young American 
 of. a simple and 'harmless disposition, which was the 
 more to his credit as he came from New England— a 
 quarter of the New World not precisely famous for 
 ihose qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he 
 kept a note of all his expenses in a little paper pocket- 
 book; and he had chosen to study the attractions of 
 Paris from the seventh story of what is called a fur- 
 nished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was a great 
 
f/eu; /Irablai? 
 
 47 
 
 deal of habit in his penuriousness; and his . virtue, 
 which was very remarkable among his associates, was 
 principally founded upon diffidence and youth. 
 
 The next room to his was inhabited by a lady, 
 very attractive in her air and very elegant in toilet, 
 whom, on his first arrival, he had taken for a Coun- 
 tess. In course of time he had learned that she was 
 known by the name of Madame Zephyrine, and that 
 whatever station she occupied in life it was not that 
 of a person of title. Madame Zephyrine, probably in 
 the hope of enchanting the young American, used to 
 flaunt by him on the stairs with a civil inclination, 
 a word of course, and a knockdown look out of her 
 black eyes, and disappear in a rustle of silk, and with 
 the revelation of an admirable foot and ankle. But 
 these advances, so far from encouraging Mr. Scudda- 
 more, plunged him into the depths of depression and 
 bashfulness. She had come to him several times for a 
 light, or to apologize for the imaginary depredations of 
 her poodle; but his mouth was closed in the presence of 
 so superior a being, his French promptly left him, and 
 he could only stare and stammer until she was gone. 
 The slenderness of their intercourse did not prevent him 
 from throwing out insinuations of a very glorious order 
 when he was safely alone with a few males. 
 
 The room on the other side of the American’s — for 
 there were three rooms on a floor in the hotel — was 
 tenanted by an old English physician of rather doubt- 
 ful reputation. Dr. Noel, for that was his name, had 
 been forced to leave London, where he enjoyed a large 
 and increasing practice; and it was hinted that the 
 police had been the instigators of this change of scene. 
 
48 U/orl^8 of l^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 At least he, who had made something of a figure in 
 earlier life, now dwelt in the Latin Quarter in great 
 simplicity and solitude, and devoted much of his time 
 to study. Mr. Scuddamore had made his acquaintance, 
 and the pair would now and then dine together frugally 
 in a restaurant across the street. 
 
 Silas Q. Scuddamore had many little vices of the 
 more respectable order, and was not restrained by deli- 
 cacy from indulging them in many rather doubtful 
 ways. Chief among his foibles stood curiosity. He was 
 a born gossip; and life, and especially those parts of it 
 in which he had no experience, interested him to the 
 degree of passion. He was a pert, invincible questioner, 
 pushing his inquiries with equal pertinacity and indiscre- 
 tion; he had been observed, when he took a letter to 
 the post, to weigh it in his hand, to turn it over and 
 over, and to study the address with care; and when 
 he found a flaw in the partition between his room and 
 Madame Zephyrine’s, instead of filling it up, he en- 
 larged and improved the opening, and made use of it 
 as a spy-hole on his neighbor’s affairs. 
 
 One day, in the end of March, his curiosity growing 
 as it was indulged, he enlarged the hole a little further, 
 so that he might command another corner of the room. 
 That evening, when he went as usual to inspect Ma- 
 dame Zephyrine’s movements, he was astonished to find 
 the aperture obscured in an odd manner on the other 
 side, and still more abashed when the obstacle was 
 suddenly withdrawn and a titter of laughter reached 
 his ears. Some of the plaster had evidently betrayed 
 the secret of his spy -hole, and his neighbor had been 
 returning the compliment in kind. Mr. Scuddamore was 
 
J\feu7 /Irabiap 
 
 49 
 
 moved to a very acute feeling of annoyance; he con- 
 demned Madame Zephyrine unmercifully; he even 
 blamed himself; but when he found, next day, that 
 she had taken no means to balk him of his favorite 
 pastime, he continued to profit by her carelessness, and 
 gratify his idle curiosity. 
 
 That next day Madame Zephyrine received a long 
 visit from a tall, loosely built man of fifty or upward, 
 whom Silas had not hitherto seen. His tweed suit and 
 colored shirt, no less than his shaggy side-whiskers, 
 identified him as a Britisher, and his dull gray eye 
 affected Silas with a sense of cold. He kept screwing 
 his mouth from side to side and round and round dur- 
 ing the whole colloquy, which was carried on in whis- 
 pers. More than once it seemed to the young New 
 Englander as if their gestures indicated his own apart- 
 ment; but the only thing definite he could gather by 
 the most scrupulous attention was this remark nrnde 
 by the Englishman in a somewhat higher key, as if in 
 answer to some reluctance or opposition. 
 
 “I have studied his taste to a nicety, and I tell 
 you again and again you are the only woman of the 
 sort that I can lay my hands on.” 
 
 In answer to this, Madame Zephyrine sighed, and 
 appeared by a gesture to resign herself, like one yield- 
 ing to unqualified authority. 
 
 That afternoon the observatory was finally blinded, 
 a wardrobe having been drawn in front of it* upon the 
 other side; and while Silas was still lamenting over 
 this misfortune, which he attributed to the Britisher’s 
 malign suggestion, the concierge brought him up a 
 letter in a female handwriting. £t was conceived in 
 
50 U/orl^5 of F^obert C0U15 Steuepsoij 
 
 French of no very rigorous orthography, bore no signa-= 
 ture, and in the most encouraging terms invited the 
 young American to be present in a certain part of the 
 Bullier Ball at eleven o’clock that night. Curiosity and 
 timidity fought a long battle in his heart; sometimes 
 he was all virtue, sometimes all fire and daring; and 
 the result of it was that, long before ten, Mr. Silas 
 Q. Scuddamore presented himself in unimpeachable at- 
 tire at the door of the Bullier Ball Rooms, and paid 
 his entry money with a sense of reckless devilry that 
 was not without its charm. 
 
 It was Carnival time, and the Ball was very full 
 and noisy. The lights and the crowd at first rather 
 abashed our young adventurer, and then, mounting to 
 his brain with a sort of intoxication, put him in posses- 
 sion of more than his own share of manhood. He felt 
 ready to face the devil, and strutted in the ballroom 
 with the swagger of a cavalier. While he was thus 
 parading, he became aware of Madame Zephyrine and 
 her Britisher in conference behind a pillar. The cat- 
 like spirit of eaves-dropping overcame him at once. 
 He stole nearer and nearer on the couple from behind, 
 until he was within earshot. 
 
 “That is the man,” the Britisher was saying; “.there 
 —with the long blonde hair— speaking to a girl in 
 green.” 
 
 Silas identified a very handsome young fellow of 
 small stature, who was plainly the object of this desig- 
 aation. 
 
 “It is well,” said Madame Zephyrine. “I shall do 
 my utmost. But, remember, the best of us may fail 
 in such a matter.” 
 
51 
 
 fleu; /irabiai? 
 
 “Tutr^ returned her companion; “I answer for the 
 result. Have I not chosen you from thirty? Go; but 
 be wary of the Prince. I cannot think what cursed 
 accident has brought him here to-night. A.s if there 
 were not a dozen balls in Paris better worth his notice 
 than this riot of students and counter-jumpers! See 
 him where he sits, more like a reigning Emperor at 
 home than a Pnnce upon his holidays!” 
 
 Silas was again lucky. He observed a person of 
 rather a full build, strikingly handsome, and of a very 
 stately and courteous demeanor, seated at table with 
 another handsome young man, several years his junior, 
 who addressed him with conspicuous deference. The 
 name of Prince struck gratefully on Silas’s Republican 
 hearing, and the aspect of the person to whom that 
 name was applied exercised its usual charm upon his 
 mind. He left Madame Zephyrine and her Englishman 
 to take care of each other, and threading his way 
 through the assembly, approached the table which the 
 Prince and his confidant had honored with their choice. 
 
 “I tell you, Geraldine,” the former was saying, “the 
 action is madness. Yourself (I am glad to remember 
 it) chose your brother for this perilous service, and 
 you are bound in duty to have a guard upon his con- 
 duct. He has consented to delay so many days in 
 Paris; that was already an imprudence, considering the 
 character of the man he has to deal with ; but now, 
 when he is within eight-and-forty hours of his depart- 
 ure, when he is within two or three days of his decisive 
 trial, I ask you, is this a place for him to spend his 
 time? He should be in a gallery at practice; he should 
 be sleeping long hours and taking moderate exercise 
 
62 U/orKs of f^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 on foot; he should be on a rigorous diet, without 
 white wines or brandy. Does the dog imagine we are 
 all playing comedy? The thing is deadly earnest, Ger- 
 aldine.” 
 
 “I know the lad too well to interfere,” replied 
 Colonel Geraldine, “and well enough not to be alarmed. 
 He is more cautious than you fancy, and of an indom- 
 itable spirit. If it had been a woman I should not 
 say so much, but I trust the President to him and 
 the two valets without an instant’s apprehension.” 
 
 “I am gratified to hear you say so,” replied the 
 Prince; “but my mind is not at rest. These servants 
 are well-trained spies, and already has not this miscre- 
 ant succeeded three times in eluding their observation 
 and spending several hours on end in private, and most 
 likely dangerous, affairs? An amateur might have lost 
 him by accident, but if Rudolph and Jerome were 
 thrown off the scent, it must have been done on pur- 
 pose, and by a man who had a cogent reason and ex- 
 ceptional resources.” 
 
 “I believe the question is now one between my 
 brother and myself,” replied Geraldine, with a shade of 
 offense in his tone. 
 
 “I permit it to be so. Colonel Geraldine,” returned 
 Prince Florizel. “Perhaps, for that very reason, you 
 should be all the more ready to accept my counsels. 
 But enough. That girl in' yellow dances well. ’ ’ 
 
 And the talk veered into the ordinary topics of a 
 Paris ballroom in the Carnival. 
 
 Silas remembered where he was, and that the hour 
 was already near at hand when he ought to be upon 
 the scene of his assignation. The more he reflected the 
 
Jleu; /irabiap 
 
 53 
 
 less he liked the prospect, and as at that moment an 
 eddy in the crowd began to draw him in the direction 
 of the door, he suffered it to carry him away without 
 resistance. The eddy stranded him in a corner under 
 the gallery, where his ear was immediately struck with 
 the voice of Madame Zephyrine. She was speaking in 
 French with the young man of the blonde locks who 
 had been pointed out by the strange Britisher not half 
 an hour before. 
 
 “I have a character at stake,” she said, “or I 
 would put no other condition than my heart recom- 
 mends. But you have only to say so much to the 
 
 porter, and he will let you go by without a word.” 
 
 “But why this talk of debt?” objected her com- 
 panion. 
 
 “Heavens!” said she, “do you think I do not un- 
 derstand my own hotel?” 
 
 And she went by, clinging affectionately to her 
 companion’s arm. 
 
 This put Silas in mind of his billet. 
 
 “Ten minutes hence,” thought he, “and I may be 
 walking with as beautiful a woman as that, and even 
 better dressed — perhaps a real lady, possibly a woman 
 of title.” 
 
 And then he remembered the spelling, and was a 
 little downcast. 
 
 “But it may have been written by her maid,” he 
 ' imagined. 
 
 The clock was only a few minutes from the hour, 
 
 and this immediate proximity set his heart beating at 
 
 a curious and rather disagreeable speed. He reflected 
 
 \nth relief that he was in no way bound to put in an 
 Btbvenson. Vol, I.— 4 
 
64 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 appearance. Virtue and cowardice were together, and 
 he made once more for the door, but this time of his 
 own accord, and battling against the stream of people 
 which was now moving in a contrary direction. Per- 
 haps this prolonged resistance wearied him, or perhaps 
 he was in that frame of mind when merely to continue 
 in the same determination for a certain number of min- 
 utes produces a reaction and a different purpose. Cer- 
 tainly, at least, he wheeled about for a third time, and 
 did not stop until he had found a place of concealment 
 within a few yards of the appointed place. 
 
 Here he went through an agony of spirit, in which 
 he several times prayed to God for help, for Silas had 
 been devoutly educated. He had now not the least in- 
 clination for the meeting; nothing kept him from flight 
 but a silly fear lest he should be thought unmanly; 
 but this was so powerful that it kept head against all 
 other motives; and although it could not decide him 
 to advance, prevented him from definitely running 
 arway. At last the clock indicated ten minutes past 
 the hour. Young Scuddamore’s spirit began to rise; he 
 peered round the comer and saw no one at the place 
 of meeting ; doubtless his unknown correspondent had 
 wearied and gone away. He became as bold as he had 
 formerly been timid. It seemed to him that if he came 
 at all to the appointment, however late, he was clear 
 from the charge of cowardice. Nay, now he began to 
 suspect a hoax, and actually complimented himself on 
 his shrewdness in having suspected and out-maneuvered 
 his mystifiers. So very idle a thing is a boy’s mind! 
 
 Armed with these reflections, he advanced boldly 
 from his corner; but he had not taken above a couple 
 
f/ew /Irabiaij 
 
 55 
 
 of steps before a hand was laid upon his arm. He 
 turned and beheld a lady cast in a very large mold 
 and with somewhat stately features, but bearing no 
 mark of severity in her looks. 
 
 “I see that you are a very self-confident lady-killer,” 
 said she; “for you make yourself expected. But I was 
 determined to meet you. When a woman has once so far 
 forgotten herself as to make the first advance, she has 
 long ago left behind her all considerations of petty pride.” 
 
 Silas was overwhelmed by the size and attractions 
 of his correspondent and the suddenness with which she 
 had fallen upon him. But she soon set him at his 
 ease. She was very towardly and lenient in her be- 
 havior; she led him on to make pleasantries, and then 
 applauded him to the echo ; and in a very short time, 
 between blandishments and a liberal exhibition of warm 
 brandy, she had not only induced him to fancy himself 
 in love, but to declare his passion with the greatest 
 vehemence. 
 
 “Alas!” she said; “I do not know whether I ought 
 not to deplore this moment, great as is the pleasure 
 you give me by your words. Hitherto I was alone to 
 suffer; now, poor boy, there will be two. I am not 
 my own mistress. I dare not ask you to visit me at 
 my own house, for I am watched by jealous eyes. 
 Let me see,” she added; “I am older than you, al- 
 though so much weaker; and while I trust in your 
 courage and determination, I must employ my own 
 knowledge of the world for our mutual benefit. Where 
 do you live?” 
 
 He told her that he lodged in a furnished hotel, 
 and named the street and number. 
 
56 \I/orli[5 of F^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 She seemed to reflect for some minutes, with an 
 effort of mind. 
 
 “I see,” she said at last. “You will be faithful 
 and obedient, will you not?”- 
 
 Silas assured her eagerly of his fidelity. 
 
 “To-morrW night, then,” she continued, with an en- 
 couraging smile, “you must remain at home all the 
 evening; and if any friends should visit you, dismiss 
 them at once on any pretext that most readily presents 
 itself.* Your door is probably shut by ten?” she asked. 
 
 “By eleven,” answered Silas. 
 
 “At a quarter past eleven,” pursued the lady, “leave 
 the house. Merely cry for the door to be opened, and 
 be sure you fall into no talk with the porter, as that 
 might ruin everything. Go straight to the corner where 
 the Luxembourg Gardens join the Boulevard; there 
 you will find me waiting you. I trust you to follow 
 
 my advice from point to point: and remember, if you 
 , fail me in only one particular, you will bring the 
 sharpest trouble on a woman whose only fault is to 
 have seen and loved you.” 
 
 “I cannot see the use of all these instructions,” said 
 Silas. 
 
 “I believe you are already beginning to treat me as 
 a master,” she cried, tapping him with her fan upon 
 the arm. “Patience, patience! that should come in 
 time. A woman loves to be obeyed at first, although 
 afterward she finds her pleasure in obeying. Do as I 
 ask you, for Heaven’s sake, or I will answer for noth- 
 ing. Indeed, now I think of it,” she added, with the 
 manner of one who has just seen further into a diffi- 
 culty, “I find a better plan of keeping importunate 
 
J^eui /Irabiai? 
 
 57 
 
 visitors away. Tell the porter to admit no one for you, 
 except a person who may come that night to claim 
 a debt; and speak with some feeling, as though you 
 feared the interview, so that he may take your words 
 in earnest.” 
 
 “I think you may trust me to protect myself against 
 intruders,” he said, not without a little pique. 
 
 “That is how I should prefer the thing arranged,” 
 she answered, coldly. “I know you men; you think 
 nothing of a woman’s reputation.” 
 
 Silas blushed and somewhat hung his head; for the 
 scheme he had in view had involved a little vain-glory- 
 ing before his acquaintances. 
 
 “Above all,” she added, “do not speak to the porter 
 as you come out.” 
 
 “And why?” said he. “Of all your instructions, 
 that seems to me the least important.” 
 
 “You at first doubted the wisdom of some of the 
 others, which you now see to be very necessary,” she 
 replied. “Believe me, this also has its uses; in time 
 you will see them; and what am I to think of your 
 affection, if you refuse me such trifles at our first in- 
 terview?” 
 
 Silas confounded himself in explanations and apolo- 
 gies; in the middle of these she looked up at the clock 
 and clapped her hands together with a suppressed 
 scream. 
 
 “Heavens!” she cried, “is it so late? I have not 
 an instant to lose. Alas, we poor women, what slaves 
 we are! What have I not risked for you already?” 
 
 And after repeating her directions, which she art- 
 fully comoined with caresses and the most abandoned 
 
58 U/orKs of Hot>orfc Couis Steuei 750 i> 
 
 looks, she bade him farewell and disappeared among 
 the crowd. 
 
 The whole of the next day Silas was filled with a 
 sense of great importance; he was now sure she was 
 a countess; and when evening came he minutely obeyed 
 her orders and was at the corner of the Luxembourg 
 Gardens by the hour appointed. No one was there. 
 He waited nearly half an hour, looking in the face of 
 every one who passed or loitered near' the spot; he 
 even visited the neighboring corners of the Boulevard 
 and made a complete circuit of the garden railings; 
 but there was no beautiful countess to throw herself 
 into his arms. At last, and most reluctantly, he began 
 to retrace his steps toward his hotel. On the way he 
 remembered the words he had heard pass between Ma- 
 dame Zephyrine and the blonde young man, and they 
 gave him an indefinite uneasiness. 
 
 “It appears,” he reflected, “that every one has to 
 tell lies to our porter.” 
 
 He rang the bell, the door opened before him, and 
 the porter in his bedclothes came to offer him a light. 
 
 “Has he gone?” inquired the porter. 
 
 “He? Whom do you mean?” asked Silas, somewhat 
 sharply, for he was irritated by his disappointment. 
 
 “I did not notice him go out,” continued the por- 
 ter, “but I trust you paid him. We do not care, in 
 this house, to have lodgers who cannot meet their lia- 
 bilities.” 
 
 “What the devil do you mean?” demanded Silas, 
 rudely. “I cannot understand a word of this farrago.” 
 
 “The short, blonde young man who came for his 
 debt,” returned the other. “Him it is I mean. Who 
 
fleu; /Irabiai) 5d 
 
 else should it be, when I had your orders to admit no 
 one else?” 
 
 “Why, good God, of course he never came,” re- 
 torted Slias. 
 
 “I believe what I believe,” returned the porter, put- 
 ting his tongue into his cheek with a most roguish air. 
 
 “You are an insolent scoundrel,” cried Silas, and, 
 feeling that he had made a ridiculous exhibition of as- 
 perity, and at the same time bewildered by a dozen 
 alarms, he turned and began to run upstairs. 
 
 “Do you not want a light, then?” cried the porter. 
 
 But Silas only hurried the faster, and did not pause 
 until he had reached the seventh landing and stood in 
 front of his own door. There he waited a moment to 
 recover his breath, assailed by the worst forebodings 
 and almost dreading to enter the room. 
 
 When at last he did so he was relieved to find it 
 dark, and to all appearance, untenanted. He drew a 
 long breath. Here he was, home again in safety, and 
 this should be his last folly as certainly as it had been 
 his first. The matches stood on a little table by the 
 bed, and he began to grope his way in that direction. 
 As he moved, his apprehensions grew upon him once 
 more, and he was pleased, when his foot encountered 
 an obstacle, to find it nothing more alarming than a 
 chair. At last he touched the curtains. From the po- 
 sition of the window, which was faintly visible, he 
 knew he must be at the foot of the bed, and had only 
 
 to feel his way along it in order to reach the table in 
 question. 
 
 He lowered his hand, but what it touched was not 
 simply a counterpaus^ — ^it was a counterpane with some- 
 
60 \I/orl^5 of r^obert Couis Steueijjop 
 
 < 
 
 thing underneath it like the outline of a human leg. 
 Silas withdrew his arm and stood a moment petrified. 
 
 “What, what,” he thought, “can this betoken?” 
 
 He listened intently, but there was no sound of 
 breathing. Once more, with a great effort, he reached 
 out the end of his finger to the spot he had already 
 touched ; but this time he leaped back half a yard, 
 and stood shivering and fixed with terror. There was 
 something in his bed. What it was he knew not, but 
 there was something there. 
 
 It was some seconds before he could move. Then, 
 guided by an instinct, he fell straight upon the matches, 
 and keeping his back toward the bed lighted a candle. 
 As soon as the flame had .kindled, he turned slowly 
 round and looked for what he feared to see. Sure 
 enough, there was the worst of his imaginations real- 
 ized. The coverlid was drawn carefully up over the 
 pillow, but it molded the outline of a human body ly- 
 ing motionless; and when he dashed forward and flung 
 aside the sheets, he beheld the blonde young man whom 
 he had seen in the Bullier Ball the night before, his 
 eyes open and without speculation, his face swollen and 
 blackened, and a thin stream of blood trickling from 
 bis nostrils. 
 
 Silas uttered a long, tremulous wail, dropped the 
 candle, and - ‘fell on his knees beside the bed. 
 
 Silas was awakened from the stupor into which his 
 terrible discovery had plunged him, by a prolonged but 
 discreet tapping at the door. It took him some seconds 
 to remember his position; and when he hastened to pre- 
 vent any one from entering it was already too late. Dr. 
 Noel, in a tail nightcap, carrying a lamp which lighted 
 
fifeu; /irabiaij 
 
 61 
 
 up his long white countenance, sidling in his gait, and 
 peering and cocking his head like some sort of bird, 
 pushed the door slowly open, and advanced into the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 “I thought I heard a cry,” began the Doctor, “and 
 fearing you might be unwell I did not hesitate to offer 
 this intrusion.” 
 
 Silas, with a flushed face and a fearful beating 
 heart, kept between the Doctor and the bed; but he 
 found no voice to answer. 
 
 “You are in the dark,” pursued the Doctor; “and 
 yet you have not even begun to prepare for rest. You 
 will not easily persuade me against my own eyesight; 
 and your face declares most eloquently that you require 
 either a friend or a physician — which is it to be? Let 
 me feel your pulse, for that is often a just reporter of 
 the heart.” 
 
 He advanced to Silas, who still retreated before him 
 backward, and sought to take him by the wrist; but 
 the strain on the young American’s nerves had become 
 too great for endurance. He avoided the Doctor with 
 a febrile movement, and, throwing himself upon the 
 floor, burst into a flood of weeping. 
 
 As soon as Dr. Noel perceived the dead man in the 
 bed his face darkened ; and hurrying back to the door 
 which he had left ajar, he hastily closed and double- 
 locked it. 
 
 “Up!” he cried, addressing Silas in strident tones; 
 this is no time for weeping. W^hat have you done? 
 How came this body in your room? Speak freely to 
 one who may be helpful. Do you imagine I would ruin 
 you? Do you think this piece of dead flesh on your 
 
62 U/orK5 of Hol^ert Couij Steuer^jop 
 
 pillow can alter in any degree the sympathy with which 
 you have inspired me? Credulous youth, the horror with 
 which blind and unjust law regards an action never 
 attaches to the doer in the eyes of those who love 
 him; and if I saw the friend of my heart return to 
 me out of seas of blood he would be in no way 
 changed in my affection. Raise yourself,” he said; 
 “good and ill are a chimera; there is naught in life 
 except destiny, and however you may be circumstanced 
 there is one at your side who will help you to the 
 last.” 
 
 Thus encouraged, Silas gathered himself together, 
 and in a broken voice, and helped out by the Doctor’s 
 interrogations, contrived at last to put him in posses- 
 sion of the facts. But the conversation between the 
 Prince and Geraldine he altogether omitted, as he had 
 understood little of its purport, and had no idea that 
 it was in any way related to his own misadventure. 
 
 “Alas!” cried Dr. Noel, “I am much abused, or 
 
 you have fallen innocently into the most dangerous 
 
 hands in Europe. Poor boy, what a pit has been dug 
 
 for your simplicity! into what a deadly peril have your 
 
 unwary feet been conducted! This man,” he said, “this 
 % 
 
 Englishman, whom you twice saw, and whom I sus- 
 pect to be the seul of the contrivance, can you describe 
 him? Was he young or old? tall or short?” 
 
 But Silas, who, for all his curiosity, had not a see- 
 ing eye in his head, was able to supply nothing but 
 meager generalities, which it was impossible to recog- 
 nize. 
 
 “I would have it a piece of education in all schools!” 
 cried the Doctor angrily. “Where is the use of eyesight 
 
f^eu/ /irabiaij 
 
 63 
 
 and articulate speech if a man cannot observe and rec- 
 ollect the features of his enemy? I, who know all the 
 gangs of Europe, might have identified him, and gained 
 new weapons for your defense. Cultivate this art in 
 future, my poor boy; you may find it of momentous 
 service.” 
 
 “The future!” repeated Silas. “What future is there 
 left for me except -the gallows?” 
 
 “Youth is but a cowardly season,” returned the 
 Doctor; “and a man’s own troubles look blacker than 
 they are. I am old, and yet I never despair.” 
 
 “Can I tell such a story to the police?” demanded 
 Silas. 
 
 “Assuredly not,” replied the Doctor. “From what I 
 see already of the machination in which you have been 
 involved, your case is desperate upon that side; and for 
 the narrow eye of the authorities you are infallibly the 
 guilty person. And remember that we only know a 
 portion of the plot ; and the same infamous contrivers 
 have doubtless arranged many other circumstances which 
 would be elicited by a police inquiry, and help to fix 
 the guilt more certainly upon your innocence.” 
 
 “I am then lost, indeed!” cried Silas. 
 
 “I have not said so,” answered Dr. Noel, “for I 
 am a cautious man.” 
 
 “But look at this!” objected Silas, pointing to the 
 body. “Here is this object in my bed: not to be ex- 
 plained, not to be disposed of, not to be regarded with- 
 out horror.” 
 
 “Horror?” replied the Doctor. “No. When this sort 
 of clock has run down, it is no more to me than an 
 ingenious piece of mechanism, to be investigated with 
 
64 U/ort[s of I^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 the bistourj’-. When blood is once cold and stagnant, it 
 is no longer human blood; when flesh is once dead, it 
 is no longer that flesh which we desire in our lovers 
 and respect in our friends. The grace, the attraction, 
 the terror, have all gone from it with the animating 
 spirit. Accustom yourself to look upon it with com- 
 posure; for if my scheme is practicable you will have 
 to live some days in constant proximity to that which 
 now so greatly horrifies you.” 
 
 “Your scheme?” cried Silas. “What is that? Tell 
 me speedily. Doctor; for I have scarcely courage 
 enough to continue to exist.” 
 
 Without replying. Dr. Noel turned toward the bed, 
 and proceeded to examine the corpse. 
 
 “Quite dead,” he murmured. “Yes, as I had sup- 
 posed, the pockets empty. Yes, and the name cut off 
 the shirt. Their work has been done thoroughly and 
 well. Fortunately, he is of small stature.” 
 
 Silas followed these words with an extreme anxiety. 
 At last the Doctor, his autopsy completed, took a chair 
 and addressed the young American with a smile. 
 
 “Since I came into your room,” said he, “although 
 my ears and my tongue have been so busy, I have 
 not suffered my eyes to remain idle. I noted a little 
 while ago that you have there, in the corner, one of 
 those monstrous constructions which your fellow-country- 
 men carry with them into all quarters of the globe — in 
 a word, a Saratoga trunk. Until this moment I have 
 never been able to conceive the utility of these erec- 
 tions; but then I began to have a glimmer. Whether 
 it was for convenience in the slave trade, or to obviate 
 the^ results of too ready an employment of the bowie- 
 
I'leur /irabiap 
 
 65 
 
 knife, I cannot bring myself to decide. But one thing 
 I see plainly — the object of such a box is to contain a 
 human body.” 
 
 “Surely,” cried Silas, “surely this is not a time for 
 jesting.” 
 
 “Although I may express myself with some degree 
 of pleasantry,” replied the Doctor, “the purport of my 
 words is entirely serious. And the first thing we have 
 to do, my young friend, is to empty your coffer of all 
 that it contains.” 
 
 Silas, obeying the authority of Dr. Noel, put himself 
 at his disposition. The Saratoga trunk was- soon gutted 
 of its contents, which made a considerable litter on the 
 floor; and then — Silas taking the heels and the Doctor 
 supporting the shoulders — the body of the murdered 
 man was carried from the bed, and, after some diffi- 
 culty, doubled up and inserted whole into the empty 
 box. With an effort on the part of both, the lid was 
 forced down upon this unusual baggage, and the trunk 
 was locked and corded by the Doctor’s own hand, 
 while Silas disposed of what had been taken out be- 
 tween the closet and a chest of drawers. 
 
 “Now,” said the Doctor, “the first step has been 
 taken on the way to your deliverance. To-morrow, or 
 rather to-day, it must be your task to allay the sus- 
 picions of your porter, paying him all that you owe; 
 while you may trust me to make the arrangements 
 necessary to a safe conclusion. Meantime, follow me to 
 my room, where I shall give you a safe and power- 
 ful opiate; for, whatever you do, you must have rest.” 
 
 The next day was the longest in Silas’s memory; it 
 seemed as if it would never be done. He denied him- 
 
66 U/orl^s of Robert Coui5 Steuei?50ij 
 
 self to his friends, and sat in a corner Vith his eyes 
 fixed upon the Saratoga trunk in dismal contemplation. 
 His own former indiscretions were now returned upon 
 him in kind; for the observatory had been once more 
 opened, and he was conscious of an almost continual 
 study from Madame Zephyrine’s apartment. So distress- 
 ing did this become, that he was at last obliged to 
 block up the spy-hole from his own side; and when 
 he was thus secured from observation he spent a con- 
 siderable portion of his time in contrite tears and 
 prayer. 
 
 Late in the evening Dr. Noel entered the room car- 
 rying in his hand a pair of sealed envelopes without 
 address, one somewhat bulky, and the other so slim as 
 to seem without inclosure. 
 
 “Silas,” he said, seating himself at the table, “the 
 time has now come for me to explain my plan for your 
 salvation. To-morrow morning, at an early hour, Prince 
 Florizel of Bohemia returns to London, after having 
 diverted himself for a few days with the Parisian Car- 
 nival. It was my fortune, a good while ago, to do 
 Colonel Geraldine, his Mastei* of the Horse, one of 
 those services, so common in my profession, which are 
 never forgotten upon either side. I have no need to 
 explain to you the nature of the obligation under whiph 
 he was laid; suffice it to say that I knew him -ready 
 to serve me in any practicable manner. Now, it was 
 necessary for you to gain London with your trunk un- 
 opened. To this the Custom House seemed to oppose a 
 fatal difficulty; but I bethought me that the baggage 
 of so considerable a person as the Prince, is, as a 
 matter of courtesy, passed without examination by the 
 
67 
 
 )^eu; /Irabiai? 
 
 officers of Custom. I applied to Colonel Geraldine, and 
 succeeded in obtaining a favorable answer. To-morrow, 
 if you go before six to the hotel where the Prince 
 lodges, your baggage will be passed over as a part of 
 his, and you yourself will make the journey as a mem- 
 ber of his suite.” 
 
 “It seems to me, as you speak, that I have already 
 seen both the Prince and Colonel Geraldine; I even 
 overheard some of their conversation the other evening 
 at the Bullier Ball.” 
 
 “It is probable enough; for the Prince loves to mix 
 with all societies,” replied the Doctor. “Once arrived 
 in London,” he pursued, “your task is nearly ended. 
 In this more bulky envelope I have given you a letter 
 which I dare not address; but in the other you will 
 find the designation of the house to which you must 
 carry it along with your box, which will there be 
 taken from you and not trouble you any more.” 
 
 “Alas!” said Silas, “I have every wish to believe 
 you; but how is it possible? You open up to me a 
 bright prospect ; but, I ask you, is my mind capable 
 of receiving so unlikely a solution? Be more generous, 
 and let me further understand your meaning.” 
 
 The Doctor seemed painfully impressed. 
 
 “Boy,” he answered, “you do not know how hard 
 a thing you ask of me. But be it so. I am now 
 inured to humiliation ; and it would be strange if I 
 refused you this, after having granted you so much. 
 Know, then, that although I now make so quiet an 
 appearance — frugal, solitary, addicted to study — when I 
 was younger, my name was once a rallying-cry among 
 the most astute and dangerous spirits of London; and 
 
68 Worlds of F^oberc Couis Steuepsop 
 
 while I was outwardly an object for respect and con- 
 sideration, my true power resided in the most secret, 
 terrible, and criminal relations. It is to one of the 
 persons who then obeyed me that I now address my- 
 self to deliver you from your burden. They were men 
 of many different nations and dexterities, all bound to- 
 gether by a formidable oath, and working to the same 
 purposes; the tr^de of the association was in murder; 
 and I who speak to you, innocent as I appear, was 
 the chieftain of this redoubtable crew.” 
 
 “What?” cried Silas. “A murderer? And one with 
 whom murder was a tradfe? Can I take your hand? 
 Ought I so much as to accept your services? Dark . 
 and criminal old man, would you make an accomplice 
 of my youth and my distress?” 
 
 The Doctor bitterly laughed. 
 
 “You are diflScult to please, Mr. Scuddamore,” said 
 he; “but I now offer you your choice of company be- 
 tween the murdered man and the murderer. If your 
 conscience is too nice to accept my aid, say so, and I 
 will immediately leave you. Thenceforward you can 
 deal with your trunk and its belongings as best suits 
 your upright conscience.” 
 
 “I own myself wrong,” replied Silas. “I should 
 have remembered how generously you offered to shield 
 me. even before I had convinced you of my innocence, 
 and I continue to listen to your counsels with gratitude.” 
 “That is well,” returned the Doctor; “and I per- 
 ceive you are beginning to learn some of the lessons of 
 experience.” 
 
 “At the same time,” resumed the New Englander, 
 “as you confess yourself accustomed to this tragical 
 
69 
 
 j^eu; /irabiai? 
 
 business, and the people to whom you recommend me 
 are your own former associates and friends, could you 
 not yourself undertake the transport of the box, and 
 rid me at once of its detested presence?” 
 
 “Upon my word,” replied the Doctor, “I adniire 
 you cordially. If you do not think I have already 
 meddled sufficiently in your concerns, believe me, from 
 my heart, I think the contrary. Take or leave my 
 services as I offer them; and trouble me with no more 
 words of gratitude, for I value your consideration even 
 more lightly than I do your intellect. A time will come, 
 if you should be spared to see a number of years in 
 health of mind, when you will think differently of all 
 this, and blush for your to-night’s behavior.” 
 
 So saying, the Doctor arose from his chair, repeated 
 his directions briefly and clearly, and departed from the 
 room without permitting Silas any time to answer. 
 
 The next morning Silas presented himself at the 
 hotel, where he was politely received by Colonel Ger- 
 aldine, and relieved, from that moment, of all imme- 
 diate alarm about his trunk and its grisly contents. 
 The journey passed over without much incident, al- 
 though the young man was horrified to overhear the 
 sailors and railway porters complaining among them- 
 selves about the unusual weight of the Prince’s bag- 
 gage. Silas traveled in a carriage with the valets, for 
 Prince Plorizel chose to be alone with his Master of 
 the Horse. On board the steamer, however, Silas at- 
 
 tracted his Highness’s attention by the melancholy of 
 his air and attitude as he stood gazing at the pile of 
 baggage; for he was still full of disquietude about the 
 future. 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 5 
 
70 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 “There is a young man,” observed the Prince, 
 “who must have some cause for sorrow.” 
 
 “That,” replied Geraldine, “is the American for 
 whom I obtained permission to travel with your suite.” 
 
 “You remind me that I have been remiss in cour- 
 tesy,” said Prince Plorizel, and advancing to Silas, he 
 addressed him with the most exquisite condescension in 
 these words : 
 
 “I was charmed, young sir, to be able to gratify 
 the desire you made known to me through Colonel 
 Geraldine. Remember, if you please, that I shall be 
 glad at any future time to lay you under a more seri- 
 ous obligation.” 
 
 And he then put some questions as to the political 
 condition of America, which Silas answered with sense 
 and propriety. 
 
 “You are still a young man,” said the Prince; 
 “but I observe you to be very serious for your years. 
 Perhaps you allow your attention to be too much occu- 
 pied with grave studies. But, perhaps, on the other 
 hand, I am myself indiscreet and touch upon a painful 
 subject.” 
 
 “I have certainly cause to be the most miserable of 
 men,” said Silas; “never has a more innocent person 
 been more dismally abused.” 
 
 “I will not ask you for your confidence,” returned 
 Prince Florizel. “But do not forget that Colonel Ger- 
 aldine’s recommendation is an unfailing passport; and 
 that I am not only willing, but possibly more able 
 than many others, to do you a service.” 
 
 Silas was delighted with the amiability of this great 
 personage; but his mind soon returned upon its gloomy 
 
fieu; /^rabiai? 
 
 71 
 
 preoccupations; for not even the favor of a Prince to 
 a Republican can discharge a brooding spirit of its 
 cares. 
 
 The train arrived at Charing Cross, where the offi- 
 cers of the Revenue respected the baggage of Prince 
 Florizel in the usual manner. The most elegant equi- 
 pages were in waiting; and Silas was driven, along 
 with the rest, to the Prince’s residence. There Colonel 
 Geraldine sought him out, and expressed himself pleased 
 to have been of any service to a friend of the phy- 
 sician’s, for whom he professed a great consideration. 
 
 “I hope,” he added, “that you will find none of 
 
 your porcelain injured. Special orders were given along 
 the line to deal tenderly with the Prince’s effects.” 
 
 And then, directing the servants to place one of the 
 carriages at the young gentleman’s disposal, and at 
 
 once to charge the Saratoga trunk upon the dickey, 
 the Colonel shook hands and excused himself on account 
 of his occupations in the princely household. 
 
 Silas now broke the seal of the envelope containing 
 the address, and directed the stately footman to drive 
 him to Box Court, opening off the Strand. It seemed as 
 if the place were not at all unknown to the man, for 
 he looked startled and begged a repetition of the order. 
 It was with a heart full of alarms that Silas mounted 
 into the luxurious vehicle, and was driven to his des- 
 tination. The entrance to Box Court was too narrow 
 for the passage of a coach ; it was a mere footway 
 
 between railings, with a post at either end. On one 
 
 of these posts was seated a man, who at once jumped 
 down and exchanged a friendly sign with the driver, 
 while the footman opened the door and inquired of 
 
72 U/orl^5 of HotiOrt Couij Steuepjoij 
 
 Silas \whether he should take down the Saratoga trunk 
 and to what number it should be carried. 
 
 “If you please,” said Silas. “To number three.” 
 
 The footman and the man who had been sitting on 
 the post, even with the aid of Silas himseK, had hard 
 work to carry in the trunk; and before it was deposited 
 at the door of the house in question, the young Ameri- 
 can was horrified to find a score of loiterers looking on. 
 But he knocked with as good a countenance as he 
 could muster up, and presented the other envelope to 
 him who opened. 
 
 “He is not at home,” said he, “but if you will 
 leave your letter and return to-morrow early, I shall 
 be able to inform you whether and when he can re- 
 ceive your visit. Would you like to leave your box?” 
 he added. 
 
 “Dearly,” cried Silas; and the next moment he re- 
 pented his precipitation, and declared, with equal empha- 
 sis, that he would rather carry the box along with him 
 to the hotel. 
 
 The crowd jeered at his indecision and followed him 
 to the carriage with insulting remarks; and Silas, cov- 
 ered with shame and terror, implored the servants to 
 conduct him to some quiet and comfortable house of 
 entertainment in the immediate neighborhood. 
 
 The Prince’s equipage deposited Silas at the Craven 
 Hotel in Craven Street, and immediately drove away, 
 leaving him alone with the servants of the inn. The 
 only vacant room, it appeared, was a little den up 
 four pairs of stairs, and looking toward the back. To 
 this hermitage, with infinite trouble and complaint, a 
 pair of stout porters carried the Saratoga trunk. It is 
 
)vfeu/ /Irabiaij 
 
 73 
 
 needless to mention that Silas kept closely at their heels 
 throughout the ascent, and had his heart in his mouth 
 at every corner. A single false step, he reflected, and 
 the box might go over the bannisters and land its fatal 
 contents, plainly discovered, on the pavement of the hall. 
 
 Arrived in the room, he sat down on the edge of 
 his bed to recover from the agony that he had just 
 endured; but he had hardly taken his position when 
 he was recalled to a sense of his peril by the action 
 of the boots, who had knelt beside the trunk, and was 
 proceeding officiously to undo its elaborate fastenings. 
 
 “Let it be!” cried Silas. “I shall want nothing 
 from it while I stay here.” 
 
 “You might have let it lie in the hall, then,” 
 growled the man; “a thing as big and heavy as a 
 church. What you have inside, I cannot fancy. If it 
 is all money, you are a richer man than me.” 
 
 “Money?” repeated Silas, in a sudden perturbation. 
 “What do you mean by money? I have no money, 
 and you are speaking like a fool.” 
 
 “All right, captain,” retorted the boots with a 
 wink. “There’s nobody will touch your lordship’s 
 money. I’m as safe as the bank,” he added; “but as 
 the box is heavy, I shouldn’t mind drinking something 
 to 5"our lordship’s health.” 
 
 Silas pressed two Napoleons upon his acceptance, 
 apologizing, at the same time, for being obliged to 
 trouble him with foreign money, and pleading his re- 
 cent arrival for excuse. And the man, grumbling with 
 even greater fervor, and looking contemptuously from the 
 money in his hand to the Saratoga trunk and back again 
 from the one to the other, at last consented to withdraw. 
 
74 U/orKs of I^obert Coufj Steueij5oij 
 
 For nearly two days the dead body had been packed 
 into Silas’s box; and as soon as he was alone the un- 
 fortunate New Englander nosed all the cracks and open- 
 ings with the most passionate attention. But the 
 weather was cool, and the trunk still managed to con- 
 tain his shocking secret. 
 
 He took a chair beside it, and buried his face in 
 his hands, and his mind in the most profound reflec- 
 tion. If he were not speedily relieved, no question but 
 he must be speedily discovered. Alone in a strange 
 city, without friends or accomplices, if the Doctor’s 
 introduction failed him he was indubitably a lost New 
 Englander. He reflected pathetically over his ambitious 
 designs for the future; he should not now become the 
 hero and spokesman of his native place of Bangor, 
 Maine; he should not, as he had fondly anticipated, 
 move on from office to office, from honor to honor; he 
 might as well divest himself at once of all hope of 
 being acclaimed President of the United States, and 
 leaving behind him a statue, in the worst possible style 
 of art, to adorn the Capitol at Washington. Here he 
 was, chained to a dead Englishman doubled up inside 
 a Saratoga trunk; whom he must get rid of, or perish 
 from the rolls of national glory! 
 
 I should be afraid to chronicle the language em- 
 ployed by this young man to the Doctor, to the mur- 
 dered man, to Madame Zephyrine, to the boots of the 
 hotel, to the Prince’s servants, and, in a word, to all 
 who had been ever so' remotely connected with his hor- 
 rible misfortune. 
 
 He slunk down to dinner about seven at night; but 
 the yellow coffee-room appalled him, the eyes of the 
 
I'feu; /Irabiap 
 
 75 
 
 other diners seemed to rest on his with suspicion, and 
 his mind remained upstairs with the Saratoga trunk. 
 When the waiter came to offer him cheese, his nerves 
 were already so much on edge that he leaped half- 
 way out of his chair and upset the remainder of a 
 pint of ale upon the tablecloth. 
 
 The fellow offered to show him to the smoking-room 
 when he had done; and although he would have much 
 preferred to return at once to his perilous treasure, he 
 had not the courage to refuse, and was shown down- 
 stairs to the black, gas-lighted cellar, which formed, and 
 possibly still forms, the divan of the Craven Hotel. 
 
 Two very sad betting men were playing billiards, 
 attended by a moist, consumptive marker; and for the 
 moment Silas imagined that these were the only occu- 
 pants of the apartment. But at the next glance his eye 
 fell upon a person smoking in the furthest corner with 
 lowered eyes and a most respectable and modest aspect. 
 He knew at once that he had seen the face before; and, 
 in spite of the entire change of clothes, recognized the 
 man whom he had found seated on a post at the en- 
 trance to Box Court, and who had helped him to carry 
 the trunk to and from the carriage. The Hew Eng- 
 lander simply turned and ran, nor did he pause until 
 he had locked and bolted himself into his bedroom. 
 
 There, all night long, a prey to the most terrible 
 imaginations, he watched beside the fatal boxful of dead 
 flesh. The suggestion of the boots that his trunk was 
 full of gold inspired him with all manner of new ter- 
 rors, if he so much as dared to close an eye; and the 
 presence in the smoking-room, and under an obvious 
 disguise, of the loiterer from Box Court convinced him 
 
76 U/orKs of F^obert Couis Steueijsoi) 
 
 that he was once more the center of obscure machina- 
 tions. 
 
 Midnight had sounded some time, when, impelled by 
 uneasy suspicions, Silas opened his bedroom door and 
 peered into the passage. It was dimly illuminated by 
 a single, jet of gas; and some distance off he perceived 
 a man sleeping on the floor in the costume of a hotel 
 under-servant. Silas drew near the man on tiptoe. He 
 lay partly on his back, partly on his side, and his 
 right forearm concealed his face from recognition. Sud- 
 denly, while the American was still bending over him, 
 the sleeper removed his arm and opened his eyes, and 
 Silas found himself once more face to face with the 
 loiterer of Box Court. 
 
 “Good -night, sir,” said the man, pleasantly. 
 
 But Silas was too profoundly moved to And an an- 
 swer, and regained his room in silence. 
 
 Toward morning, worn out by apprehension, he fell 
 asleep on his chai^ with his head forward on the 
 trunk. In spite of so constrained an attitude and such 
 a grisly pillow, his slumber was sound and prolonged, 
 and he was only awakened at a late hour and by a 
 sharp tapping at the door. 
 
 He hurried to open, and found the boots without. 
 
 “You are the gentleman who called yesterday at 
 Box Court?” he asked. 
 
 Silas, with a quaver, admitted that he had done so. 
 
 “Then this note is for you,” added the servant, 
 proffering a sealed envelope. 
 
 Silas tore it open, and found inside the words ; 
 “Twelve o’clock.” 
 
 H^was punctual to the hour; the trunk was car- 
 
J'fevu /Irabiaij 
 
 77 
 
 ried before him by several stout servants; and he was 
 himself ushered into a room, where a man. sat warm- 
 ing himself before the fire with his back toward the 
 door. The sound of so many persons entering and leav- 
 ing, and the scraping of the trunk as it was deposited 
 upon the bare boards, were alike unable to attract the 
 notice of the occupant; and Silas stood waiting, in an 
 agony of fear, until he should deign to recognize his 
 presence. 
 
 Perhaps five minutes had elapsed before the man 
 turned leisurely about, and disclosed the features of 
 Prince Florizel of Bohemia. 
 
 “So, sir,” he said, with great severity, “this is the 
 manner in which you abuse my politeness. You join 
 yourself to persons of condition, I perceive, for no 
 other purpose than to escape the consequences of your 
 crimes ; and I can readily understand your embarrass- 
 ment when I addressed myself to you yesterday.” 
 
 “Indeed,” cried Silas, “I am innocent of everything 
 except misfortune . ’ ’ 
 
 And in a hurried voice, and with the greatest in- 
 genuousness, he recounted to the Prince the whole his- 
 tory of his calamity. 
 
 “I see I have been mistaken,” said his Highness, 
 when he had heard him to an end. “You are no 
 other than a victim, and, since I am not to punish, you 
 may be sure I shall do my utmost to help. And 
 now,” he continued, “to business. Open your box at 
 once, and let me see what it contains.” 
 
 Silas changed color. 
 
 I almost fear to look upon it,” he exclaimed. 
 
 Nay,” replied the Prince, “have you not looked at 
 
78 U/orl^s of l^oberfc Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 it already? This is a form of sentimentality to be re- 
 sisted. The sight of a sick man, whom we can still 
 help, should appeal more directly to the feelings than 
 that of a dead man who is equally beyond help or 
 harm, love or hatred. Nerve yourself, Mr. Scudda- 
 more,” and then, seeing that Silas still hesitated, “I 
 do not desire to give another name to my request,” he 
 added. 
 
 The young American awoke as if out of a dream, 
 and with a shiver of repugnance addressed himself to 
 loose the straps and open the lock of the Saratoga 
 trunk. The Prince stood by, watching with a com- 
 posed countenance and his hands behind his back. The 
 body was quite stiff, and it cost Silas a great effort, 
 both moral and physical, to dislodge it from its posi- 
 tion, and discover the face. 
 
 Prince Plorizel started back with an exclamation of 
 
 % 
 
 painful surprise. 
 
 “Alas!” he cried, “you little know, Mr. Scudda- 
 more, what a cruel gift you have brought me. This 
 is a young man of my own suite, the brother of my 
 trusted friend; and it was upon matters of my own 
 service that he has thus perished at the hands of vio- 
 lent and treacherous men. Poor Geraldine,” he. went 
 on, as if to himself, “in what words am I to tell you 
 of your brother’s fate? How can I excuse myself in 
 your eyes, or in the eyes • of God, for the presumptuous 
 schemes that led him to this bloody and unnatural 
 death? Ah, Florizel! Florizel! when will you learn the 
 discretion that suits mortal life, and be no longer daz- 
 zled with the image of power at your disposal? Power!” 
 he cried; “who is more powerless? I look upon this 
 
J'/eu7 /Irabiaij 
 
 79 
 
 young man whom I have sacrificed, Mr. Scuddamore, 
 and feel how small a thing it is to be a Prince.” 
 
 Silas was moved at the sight of his emotion. He 
 tried to murmur some consolatory words, and burst into 
 tears. The Prince, touched by his obvious intention, 
 came up to him and took him by the hand. 
 
 “Command yourself,” said he. “We have both 
 much to learn, and we shall both be better men for 
 to-day’s meeting.” 
 
 Silas thanked him in silence with an affectionate look. 
 
 “Write me the address of Dr. Noel on this piece of 
 paper,” continued the Prince, leading him toward the 
 table; “and let me recommend you, when you are 
 again in Paris, to avoid the society of that dangerous 
 man. He has acted in this matter on a generous in- 
 spiration ; that I must believe ; had he been privy to 
 young Geraldine’s death he would never have dispatched 
 the body to the care of the actual criminal.” 
 
 “The actual criminal!” repeated Silas in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 “Even so,” returned the Prince. “This letter, which 
 the disposition of Almighty Providence has so strangely 
 delivered into my hands, was addressed to no less a 
 person than the criminal himself, the infamous Presi- 
 dent of the Suicide Club. Seek to pry no further in 
 these perilous affairs, but content yourself with your 
 own miraculous escape, and leave this house at once. 
 I have pressing affairs, and must arrange at once about 
 
 this poor clay, which was so lately a gallant and hand- 
 some youth.” 
 
 Silas took a grateful and submissive leave of Prince 
 Plorizel, but he lingered in Box Court until he saw 
 
80 
 
 U/orK5 of Hot>ort Coui5 Steueijsoij 
 
 him depart in a splendid carriage on a visit to Colonel 
 Henderson of the police. Republican as he was, the 
 young American took off his hat with almost a senti- 
 ment of devotion to the retreating carriage. And the 
 same night he started by rail on his return to Paris. 
 
 [Here, observes my Arabian author, is the end of “The 
 History of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk.” Omit- 
 ting some reflections on the power of Providence, highly per- 
 tinent in the original, but little suited to our occidental taste, 
 I shall only add that Mr. Scuddamore has already begun to 
 mount the ladder of political fame, and by last advices was 
 the Sheriff of his native town.] 
 
 THE ADVENTURE OF THE HANSOM 0AB8 
 
 Lieutenant Brackenbury Rich had greatly distin- 
 guished himself in one of the lesser Indian hill wars. 
 He it was who took the chieftain prisoner with his 
 own hand; his gallantry was universally applauded; 
 and when he came home, prostrated by an ugly saber 
 cut and a protracted jungle fever, society was prepared 
 to welcome the Lieutenant as a celebrity of minor 
 luster. But his was a character remarkable for un- 
 affected modesty; adventure was dear to his heart, but 
 he cared little for adulation; and he waited at foreign 
 watering-places and in Algiers until the fame of his ex- 
 ploits had run through its nine days* -vitality and be- 
 gun to be forgotten. He arrived in London at la^t, in 
 
]'/e\u /irabiai) 
 
 81 
 
 the early season, with as little observation as he could 
 desire; and as he was an orphan and had none but 
 distant relatives who lived in the provinces, it was al- 
 most as a foreigner that he installed himself in the 
 capital of the country for which he had shed his blood. 
 
 On the day following his arrival he dined alone at 
 a military club. He shook hands with a few old com- 
 rades, and received their warm congratulations; but as 
 one and all had some engagement for the evening, he 
 found himself left entirely to his own resources. He 
 was in dress, for he had entertained the notion of 
 visiting a theater. But the great city was new to 
 him; he had gone from a provincial school to a mili- 
 tary college, and thence direct to the Eastern Empire; 
 and he promised himself a variety of delights in this 
 world for exploration. Swinging his cane, he took his 
 way westward. It was a mild . evening, already dark, 
 and now and then threatening rain. The succession of 
 faces in the lamplight stirred the Lieutenant’s imagina- 
 tion; and it seemed to him as if he could walk for- 
 ever in that stimulating city atmosphere and surrounded 
 by the mystery of four million private lives. He glanced 
 at the houses, and marveled what was passing behind 
 those warmly-lighted windows; he looked into face after 
 face, and saw them each intent upon some unknown 
 interest, criminal or kindly. 
 
 “They talk of war,” he thought, “but this is the 
 great battlefield of mankind.” 
 
 And then he began to wonder that he should walk 
 so long in this complicated scene, and not chance upon 
 BO much as the shadow of an adventure for himself. 
 
 “All in good time,” he reflected. “I am still a 
 
82 U/orl^B of F^oberfc Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 stranger, and perhaps wear a strange air. But I must 
 be drawn into the eddy before long.” 
 
 The night was already well advanced when a plump 
 of cold rain fell suddenly out of the darkness. Brack- 
 enbury paused under some trees, and as he did so he 
 caught sight of a hansom cabman making him a sign 
 that he was disengaged. The circumstance fell in so 
 happily to the occasion that he at once raised his cane 
 in answer, and had soon ensconced himself in the Lon- 
 don gondola. 
 
 “Where to, sir?” asked the driver. 
 
 “Where you please,” said Brackenbury. 
 
 And immediately, at a pace of surprising swiftness, 
 the hansom drove off through the rain into a maze, of 
 villas. One villa was so Uke another, each with its 
 front garden, and there was so little to distinguish the 
 deserted lamp-lighted streets and crescents through which 
 the flying hansom took its way, that Brackenbury soon 
 lost all idea of direction. He would have been tempted 
 to believe that the cabman was amusing himself by 
 driving him round and round and in and out about a 
 small quarter, but there was something businesslike in 
 the speed which convinced him of the contrary. The 
 man had an object in view, he was hastening toward 
 a definite end; and Brackenbury was at once astonished 
 at the fellow’s skill in picking a way through such a 
 labyrinth, and a little concerned to imagine what was 
 the occasion of his hurry. He had heard tales of stran- 
 gers falling ill in London. Did the driver belong to 
 some bloody and treacherous association? and was he 
 himself being whirled to a murderous death? 
 
 The thought had scarcely presented itself when the 
 
I^evu /irabiaij 
 
 83 
 
 cab swung sharply round a corner and pulled up before 
 khe garden gate of a villa in a long and wide road. 
 The house was brilliantly lighted up. Another hansom 
 had just driven away, and Brackenbury could see a 
 gentleman being admitted at the front door and re- 
 ceived by several liveried servants. He was surprised 
 that the cabman should have stopped so immediately 
 in front of a house where a reception was being held; 
 but he did not doubt it was the result of accident, 
 and sat placidly smoking where he was, until he heard 
 the trap thrown open over his head. 
 
 “Here we are, sir,” said the driver. 
 
 “Here!” repeated Brackenbury. “Where?” 
 
 “You told me to take you where I pleased, sir,’” 
 returned the man with a chuckle, “and here we are.” 
 It struck Brackenbury that the voice was wonder- 
 fully smooth and courteous for a man in so inferior a 
 position; he remembered the speed at which he had 
 been driven; and now it occurred to him that the han- 
 som was more luxuriously appointed than the common 
 run of public conveyances. 
 
 “I must ask you to explain,” said he. “Do you 
 mean to turn me out into the rain? My good man, I 
 suspect the choice is mine.” 
 
 The choice is certainly yours,” replied the driver; 
 but when I tell you all, I beheve I know how a 
 gentleman of your figure will decide. . There is a gentle- 
 men’s party in this house. I do not know whether the 
 master be a stranger to London and without acquaint- 
 ances of his own; or whether he is a man of odd no- 
 tions. But certainly I was hire*^ to kidnap single gen- 
 tlemen in evening dress, as many as I pleased, but mili- 
 
84 U/orl^s of r^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 tary officers by preference. You have simply to go in 
 and say that Mr. Morris invited you.” 
 
 “Are you Mr. Morris?” inquired the Lieutenant. 
 
 “Oh, no,” replied the cabman. “Mr. Morris is the 
 person of the house.” 
 
 “It is not a common way of collecting guests,” said 
 Brackenbury; “but an eccentric man might very well in- 
 dulge the whim without any intention to offend. And 
 suppose that I refuse Mr. Morris’s invitation,” he went 
 on, “what then?” 
 
 “My orders are to drive you back where I took you 
 from,” replied the man, “and set out to look for others 
 up to midnight. Those who have no fancy for such an 
 adventure, Mr. Morris said, were not the guests for 
 him.” 
 
 These words decided the Lieutenant on the spot. 
 
 “After all,” he reflected, as he descended from the 
 hansom, “I have not had long to wait for my adven- 
 ture.” 
 
 He had hardly found footing on the sidewalk, and 
 was still feeling in his pocket for the fare, when the 
 cab swung about and drove off by the way it came at 
 the former break-neck velocity. Brackenbury shouted 
 after the man, who paid no heed, and continued to 
 drive away; but the sound of his voice was overheard 
 in the house, the door was again thrown open, emitting 
 a flood of light upon the garden, and a servant ran 
 down to meet him holding an umbrella. 
 
 “The cabman has been paid,” observed the servant 
 in a very civil tone; and he proceeded to escort Brack- 
 enbury along the path and up the steps. In the haU 
 several other attendants relieved him of his hat, cane, 
 
ffew /Irabiap 
 
 85 
 
 and paletot, gave him a ticket with a number in return, 
 and politely hurried him up a stair adorned with tropical 
 flowers, to the door of an apartment on the first story. 
 Here a grave butler inquired his name, and announcing 
 “Lieutenant Brackenbury Rich,” ushered him into the 
 drawing-room of the house. 
 
 A young man, slender and singularly handsome, came 
 forward and greeted him with an air at once courtly and 
 affectionate. Hundreds of candles, of the finest wax, 
 lighted up a room that was perfumed, like the stair- 
 case, with a profusion of rare and beautiful fiowering 
 shrubs. A side-table was loaded with tempting viands. 
 Several servants went to and fro with fruits and goblets 
 of champagne. The company was perhaps sixteen in 
 number, all men, few beyond the prime of life, and, 
 with hardly an exception, of a dashing and capable ex- 
 terior. They were divided into two groups, one about 
 a roulette board, and the other surrounding a table at 
 which one of their number held a bank of baccarat. 
 
 “I see,” thought Brackenbury, “I am in a private 
 gambling saloon, and the cabman was a tout.” 
 
 His eye had embraced the details, and his mind 
 formed the conclusion, while his host was still holding 
 him by the hand; and to him his looks returned from 
 this rapid survey. At a second view Mr. Morris sur- 
 prised him still more than on the first. The easy ele- 
 gance of his manners, the distinction, amiability, and 
 courage that appeared upon his features, fitted very ill 
 with the Lieutenant’s preconceptions on the subject of 
 the proprietor of a hell; and the tone of his conversa- 
 tion seemed to mark him out for a man of position and 
 
 merit. Brackenbury found he had an instinctive liking 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 6 
 
\86 U/orK 5 of f^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 for his entertainer; and though he chid himself for the 
 weakness, he was unable to resist a sort of friendly at- 
 traction for Mr. Morris’s person and character. 
 
 “I have heard of you, Lieutenant Rich,” said Mr. 
 Morris, lowering his tone; “and believe me I am grati- 
 fied to make your acquaintaj^ce. Your looks accord with 
 the reputation that has preceded you from India. And 
 if you will forget for a while the irregularity of your 
 presentation in my house, I shall feel it not only an 
 honor, but a genuine pleasure besides. A man who 
 makes a mouthful of barbarian cavaliers,” he added 
 with a laugh, “should not be appalled by a breach of 
 etiquette, however serious.” 
 
 And he led him toward the sideboard and pressed 
 him to partake of some refreshment. 
 
 “Upon my word,” the Lieutenant reflected, “this is 
 one of the pleasantest fellows and, I do not doubt, one 
 of the most agreeable societies in London.” 
 
 He partook of some champagne, which he found ex- 
 cellent; and observing that many of the company were 
 already smoking, he lighted one of his own Manillas, 
 and strolled up to the roulette board, where he sometimes 
 made a stake and sometimes looked on smilingly on the 
 fortune of others. It was while he was thus idling that 
 he became aware of a sharp scrutiny to which the whole 
 of the guests were subjected. Mr. Morris went here and 
 there, ostensibly busied on hospitable concerns; but he 
 had ever a shrewd glance at disposal; not a man of 
 the party escaped his sudden, searching looks; he took 
 stock of the bearing of heavy losers, he valued the 
 amount of the stakes, he paused behind couples who 
 ** were deep in conversation; and, in a word, there was 
 
87 
 
 I'feu/ /Irabiai^ 
 
 hardly a characteristic of any one present but he seemed 
 to catch and make a note of it. Brackenbury began to 
 wonder if this were indeed a "^mbling hell: it had so 
 much the air of a private inquisition. He followed Mr. 
 Morris in all his movements; and although the man had 
 a ready smile, he seemed to perceive, as it were under 
 a mask, a haggard, careworn, and preoccupied spirit. 
 The fellows around him laughed and made their game; 
 but Brackenbury had lost interest in the guests. 
 
 “This Morris,” thought he, “is no idler in the room. 
 Some deep purpose inspires him; let it be mine to fathom 
 it.” 
 
 Now and then Mr. Morris would call one of his visi- 
 tors aside; and after a brief colloquy in an ante-roomj 
 he would return alone, and the visitors in question reap- 
 peared no more. After a certain number of repetitions, 
 this performance excited Brackenbury’s curiosity to a high 
 degree. He determined to be at the bottom of this minor 
 mystery at once; and strolling into the ante-room, found 
 a deep window recess concealed by curtains of the fash- 
 ionable green. Here he hurriedly ensconced himself; nor 
 had he to wait long before the sound of steps and voices 
 drew near him from the principal apartment. Peering 
 through the division, he saw Mr. Morris escorting a fat 
 and ruddy personage, with somewhat the look of a com- 
 mercial traveler, whom Brackenbury had already re- 
 marked for his coarse laugh and under-bred behavior at 
 the table. The pair halted immediately before the win- 
 dow, so that Brackenbury lost not a word of the fol- 
 lowing discourse : 
 
 “I beg you a thousand pardons!” began Mr. Morris, 
 with the most conciliatory manner; “and, if I appear 
 
88 U/orK5 of Hofc»ert C0U15 Steueij50i? 
 
 rude, I am sure you will readily forgive me. In a place 
 so great as London accidents must continually happen; 
 and the best that we can hope is to remedy them with 
 as small delay as possible. I will not deny that I fear 
 you have made a mistake and honored my poor house 
 by inadvertence; for, to speak openly, I cannot at all re- 
 member your appearance. Let me put the question with- 
 out unnecessary circumlocution — between gentlemen of 
 honor a word will suffice — Under whose roof do you 
 suppose yourself to be?” 
 
 “That of Mr. Morris,” replied the other, with a pro- 
 digious display of confusion, which Lad been visibly 
 growing upon him throughout the last few words. 
 
 “Mr. John or Mr. James Morris?” inquired the host. 
 
 “I really cannoL tell you,” returned the unfortunate 
 guest. “I am not personally acquainted with the gen- 
 tleman, any more than I am with yourself.” 
 
 “I see,” said Mr. Morris. “There is another person 
 of the same name further down the street; and I have 
 no doubt the jx)liceman will be able to supply you with 
 his number. Believe me, I felicitate myself on the mis- 
 understanding which has procured me the pleasure of 
 your company for so long; and let me express a hope 
 that we may meet again upon a more regular footing. 
 Meantime, I would not for the world detain you longer 
 from your friends. John,” he added, raising his voice, 
 “will you see that this gentleman finds his greatcoat?” 
 
 And with the most agreeable air Mr. Morris escorted 
 his visitor as far as the ante-room door, where he left 
 him under conduct of the butler. As he passed the 
 window, on his return to the drawing-room, Backenbury 
 could hear him utter a profound sigh, as though his 
 
jvfeu; /Irabiap 
 
 89 
 
 mind was loaded with a great anxiety, and his nerves 
 already fatigued with the task on which he was em 
 gaged. 
 
 For perhaps an hour the hansoms kept arriving with 
 such frequency that Mr. Morris had to receive a new 
 guest for every old one that he sent away, and the 
 company preserved its number undiminished. But toward 
 the end of that time the arrivals grew few and far be- 
 tween, and at length ceased entirely, while the process 
 of elimination was continued with unimpaired activity. 
 The drawing-room began to look empty: the baccarat 
 
 was discontinued for lack of a banker; more than one 
 person said good-night of his own accord, and was suf- 
 fered to depart without expostulation; and in the mean- 
 while Mr. Morris redoubled in agreeable attentions to 
 those who stayed behind. He went from group to group 
 and from person to person with looks of the readiest 
 sympathy and the most pertinent and pleasing talk; he 
 was not so much like a host as like a hostess, and 
 there was a feminine coquetry and condescension in his 
 manner which charmed the hearts of all. 
 
 As the guests grew thinner, Lieutenant Rich strolled 
 for a moment out of the drawing-room into the hall in 
 quest of fresher air. But he had no sooner passed the 
 threshold of the ante-chamber than he was brought to 
 a dead halt by a discovery of the most surprising nat- 
 ure. The flowering shrubs had disappeared from the 
 staircase; three large furniture wagons stood before the 
 garden gate ; the servants were busy dismantling the 
 house upon all sides ; and some of them had already 
 donned their greatcoats and were preparing to depart. 
 It was like the end of a country ball, where everything 
 
90 U/orl^s of F^obert Coui$ SteuepjOQ 
 
 has been supplied by contract. Brackenbury had indeed 
 some matter for reflection. First, the guests, who were 
 no real guests after all, had been dismissed; and now 
 the servants, who could hardly be geniune servants, 
 were actively dispersing. 
 
 “Was the whole establishment a sham?” he asked 
 himself. “The mushroom of a single night which should 
 disappear before morning?” 
 
 Watching a favorable opportunity, Brackenbury dashed 
 upstairs to the higher regions of the house. • It was as 
 he had expected. He ran from room to room, and saw 
 not a stick of furniture nor so much as a picture on 
 the walls. Although the house had been painted and 
 papered, it was not only uninhabited at present, but 
 plainly had never been inhabited at all. The young 
 oflicer remembered with astonishpaent its specious, set- 
 
 V 
 
 tied, and hospitable air on his arrival. It was only at 
 a prodigious cost that the imposture could have been 
 carried out upon so great a scale. 
 
 Who, then, was Mr. Morris? What was his inte-n 
 tion in thus playing the householder for a single night 
 in the remote west of London? And why did he collect 
 his visitors at hazard from the streets? 
 
 Brackenbury remembered that he had already delayed 
 too l(^ng, and hastened to join the company. Many had 
 left during his absence; and counting the Lieutenant 
 and his host, there were not more than five persons in 
 the drawing-room — recently so thronged. Mr. Morris 
 greeted him, as he re-entered the apartment, with a 
 smile, and immediately rose to his feet. 
 
 “It is now time, gentlemen,” said he, “to explain 
 my purpose in decoying you from your amusements. I 
 
f/eu; /Irabiai? 
 
 91 
 
 trust you did not find the evening hang very dully on 
 your hands; but my object, I will confess it, was not 
 to entertain your leisure, but to help myself in an un- 
 fortunate necessity. You are all gentlemen,” he con- 
 tinued, “your appearance does you that much justice, 
 and I ask for no better security. Hence, I speak it 
 without concealment, I ask you to render me a danger- 
 ous and delicate service ; dangerous because you may 
 run the hazard of your lives, and delicate because I 
 must ask an absolute discretion upon all that you shall 
 see or hear. From an utter stranger the request is al- 
 most comically extravagant; I am well aware of this; 
 and I would add at once, if there be any one present 
 who has heard enough, if there be one among the party 
 who recoils from a dangerous confidence and a piece of 
 Quixotic devotion to he knows not whom — here is my 
 hand ready, and I shall wish him good-night and God- 
 speed with all the sincerity in the world.” 
 
 A very tall, black man, with a heavy stoop, imme- 
 diately responded to this appeal. 
 
 “I commend your frankness, sir,” said he; “and, 
 for my part, I go. I make no reflections; but I can- 
 not deny that you fill me with suspicious thoughts. I 
 go myself, as I say; and perhaps you will think I 
 have no right to add words to my example.” 
 
 “On the contrary,” replied Mr. Morris, “I am obliged 
 to you for all you say. It would be impossible to ex- 
 aggerate the gravity of my proposal.” 
 
 “Well, gentlemen, what do you say?” said the tall 
 man, addressing the others. “We have had our even- 
 ing’s frolic; shall we all go homeward peaceably in a 
 body? You will think well of my suggestion in the 
 
92 U/orKs of f^obert Coui 5 Steuepjop 
 
 morning, when you see the sun again in innocence and 
 safety.” 
 
 The speaker pronounced the last words with an in- 
 tonation which added to their force; and his face wore 
 a singular expression, full of gravity and significance. 
 Another of the company rose hastily, and, wi4h some 
 appearance of alarm, prepared to take his leave. There 
 were only two who held their ground, Brackenbury and 
 an old red-nosed cavalry Major; but these two preserved 
 a nonchalant demeanor, and, beyond a look of intelli- 
 gence which they rapidly exchanged, appeared entirely 
 foreign to the discussion that had just been terminated. 
 
 Mr. Morris conducted the deserters as far as the 
 door, which he closed upon their heels ; then he turned 
 round, disclosing a countenance of mingled relief and 
 animation, and addressed the two officers as follows: 
 
 “I have chosen my men like Joshua in the Bible,” 
 said Mr. Morris, “and I now believe I have the pick 
 of London. Your appearance pleased my hansom cab- 
 men; then it delighted me; I have watched your be- 
 havior in a strange company, and under the most un- 
 usual circumstances: I have studied how you played 
 
 and how you bore your losses; lastly, I have put you 
 to the test of a staggering announcement, and you re- 
 ceived it like an invitation to dinner. It is not for 
 nothing,” he cried, “that I have been for years the 
 companion and the pupil of the bravest and wisest po- 
 tentate in Europe.” 
 
 “At the affair of Bunderchang, ” observed the Major, 
 “I asked for twelve volunteers, and every trooper in the 
 ranks replied to my appeal. But <3, gaming party is not 
 the same thing as a regiment under fire. You may be 
 
I'/eu; /irabiai? 
 
 93 
 
 pleased, I suppose, to have found two, and two who 
 will not fail you at a push. As for the pair who ran 
 away, I count them among the most pitiful hounds I 
 ever met with. Lieutenant Rich,” he added, addressing 
 Brackenbury, “I have heard much of you of late; and 
 I cannot doubt but you have also heard of me. I am 
 Major O’Rooke.” 
 
 And the veteran tendered his hand, which was red 
 and tremulous, to the young Lieutenant. 
 
 “Who has not?” answered Brackenbury. 
 
 “When this little matter is settled,” said Mr. Morris, 
 “you will think I have sufficiently rewarded you; for I 
 could offer neither a more valuable service than to make 
 him acquainted with the other.” 
 
 “And now,” said Major O’Rooke, “is it a duel?” 
 “A duel after a fashion,” replied Mr. Morris, “a 
 duel with unknown and dangerous enemies, and, as I 
 gravely fear, a duel to the death. I must ask you,” 
 he continued, “to call me Morris no longer; call me, 
 if you please, Hammersmith; my real name, as well as 
 that of another person to whom I hope to present you 
 before long, you will gratify me by not asking and not 
 seeking to discover for yourselves. Three days ago the 
 person of whom I speak disappeared suddenly from 
 home ; and, until this morning, I received no hint of 
 his situation. You will fancy my alarm when I tell 
 you that he is engaged upon a work of private justice. 
 Bound by an unhappy oath, too lightly sworn, he finds 
 it necessary, without the help of law, to rid the earth 
 of an insidious and bloody villain. Already two of our 
 friends, and one of them my own born brother, have 
 perished in the enterprise. He himself, or I am much 
 
94 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 deceived, is taken in the same fatal toils. But at least 
 he still lives and still hopes, as this billet sufficiently 
 proves.” 
 
 And the speaker, no other than Colonel Geraldine, 
 proffered a letter, thus conceived: 
 
 “Major Hammersmith — On Wednesday, at 3 a.m., 
 you will be admitted by the small door to the gardens 
 of Rochester House, Regent’s Park, by a man who is 
 entirely in my interest. I must request you not to fail 
 me by a second. Pray bring my case of swords, and, 
 if you can find them, one or two gentlemen of conduct 
 and discretion to whom my person in unknown. My 
 name must not be used in this affair. 
 
 “T. Godall.” 
 
 “From his wisdom alone, if he had no other title,” 
 pursued Colonel Geraldine, when the others had each 
 satisfied his curiosity, “my friend is a man whose direc- 
 tions should implicitly be followed. I need not tell you, 
 therefore, that I have not so much as visited the neigh- 
 borhood of Rochester House ; and that I am still as 
 wholly in the dark as either of yourselves as to the 
 
 nature of my friend’s dilemma. I betook myself, as 
 
 soon as I had received this order, to a furnishing con- 
 tractor, and, in a few hours, the house in which we 
 
 now are had assumed its late air of festival. My scheme 
 was at least original; and I am far from regretting an 
 action which has procured me the services of Major 
 O’Rooke and Lieutenant Brackenbury Rich. But the 
 servants in the street will have a strange awakening 
 The house which this evening was full of lights - and 
 visitors thev will find uninhabited and for sale to-morrow 
 
f/eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 95 
 
 morning. Thus even the most serious concerns,” added 
 the Colonel, “have a merry side.” 
 
 “And let us add a merry ending,” said Brackenbury. 
 
 The Colonel consulted his watch. 
 
 “It is now hard on two,” he said. “We have an 
 hour before us, and a swift cab is at the door. Tell me 
 if I may count upon your help.” 
 
 “During a long life,” replied Major O’Rooke, “I 
 never took back my hand from anything, nor so much 
 as hedged a bet.” 
 
 Brackenbury signified his readiness in the most be- 
 coming terms; and after they had drunk a glass or two 
 of wine, the Colonel gave each of them a loaded re- 
 volver, and the three mounted into the cab and drove 
 off for the address in question. 
 
 Eochester House was a magnificent residence on the 
 banks of the canal. The large extent of the garden iso- 
 lated it in an unusual degree from the annoyances of 
 neighborhood. It seemed the pare aux cerfs of some 
 great nobleman or millionaire. As far as could be seen 
 from the street, there was not a glimmer of light in 
 any of the numerous windows of the mansion; and the 
 place had a look of neglect, as though the master had 
 been long from home. 
 
 The cab was discharged, and the three gentlemen 
 were not long in discovering the small door, which was 
 a sort of postern in a lane between two garden walls. 
 It still wanted ten or fifteen minutes of the appointed 
 time; the rain fell heavier, and the adventurers sheltered 
 themselves below some pendent ivy, and spoke in low 
 tones of the approaching trial. 
 
 Suddenly Geraldine raised his finger to command 
 
96 U/orl^5 of Hofc»ert C0U15 Stev7e950ij 
 
 silence, and all three bent their hearing to the utmost. 
 Through the continuous noise of the rain, the steps and 
 voices of two men became audible from the other side 
 of the wall; and, as they drew nearer, Brackenbury, 
 whose sense of hearing was remarkably acute, could even 
 distinguish some fragments of their talk. 
 
 “Is the grave dug?” asked one. 
 
 “It is,” replied the other; “behind the laurel hedge. 
 When the job is done, we can cover it with a pile of 
 stakes.” 
 
 The first speaker laughed, and the sound of his mer- . 
 riment was shocking to the listeners on the other side. 
 
 “In an hour from now,” he said. 
 
 And by the sound of the steps it was obvious that 
 the pair had separated, and were proceeding in contrary 
 directions. 
 
 Almost immediately after the postern door was cau- 
 tiously opened, a white face was protruded into the lane, 
 and a hand was seen beckoning to the watchers. In 
 dead silence the three passed the door, which was im- 
 mediately locked behind them, and followed their guide 
 through several garden alleys to the kitchen entrance of 
 the house. A single candle burned in the great paved 
 kitchen, which was destitute of the customary furniture; 
 and as the party proceeded to ascend from thence by a 
 flight of winding stairs, a prodigious noise of rats testi- 
 fied still more plainly to the dilapidation of the house. 
 
 Their conductor preceded them, carrying the candle. 
 He was a lean man, much bent, but still agile ; and he 
 turned from time to time and admonished silence and 
 caution by his gestures. Colonel Geraldine followed on 
 his heels, the case of swords under one arm, and a 
 
Jyfeu; /irabiaij 
 
 97 
 
 pistol ready in the other. Brackenbury’s heart beat 
 thickly. He perceived that they were still in time; but 
 he judged from the alacrity of the old man that the 
 hour of action must be near at hand; and the circum- 
 stances of this adventure were so obscure and menacing, 
 the place seemed so well chosen for the darkest acts, 
 that an older man than Brackenbury might have been 
 pardoned a measure of emotion as he closed the proces- 
 sion up the winding stair. 
 
 At the top the guide threw open a door and ushered 
 the three officers before him into a small apartment, 
 lighted by a smoky lamp and the glow of a modest fire. 
 
 At the chimney corner sat a man in the early prime 
 of life, and of a stout but courtly and commanding ap- 
 pearance. His attitude and expression were those of 
 the most unmoved composure; he was smoking a cheroot 
 with much enjoyment and deliberation, and on a table 
 by his elbow stood a long glass of some effervescing 
 beverage which diffused an agreeable odor through the 
 room. 
 
 “Welcome,” said he, extending his hand to Colonel 
 Geraldine. “I knew I might count on your exacti- 
 tude.” 
 
 “On my devotion,” replied the Colonel, with a bow. 
 
 “Present me to your friends,” continued the first; 
 and, when that ceremony had been performed, “I wish, 
 gentlemen,” he added, with the most exquisite affability, 
 “that I could offer you a more cheerful programme; it 
 is ungracious to inaugurate an acquaintance upon serious 
 affairs; but the compulsion of events is stronger than 
 the obligations of good-fellowship. I hope and believe 
 you will be able to forgive me this unpleasant evening; 
 
98 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 and for men of your stamp it will be enough to know 
 that you are conferring a considerable favor.” 
 
 “Your Highness,” said the Major, “must pardon my 
 bluntness. I am unable to hide what I know. For 
 some time back I have suspected Major Hammersmith, 
 but Mr. Godall is unmistakable. To seek two men in 
 London unacquainted with Prince Plorizei of Bohemia 
 was to ask too much at Fortune’s hands.” 
 
 “Prince Florizel!” cried Brackenbury in amazement. 
 And he gazed with the deepest interest on the feat- 
 ures of the celebrated personage before him. 
 
 “I shall not lament the loss of my incognito,” re- 
 marked the Prince, “for it enables me to thank you 
 with the more authority. You would have done as much 
 for Mr. Godall, I feel sure, as for the Prince of Bo- 
 hemia; but the latter can perhaps do more for you. 
 The gain is mine,” he added, with a courteous gesture. 
 
 And the next moment he was conversing with the 
 two officers about the Indian army and the native 
 troops, a subject on which, as on all others, he had a 
 remarkable fund of information and the soundest views. 
 
 There was something so striking in this man’s atti- 
 tude at a moment of deadly peril that Brackenbury 
 was overcome with respectful admiration; nor was he 
 less sensible to the charm of his conversation or the sur- 
 prising amenity of his address. Every gesture, every in- 
 tonation, was not only noble in itself, but seemed to en- 
 noble the fortunate mortal for whom it was intended; 
 and Brackenbury confessed to himself with enthusiasm 
 that this was a sovereign for whom a brave man might 
 thankfully lay down his life. 
 
 Many minutes had thus passed, when the person who 
 
I'/etu /irabiai) 
 
 had introduced them into the house, and who had sat 
 ever since in a corner, and with his watch in his hand, 
 arose and whispered a word into the Prince’s ear. 
 
 “It is well. Dr. Noel,” replied Florizel, aloud; and 
 then addressing the others, “You will excuse me, gen- 
 tlemen,” he added, “if I have to leave you in the dark. 
 The moment now approaches.” 
 
 Dr. Noel extinguished the lamp. A faint, gray light, 
 premonitory of the dawn, illuminated the window, but 
 was not BuflScient to illuminate the room; and when the 
 Prince rose to his feet, it was impossible to distinguish 
 his features or to make a guess at the nature of the 
 emotion which obviously affected him as he spoke. He 
 moved toward the door, and placed himself at one side 
 of it in an attitude of the wariest attention. 
 
 “You will have the kindness,” he said, “to maintain 
 the strictest silence, and to conceal yourselves in the 
 densest of the shadow.” 
 
 The three officers and the physician hastened to obey, 
 and for nearly ten minutes the only sound in Rochester 
 House was occasioned by the excursions of the rats be- 
 hind the woodwork. At the end of that period, a loud 
 creak of a hinge broke in with surprising distinctness on 
 the silence; and shortly after, the watchers could dis- 
 tinguish a slow and cautious tread approaching up the 
 kitchen stair. At every second step the intruder seemed 
 to pause and lend an ear, and during these intervals, 
 which seemed of an incalculable duration, a profound 
 disquiet possessed the spirit of the listeners. Dr. Noel, 
 accustomed as he was to dangerous emotions, suffered 
 an almost pitiful physical prostration; his breath whistled 
 in his lungs, his teeth grated one upon another, and 
 
100 \I/ort[8 of F^obert Coais Steuepsop 
 
 his joints cracked aloud as he nervously shifted his 
 position. 
 
 At last a hand was laid upon the door, and the 
 bolt shot back with a slight report. There followed an- 
 other pause, during which Brackenbuiy could see the 
 Prince draw himself together noiselessly as if for some 
 unusual exertion. Then the door opened, letting in a 
 little more of the light of the morning; and the figure 
 of a man appeared upon the threshold and stood motion- 
 less. He was tall, and carried a knife in his hand. 
 Even in the twilight they could see his upper teeth 
 bare and glistening, for his mouth was open like that 
 of a hound about to leap. The man had evidently been 
 over the head in water but a minute or two before; and 
 even while he stood there the drops kept falling from 
 his wet clothes and pattered on the fioor. 
 
 The next moment he crossed the threshold. There was 
 a leap, a stifled cry, an instantaneous struggle; and before 
 Colonel Geraldine could spring to his aid, the Prince held 
 the man, disarmed and helpless, by the shoulders. 
 
 “Dr. Noel,” he said, “you will be so good as to 
 relight the lamp.” 
 
 And relinquishing the charge of his prisoner to Ger- 
 aldine and Brackenbury, he crossed the room and set 
 his back against the chimney-piece. As soon as the 
 lamp had kindled, the party beheld an unaccustomed 
 sternness on the Prince’s features. It was no longer 
 Florizel, the careless gentleman ; it was the Prince of 
 Bohemia, justly incensed and full of deadly purpose, 
 who now raised his head and addressed the captive 
 President of the Suicide Club. 
 
 “President,” he said, “you have laid your last snare- 
 
r^eu/ /Irabiaij 
 
 101 
 
 and your own feet are taken in it. The day is begin- 
 ning; it is your last morning. You have just swum the 
 Regent’s Canal ; it is your last bath in this world. 
 Your old accomplice, Dr. Noel, so far from betraying 
 me, has delivered you into my hands for Judgment. 
 And the grave you had dug for me this afternoon shall 
 serve, in God’s almighty providence, to hide your own 
 Just doom from the curiosity of mankind. Kneel and 
 pray, sir, if you have a mind that way; for your time 
 is short, and God is weary of your iniquities.” 
 
 The President made no answer either by word or 
 sign; but continued to hang his head and gaze sullenly 
 on the floor, as though he were conscious of the 
 Prince’s prolonged and unsparing regard. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” continued Plorizel, resuming the ordi- 
 nary tone of his conversation, “this is a fellow who has 
 long eluded me, but whom, thanks to Dr. Noel, I now 
 have tightly by the heels. To tell the story of his mis- 
 deeds would occupy more time than we can now afford; 
 but if the canal had contained nothing but the blood of 
 his victims, I believe the wretch would have been no 
 drier than you see hini. Even in an affair of this sort 
 I desire to preserve the forms of honor. But I make 
 you the Judges, gentlemen — this is more an execution than 
 a duel; and to give the rogue his choice of weapons 
 would be to pi\sh too far a point of etiquette. I cannot 
 afford to lose my life in such a business,” he continued, 
 unlocking the case of swords; “and as a pistol-bullet 
 travels so often on the wings of chance, and skill and 
 courage may fall by the most trembling marksman, I 
 have decided, and I feel sure you will approve my de- 
 termination, to put this question to the touch of swords.” 
 Stevenson. Vou I.— 1 
 
102 U/orKs of I^obert Coui3 Steueij^oij 
 
 "When Brackenbury and Major O’Rooke, to whom these 
 remarks were particularly addressed, had each intimated 
 his approval, “Quick, sir,” added Prince Florizel to the 
 President, “choose a blade and do not keep me waiting; 
 I have an impatience to be done with you forever.” 
 
 For the first time since he was captured and dis° 
 armed the President raised his head, and it was plain 
 that he began instantly to pluck up courage. 
 
 “Is it to be stand up?” he asked eagerly, “and 
 between you and me?” 
 
 “I mean so far to honor you,” replied the Prince. 
 
 “Oh, cornel” cried the President. “With a fair field, 
 who knows how things may happen? I must add that 
 I consider it handsome behavior on your Highness’s part; 
 and if the worst comes to the worst I shall die by one 
 of the most gallant gentlemen in Europe.” 
 
 And the President, liberated by those who had de- 
 tained him, stepped up to the table and began, with 
 minute attention, to select a sword. He was highly 
 elated, and seemed to feel no doubt that he should issue 
 victorious from the contest. The spectators grew alarmed 
 in the face of so entire a confidence, and adjured Prince 
 Florizel to reconsider his intention. 
 
 “It is but a farce,” he answered; “and I think I 
 can promise you, gentlemen, that it will not be long 
 a-playing.” 
 
 “Your Highness will be careful not to overreach,” 
 said Colonel Geraldine. 
 
 “Geraldine,” returned the Prince, “did you ever know 
 me fail in a debt of honor? I owe you this man’s death, 
 and you shall have it.” 
 
 The President at last satisfied himself with one of the 
 
jyfeu/ /Irabiai) 
 
 103 
 
 rapiers, and signified his readiness by a gesture that was 
 not devoid of a rude nobility. The nearness of peril, and 
 the sense of courage, even to this obnoxious villain, lent 
 an air of manhood and a certain grace. 
 
 The Prince helped himself at random to a sword. 
 “Colonel Geraldine and Doctor Noel,” he said, “will 
 have the goodness to await me in this room. I wish no 
 personal friend of mine to be involved in this transac- 
 tion. Major O’Rooke, you are a man of some years and 
 a settled reputation — let me recommend the President to 
 your good graces. . Lieutenant Rich will be so good as 
 lend me his attentions: a young man cannot have too 
 much experience in such affairs.” 
 
 “Your Highness,” replied Brackenbury, “it is an 
 honor I shall prize extremely.” 
 
 “It is well,” returned Prince Plorizel; “I shall 
 hope to stand your friend in more important circum- 
 stances.” 
 
 And so saying, he led the way out of the apartment 
 and down the kitchen stairs. 
 
 The two men who were thus left alone threw open 
 the window and leaned out, straining every sense to catch 
 an indication of the tragical events that were about to 
 follow. The rain was now over; day had almost come, 
 and the birds were piping in the shrubbery and on the 
 forest trees of the garden. The Prince and his com- 
 panions were visible for a moment as they followed an 
 alley between two flowering thickets; but at the first 
 corner a clump of foliage intervened, and they were again 
 concealed from view. This was all that the Colonel and 
 the physician had an opportunity to see, and the garden 
 was so vast, and the place of combat evidently so remote 
 
104 U/orKs of F^obert Couis 8teuei75oi7 
 
 from the house, that not even the noise of sword-play 
 reached their ears. 
 
 “He has taken him toward the grave,” said Dr. Noel, 
 with a shudder. 
 
 “God,” cried the Colonel, “God defend the rightl” 
 
 And they awaited the event in silence, the Doctor 
 shaking with fear, the Colonel in an agony of sweat. 
 Many minutes must have elapsed, the day was sensibly 
 broader, and the birds were singing more heartily in the 
 garden before a sound of returning footsteps recalled 
 their glances toward the door. It was the Prince and 
 the two Indian officers who entered. God had defended 
 the right. 
 
 “I am ashamed of my emotion,” said Prince Florizel; 
 “I feel it is a weakness unworthy of my station, but 
 the continued existence of that hound of hell had begun 
 
 to prey upon me like a disease, and his death has more 
 
 refreshed me than a night of slumber. Look, Geraldine,” 
 he continued, throwing his sword upon the floor, “there 
 is the blood of the man who killed your brother. It 
 should be a welcome sight. And yet,” he added, “see 
 how strangely we men are made! my revenge is not yet 
 five minutes old, and already I am beginning to ask my- 
 self if even revenge be attainable on this precarious stage 
 of life. The ill he did, who can undo it? The career 
 
 in which he amassed a huge fortune (for the house 
 
 itself in which we stand belonged to him) — that career 
 is now a part of the destiny of mankind forever; and 
 I might weary myself making thrusts in carte until the 
 crack of judgment, and Geraldine’s brother would be 
 none the less dead, and a thousand other innocent per- 
 sons would be none the less dishonored and debauched! 
 
ffeu; /)rabiai; 
 
 105 
 
 The existence of a man is so small a thing to take, so 
 mighty a thing to employ! Alas!” he cried, “is there 
 anything in life so disenchanting as attainment?” 
 
 “God’s justice has been done,” replied the Doctor. 
 “So much I behold. The lesson, your Highness, has 
 been a cruel one for me; and I await my own turn 
 with deadly apprehension.” 
 
 “What was I saying?” cried the Prince. “I have 
 punished, and here is the man beside us who can help 
 me to undo. Ah, Dr. Noel! you and I have before us 
 many a day of hard and honorable toil; and perhaps, 
 before we have done, you may have more than re- 
 deemed your early errors.” 
 
 “And in the meantime,” said the Doctor, “let me go 
 and bury my oldest friend.” 
 
 [And this, observes the erudite Arabian, is the fortunate 
 conclusion of the tale. The Prince, it is superfluous to men- 
 tion, forgot none of those who served him in this great 
 exploit; and to this day his authority and influence help 
 them forward in their public career, while his condescending 
 friendship adds a charm to their private life. To collect, 
 continues my author, all the strange events in which this 
 Prince has played the part of Providence were to All the 
 habitable globe with books. But the stories which relate to 
 the fortunes of “The Rajah’s Diamond” are of too entertain- 
 ing a description, says he, to be omitted. Following pru- 
 dently in the footsteps of this Oriental, we shall now begin 
 the series to which he refers with the “Story of the 
 Bandbox.”] 
 
106 
 
 U/orl^s of • F^obert • Couis 8teuei?soij 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 THE RAJAH’S DIAMOND 
 
 STORY OF THE BANDBOX 
 
 Up to the age of sixteen, at a private school and 
 afterward at one of those great institutions for which 
 England is justly famous, Mr. Harry Hartley had re- 
 ceived the ordinary education of a gentleman. At that 
 period, he manifested a remarkable distaste for study; 
 
 and his only surviving parent being both weak and 
 
 ignorant, he was permitted thenceforward to spend his 
 time in the attainment of petty and purely elegant ac- 
 complishments. Two years later, he was left an orphan 
 and almost a beggar. For all active and industrious 
 
 pursuits, Harry was unfitted alike by nature and train- 
 ing. He could sing romantic ditties, and accompany 
 
 himself with discretion on the piano; he was a graceful 
 although a timid cavalier; he had a pronounced taste for 
 chess; and nature had sent him into the world with one 
 of the most engaging exteriors that can well be fancied. 
 Blonde and pink, with dove’s eyes and a gentle smile, 
 he had an air of agreeable tenderness and melancholy, 
 and the most submissive and caressing manners. But 
 when all is said, he was not the man to lead arma- 
 ments of war, or direct the councils of a State. 
 
 A fortunate chance and some infiuence obtained for 
 Harry, at the time of his bereavement, the position of 
 
f/eu; /)rabiap 
 
 107 
 
 private secretary to Major-General Sir Thomas Vandeleur, 
 C.B. Sir Thomas was a man of sixty, loud-spoken, 
 boisterous, and domineering. For some reason, some 
 service the nature of which had been often whispered 
 and repeatedly denied, the Rajah of Kashgar had pre- 
 sented this officer with the sixth known diamond of the 
 world. The gift transformed General Vandeleur from a 
 poor into a wealthy man, from an obscure and unpopular 
 soldier into one of the lions of London society; the pos- 
 sessor of the Rajah’s Diamond was welcome in the most 
 exclusive circles; and he had found a lady, young, 
 beautiful, and well-born, who was willing to call the 
 diamond hers even at the price of marriage with Sir 
 Thomas Vandeleur. It was commonly said at the time 
 that, as like draws to like, one jewel had attracted 
 another; certainly Lady Vandeleur was not only a gem 
 of the finest water in her own person, but she showed 
 herself to the world in a very costly setting; and she 
 was considered by many respectable authorities as one 
 among the three or four best dressed women in England. 
 
 Harry’s duty as secretary was not particularly oner- 
 ous; but he had a dislike for all prolonged work; it 
 gave him pain to ink his fingers; and the charm of Lady 
 Vandeleur and her toilettes drew him often from the 
 library to the boudoir. He had the prettiest ways among 
 women, could talk fashions with enjoyment, and was 
 never more happy than when criticising a shade of rib- 
 bon, or running on an errand to the milliner’s. In 
 short. Sir Thomas’s correspondence fell into pitiful ar- 
 rears, and my Lady had another lady’s maid. 
 
 At last the General, who was one of the least patient 
 of military commanders, arose from his place in a vio- 
 
108 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steuei) 80 i> 
 
 lent access of passion, and indicated to his secretary that 
 he had no further need for his services, with one of 
 those explanatory gestures which are most rarely em- 
 ployed between gentlemen. The door being unfortunately 
 open, Mr. Hartley fell downstairs headforemost. 
 
 He arose somewhat hurt and very deeply aggrieved. 
 The life in the General’s house precisely suited him; 
 he moved, on a more or less doubtful footing, in very 
 genteel company, he did little, he ate of the best, and 
 he had a lukewarm satisfaction in the presence of Lady 
 Vandeleur, which, in his own heart, he dubbed by a 
 more emphatic name. 
 
 Immediately after he had been outraged by the mili- 
 tary foot, he hurried to the boudoir and recounted his 
 sorrows. 
 
 “You know very well, my dear Harry,” replied Lady 
 Vandeleur, for she called him by name like a child or 
 a domestic servant, “that you never by any chance do 
 what the General tells you. No more do I, you may 
 say. But that is different. A woman can earn her par- 
 don for a good year of disobedience by a single adroit 
 submission; and, besides, no one is married to his private 
 secretary. I shall be sorry to lose you; but since you 
 cannot stay longer in a house where you have been in- 
 sulted, I shall wish you good-by, and I promise you to 
 make the General smart for his behavior.” 
 
 Harry’s countenance feU; tears came into his eyes and 
 he gazed on Lady Vandeleur with a tender reproach. 
 
 “My Lady,” said he, “what is an insult? I should 
 think little indeed of any one who could not forgive them 
 by the score. But to leave one’s friends; to tear up the 
 bonds of affection — ” 
 
f<eu7 /irabiaij 
 
 109 
 
 He was unable to continue, for his emotion choked 
 him, and he began to weep. 
 
 Lady Vandeleur looked at him with a curious 
 expression. 
 
 “This little fool,” she thought, “imagines himself to 
 be in love with me. Why should he not become my 
 servant instead of the General’s? He is good-natured, 
 obliging, and understands dress; and besides it will keep 
 him out of mischief. He is positively too pretty to be 
 unattached.” 
 
 That night she talked over the General, who was 
 already somewhat ashamed of his vivacity; and Harry 
 was transferred to the feminine department, where his 
 life was little short of heavenly. He was always dressed 
 with uncommon nicety, wore delicate flowers in his but- 
 tonhole, and could entertain a visitor with tact and 
 pleasantry. He took a pride in servility to a beautiful 
 woman; received Lady Vandeleur ’s commands as so many 
 marks of favor; and was pleased to exhibit himself 
 before other men, who derided and despised him, in his 
 character of male lady’s-maid and man milliner. Nor 
 could he think enough of his existence from a moral 
 point of view. Wickedness seemed to him an essentially 
 male attribute, and to pass one’s days with a delicate 
 woman, and principally occupied about trimmings, was 
 to inhabit an enchanted isle among the storms of life. 
 
 One flne morning he came into the drawing-room 
 and began to arrange some music on the top of the 
 piano. Lady Vandeleur^ at the other end of the apart- 
 ment, was speaking somewhat eagerly with her brother, 
 Charlie Pendragon, an elderly young man, much broken 
 •with dissipation, and very lame oi one foot. The private 
 
110 U/orl^5 of F^obert Coufs Steueij 5 oi> 
 
 secretary, to whose entrance they paid no regard, could 
 not avoid overhearing a part of their conversation. 
 
 “To-day or never,” said the lady. “Once and for 
 all, it shall be done to-day.”. 
 
 “To-day if it must be,” replied the brother, with a 
 sigh. “But it is a false step, a ruinous step, Clara; 
 and we shall live to repent it dismally.” 
 
 Lady Vandeleur looked her brother steadily and 
 somewhat strangely in the face. 
 
 “You forget,” she said; “the man must die at last.” 
 “Upon my word, Clara,” said Pendragon, “I believe 
 fou are the most heartless rascal in England.” 
 
 “You men,” she returned, “are so coarsely built, 
 that you can never appreciate a shade of meaning. You 
 are yourselves rapacious, violent, immodest, careless of 
 distinction ; and yet the least thought for the future 
 shocks you in a woman. I have no patience with such 
 stuff. You would despise in a common banker the im- 
 becility that you expect to find in us.” 
 
 “You are very likely right,” replied her brother; 
 “you were always cleverer than I. And, anyway, you 
 know my motto: The family before all.” 
 
 “Yes, Charlie,” she returned, taking his hand in 
 hers, “I know your motto better than you know it your- 
 self. ‘And Clara before the family!’ Is not that the 
 second part of it? Indeed, you are the best of brothers, 
 and I love you dearly.” 
 
 Mr. Pendragon got up, looking a little confused by 
 these family endearments. 
 
 “I had better not be seen,” said he. “I understand 
 my part to a miracle, and I’ll keep an eye on the 
 Tame Cat.” 
 
]^feu; /^rabiap 
 
 111 
 
 “Do,” she replied. “He is an abject creature, and 
 might ruin all.” 
 
 She kissed the tips of her fingers to him daintily; 
 and the brother withdrew by the boudoir and the back 
 stair. 
 
 “Harry,” said Lady Vandeleur, turning toward the 
 secretary as soon as they were alone, “I have a com- 
 mission for you this morning. But you shall take a 
 cab; I cannot have my secretary freckled.” ^ 
 
 She spoke the last words with emphasis and a look 
 of half-motherly pride that caused great contentment to 
 poor Harry; and he professed himself charmed to find 
 an opportunity of serving her. 
 
 “It is another of our great secrets,” she went on, 
 archly, “and no one must know of it but my secretary 
 and me. Sir Thomas would make the saddest disturbance; 
 and if you only knew how weary I am of these scenes! 
 Oh, Harry, Harry, can you explain to me what makes 
 you men so violent and unjust? But, indeed, I know 
 you cannot; you are the only man in the world who 
 knows nothing of these shameful passions; you are so 
 good, Harry, and so kind ; you, at least, can be a 
 woman’s friend; and, do you know? I think you make 
 the others more ugly by comparison.” 
 
 “It is you,” said Harry, gallantly, “who are so kind 
 to me. You treat me like — ” 
 
 “Like a mother,” interposed Lady Vandeleur, “I try 
 to be a mother to you. Or, at least,” she corrected her- 
 self with a smile, “almost a mother. I am afraid I 
 am too young to be your mother really. Let us say a 
 friend — a dear friend.” 
 
 She paused long enough to let her words take effect 
 
112 U/orKs of F^oberfc Couis Stcueijsoi) 
 
 in Harry’s sentimental quarters, but not long enough to 
 allow him a reply. 
 
 “But all this is beside our purpose,” she resumed. 
 “You will find a bandbox in the left-hand side of the 
 oak wardrobe; it is underneath the pink slip that I wore 
 on Wednesday with my Mechlin. You will take it im- 
 mediately to this address,” and she gave him a paper; 
 “but do not, on any account, let it out of your hands 
 until you have received a receipt written by myself. 
 Do you understand? Answer, if you please — answer! 
 This is extremely important, and I must ask you to 
 pay some attention.” 
 
 Harry pacified her by repeating her instructions per- 
 fectly; and she was just going to tell him more when 
 General Vandeleur flung into the apartment, scarlet with 
 anger, and holding a long and elaborate milliner’s bill 
 in his hand. 
 
 “Will you look at this, madam!” cried he. “Will you 
 have the goodness to look at this document? I know 
 well enough you married me for my money, and I hope 
 I can make as great allowances as any other man in 
 the service; but, as sure as God made me, I mean to 
 put a period to this disreputable prodigality.” 
 
 “Mr. Hartley,” said Lady Vandeleur, “I think you 
 understand what you have to do. May I ask you to see 
 to it at once?” 
 
 “Stop,” said the General, addressing Harry, “one 
 word before you go.” And then, turning again to Lady 
 Vandeleur, “What is this precious fellow’s errand?” he 
 demanded. “I trust him no further than I do yourself, 
 let me tell you. If he had as much as the rudiments 
 of honesty, he would scorn to stay in this house; and 
 
J'leuj /Irabiap 
 
 113 
 
 ■vriiat he does for his wages is a mystery to all the 
 world. What is his errand, madam? and why are you 
 hurrying him away?” 
 
 “I supposed you had something to say to me in 
 private,” replied the lady. 
 
 “You spoke about an errand,” insisted the General. 
 “Do not attempt to deceive me in my present state of 
 temper. You certainly spoke about an errand.” 
 
 “If you insist on making your servants privy to our 
 humiliating dissensions,” replied Lady Vandeleur, “per- 
 haps I had better ask Mr. Hartley to sit down. No?” 
 she continued; “then you may go, Mr. Hartley. I trust 
 you may remember all that you have heard in this 
 room; it may be useful to you.” 
 
 Harry at once made his escape from the drawing- 
 room; and as he ran upstairs he could hear the Gen- 
 eral’s voice upraised in declamation, and the thin tones 
 of Lady Vandeleur planting icy repartees at every open- 
 ing. How cordially he admired the wife I How skillfully 
 she could evade an awkward question! with what secure 
 effrontery she repeated her instructions under the very 
 guns of the enemy! and on the other hand, how he 
 detested the husband! 
 
 There had been nothing unfamiliar in the morning’s 
 events, for he was continually in the habit of serving 
 Lady Vandeleur on secret missions, principally connected 
 with millinery. There was a skeleton in the house, as 
 he well knew. The bottomless extravagance and the un- 
 known liabilities of the wife had long since swallowed 
 her own fortune, and threatened day by day to engulf 
 that of the husband. Once or twice in every year ex- 
 posure and ruin seemed imminent, and Harry kept trot- 
 
114 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuei> 80 Q 
 
 ting round to all sorts of furnishers’ shops, telling 
 small fibs, and paying small advances on the gross 
 amount, until another term was tided over, and the lady 
 and her faithful secretary breathed again. For Harry, 
 in a double capacity, was heart and soul upon that 
 side of the war: not only did he adore Lady Vandeleur 
 and fear and dislike her husband, but he naturally 
 sympathized with the love of finery, and his own single 
 extravagance was at the tailor’s. 
 
 He found the bandbox where it had been described, 
 arranged his toilette with care, and left the house. The 
 sun shone brightly; the distance he had to travel was 
 considerable, and he remembered with dismay that the 
 General’s sudden irruption had prevented Lady Vande- 
 leur from giving him money for a cab. On this sultry 
 day there was every chance that his complexion would 
 suffer severely; and to walk through so much of London 
 with a bandbox on his arm was a humiliation almost 
 insupportable to a youth of his character. He paused, 
 and took counsel with himself. The Vandeleurs lived in 
 Eaton Place; his destination was near Netting Hill; 
 plainly, he might cross the Park by keeping well in the 
 open and avoiding populous alleys; and he thanked his 
 stars when he reflected that it was still comparatively 
 early in the day. 
 
 Anxious to be rid of his incubus, he walked some- ! 
 
 what faster than his ordinary, and he was already some i 
 
 way through Kensington Gardens when, in a solitary spot ] 
 
 among trees, he found himself confronted by the General. ] 
 
 “I beg your pardon. Sir Thomas,” observed Harry, | 
 
 pohtely falling on one side; for the other stood directly A 
 
 in his path. ' 
 
 * 
 
J(cu; /Irabiap 
 
 115 
 
 “Where are you going, sir?” asked the General, 
 
 “I am taking a little walk among the trees,” replied 
 the lad. 
 
 The General struck the bandbox with his cane. 
 “With that thing?” he cried; “you lie, sir, and you 
 know you lie!” 
 
 “Indeed, Sir Thomas,” returned Harry, “I am not 
 accustomed to be questioned in so high a key.” 
 
 “You do not understand your position,” said the 
 General. “You are my servant, and a servant of whom 
 I have conceived the most serious suspicions. How do I 
 know but that your box is full of teaspoons?” 
 
 “It contains a silk hat belonging to a friend,” said 
 Harry. 
 
 “Very well,” replied General Vandeleur. “Then I 
 want to see your friend’s silk hat. I have,” he added, 
 grimly, “a singular curiosity for hats; and I believe 
 you know me to be somewhat positive.” 
 
 “I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, I am exceedingly 
 grieved,” Harry apologized; “but indeed this is a private 
 affair.” 
 
 The General caught him roughly by the shoulder 
 with one hand, while he raised his cane in the most 
 menacing manner with the other. Harry gave himself 
 up for lost; but at the same moment Heaven vouchsafed 
 him an unexpected defender in the person of Charlie Pen- 
 dragon, who now strode forward from behind the trees. 
 
 “Come, come. General, hold your hand,” said he, 
 “this is neither courteous nor manly.” 
 
 “Aha!” cried the General, wheeling round upon his 
 new antagonist, “Mr. Pendragon! And do you suppose, 
 Mr. Pendragon, that, because I have had the misfortune to 
 
116 
 
 U/orKs of Hot>oi"t Coais Steuepsoi? 
 
 marry your sister, I shall suffer myself to be dogged' and 
 thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt libertine like you? 
 My acquaintance with Lady Vandeleur, sir, has taken away 
 all my appetite for the other members of her family.” 
 
 “And do you fancy. General Vandeleur,” retorted 
 Charlie, “that, because my sister has had the misfortune 
 to marry you, she there and then forfeited her rights 
 and privileges as a lady? I own, sir, that by that action 
 she did as much as anybody could to derogate from 
 her position; but to me she is still a Pendragon. I 
 make it my business to protect her from ungentlemanly 
 outrage, and if you were ten times her husband I would 
 not permit her liberty to be restrained, nor her private 
 messengers to be violently arrested.” 
 
 “How is that, Mr. Hartley?” interrogated the Gen- 
 eral. “Mr. Pendragon is of my opinion, it appears. 
 He too suspects that Lady Vandeleur has something to 
 do with your friend’s silk hat.” 
 
 Charlie saw that he had committed an unpardonable 
 
 • ^ 
 
 blunder, which he hastened to repair. 
 
 “How, sir?” he cried; “I suspect, do you say? I sus- 
 pect nothing. Only where I find strength abused and a 
 man brutalizing his inferiors, I take the liberty to in- 
 terfere.” 
 
 As he said these words he made a sign to Harry, 
 which the latter was too dull or too much troubled to 
 understand. 
 
 “In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir?” 
 demanded Vandeleur. 
 
 “Why, sir, as you please,” returned Pendragon. 
 
 The General once more raised his cane, and made 
 a cut for Charlie’s head; but the latter, lame foot and 
 
flew /Irabiap 
 
 117 
 
 all, evaded the blow with his umbrella, ran in, and 
 immediately closed with his formidable adversary. 
 
 “Run, Harry, run!” he cried; “run, you dolt!” 
 
 Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the 
 two men sway together in this fierce embrace; then he 
 turned and took to his heels. "When he cast a glance 
 over his shoulder he saw the General prostrate under 
 Charlie’s knee, but still making desperate efforts to re- 
 verse the situation; and the Gardens seemed to have 
 filled with people, who were running from all directions 
 toward the scene of the fight. This spectacle lent the 
 secretary wings; and he did not relax his pace until 
 he had gained the Bays water road, and plunged at ran- 
 dom into an unfrequented by-street. 
 
 To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus bru- 
 tally mauling each other was deeply shocking to Harry. 
 He desired to forget the sight; he desired, above all, 
 to put as great a distance as possible between himself 
 and General Vandeleur; and in his eagerness for this 
 he forgot everything about his destination and hurried 
 before him headlong and trembling. When he remem- 
 bered that Lady Vandeleur was the wife of one and 
 the sister of the other of these gladiators, his heart was 
 touched with sympathy for a woman so distressingly 
 misplaced in life. Even his own situation in the Gen- 
 eral’s household looked hardly so pleasing as usual in 
 the light of these violent transactions. 
 
 He had walked some little distance, busied with 
 these meditations, before a slight collision with another 
 passenger reminded him of the bandbox on his arm. 
 
 “Heavens!” cried he, “where was my head? and 
 
 whither have I wandered?” 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 8 
 
116 
 
 U/orK$ of f^obert Couis Steuer^soi? 
 
 marry your sister, I shall suffer myself to be dogged' and 
 thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt libertine bke you? 
 My acquaintance with Lady Vandeleur, sir, has taken away 
 all my appetite for the other members of her family.” 
 
 “And do you fancy. General Vandeleur,” retorted 
 Charlie, “that, because my sister has bad the misfortune 
 to marry you, she there and then forfeited her rights 
 and privileges as a lady? I own, sir, that by that action 
 she did as much as anybody could to derogate from 
 her position; but to me she is still a Pendragon. I 
 make it my business to protect her from ungentlemanly 
 outrage, and if you were ten times her husband I would 
 not permit her liberty to be restrained, nor her private 
 messengers to be violently arrested.” 
 
 “How is that, Mr. Hartley?” interrogated the Gen- 
 eral. “Mr. Pendragon is of my opinion, it appears. 
 He too suspects that Lady Vandeleur has something to 
 do with your friend’s silk hat.” 
 
 Charlie saw that be bad committed an unpardonable 
 blunder, which be hastened to repair. 
 
 “How, sir?” be cried; “I suspect, do you say? I sus- 
 pect nothing. Only where I find strength abused and a 
 man brutalizing bis inferiors, I take the liberty to in- 
 terfere.” 
 
 As he said these words be made a sign to Harry, 
 which the latter was too dull or too much troubled to 
 understand. 
 
 “In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir?” 
 demanded V andeleur. 
 
 “Why, sir, as you please,” returned Pendragon. 
 
 The General once more raised bis cane, and made 
 a cut for Charlie’s head; but the latter, lame foot and 
 
f/euf /Irabiap 
 
 117 
 
 all, evaded the blow with his umbrella, ran in, and 
 immediately closed with his formidable adversary. 
 
 “Run, Harry, run!” he cried; “run, you dolt!” 
 
 Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the 
 two men sway together in this fierce embrace; then he 
 turned and took to his heels. When he cast a glance 
 over his shoulder he saw the General prostrate under 
 Charlie’s knee, but still making desperate efforts to re- 
 verse the situation; and the Gardens seemed to have 
 filled with people, who were running from all directions 
 ■toward the scene of the fight. This spectacle lent the 
 secretary wings; and he did not relax his pace until 
 he had gained the Bayswater road, and plunged at ran- 
 dom into an unfrequented by-street. 
 
 To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus bru- 
 tally mauling each other was deeply shocking to Harry. 
 He desired to forget the sight; he desired, above all, 
 to put as great a distance as possible between himself 
 and General Yandeleur; and in his eagerness for this 
 he forgot everything about his destination and hurried 
 before him headlong and trembling. When he remem- 
 bered that Lady Vandeleur was the wife of one and 
 the sister of the other of these gladiators, his heart was 
 touched with sympathy for a woman so distressingly 
 misplaced in life. Even his own situation in the Gen- 
 eral’s household looked hardly so pleasing as usual in 
 the light of these violent transactions. 
 
 He had walked some little distance, busied with 
 these meditations, before a slight collision with another 
 passenger reminded him of the bandbox on his arm. 
 
 “Heavens!” cried he, “where was my head? and 
 
 whither have I wandered?” 
 
 Stevenson. Voh. I. — 8 
 
118 \I/orK5 of Hotiort C0U15 Steueij50i? 
 
 Thereupon he consulted the envelope which Lady 
 Vandeleur had given him. The address was there, but 
 without a name. Harry was simply directed to ask for 
 “the gentleman who expected a parcel from Lady Yan- 
 deleur,” and if he were not at home to await his re- 
 turn. The gentleman, added the -note, should present a 
 receipt in the handwriting of the lady herself. All this 
 seemed mightily mysterious, and Harry was above all 
 astonished at the omission of the name and the formality 
 of the receipt. He had thought little of this last when 
 he heard it dropped in conversation; but reading it in 
 cold blood, and taking it in connection with the other 
 strange particulars, he became convinced that he was 
 engaged in perilous affairs. For half a moment he had 
 a doubt of Lady Yandeleur herself ; for he found these 
 obscure proceedings somewhat unworthy of so high a 
 lady, and became more critical when her secrets were 
 preserved against himself. But her empire over his 
 spirit was too complete, he dismissed his suspicions, and 
 blamed himself roundly for having so much as enter- 
 tained them. 
 
 In one thing, however, his duty and interest, his 
 generosity and his terrors, coincided — to get riu of the 
 bandbox with the greatest possible dispatch. 
 
 He accosted the first policeman and courteously in- 
 quired his way. It turned out that he was already not 
 far from his destination, and a walk of a few minutes 
 brought him to a small house in a lane, freshly painted, 
 and kept with the most scrupulous attention. The 
 knocker and bell-pull were highly polished; flowering 
 pot-herbs garnished the sills of the different windows; 
 and curtains of some rich material concealed the in- 
 
)'(eu7 /Irabiai) 11& 
 
 tenor from the eyes of curious passengers. The place 
 had an air of repose and secrecy; and Harry was so 
 far caught with this spirit that he knocked with more 
 than usual discretion, and was more than usually care- 
 ful to remove all impurity from his boots. 
 
 A servant-maid of some personal attractions im- 
 mediately opened the door, and seemed to regard the 
 secretary with no unkind eyes. 
 
 “This is the parcel from Lady Vandeleur,” said 
 
 Harry. 
 
 “I know,” replied the maid, with a nod. “But the 
 gentleman is from home. Will you leave it with me?” 
 “I cannot,” answered Harry. “I am directed not to 
 part with it but upon a certain condition, and I must 
 ask you, I am afraid, to let me wait.” 
 
 “Well,” said she, “I suppose I may let you wait. 
 I am lonely enough, I can tell you, and you do not 
 look as though you would eat a girl. But be sure and 
 do not ask the gentleman’s name, for that I am not to 
 tell you.” 
 
 “Do you say so?” cried Harry. “Why, how strange! 
 But indeed for some time back I walk among surprises. 
 One question I think I may surely ask without indis- 
 cretion: Is he the master of this house?” 
 
 “He is a lodger, and not eight days old at that,” 
 returned the maid. “And now a question for a ques- 
 tion: Do you know Lady Vandeleur?” 
 
 “I am her private secretary,” replied Harry, with a 
 glow of modest pride. 
 
 “She is pretty, is she not?” pursued the servant. 
 “Oh, beautiful!” cried Harry; “wonderfully lovely, 
 and not less good and kind!” 
 
120 U/orl^5 of Couij Steuerjjoi? 
 
 “You look kind enough ' yourself , ” she retorted; “and 
 I wager you are worth a dozen Lady Vandeleurs.” 
 
 Harry was properly scandalized. 
 
 “I!” he cried. “I am only a secretary!” 
 
 “Do you mean that for me?” said the girl. “Be- 
 cause I am only a housemaid, if you please.” And 
 then, relenting at the sight of Harry’s obvious confusion, 
 “I know you mean nothing of the sort,” she added; 
 *‘and I like your looks; but I think nothing of your 
 Lad}’- Vandeleur. Oh, these mistresses!” she cried. “To 
 send out a real gentleman like you — with a bandbox — 
 in broad day!” 
 
 During this talk they had remained in their original 
 positions — she on the doorstep, he on the sidewalk, bare- 
 headed for the sake of coolness, and with the bandbox 
 on his arm. But upon this last speech, Harry, who 
 was unable to support such pointblank compliments to 
 his appearance, nor the encouraging look with which 
 they were accompanied, began to change his attitude, 
 and glance from left to right in perturbation. In so 
 doing he turned his face toward the lower end of the 
 lane, and there, to his indescribable dismay, his eyes 
 encountered those of General Vandeleur. The General, 
 in a prodigious fluster of heat, hurry, and indignation, 
 had been scouring the streets in chase of his brother-in- 
 law; but so soon as he caught a glimpse of the delinquent 
 secretary, his purpose changed, his anger flowed into a 
 new channel, and he turned on his heel and came tearing 
 up the lane with truculent gestures and vociferations. 
 
 Harry made but one bolt of it into the house, driv- 
 ing the maid before him; and the door was slammed » 
 in his pursuer’s countenance. 
 
jvfeu; /Irabiai) J^i<$l7t5 
 
 121 
 
 “Is there a bar? Will it lock?” asked Harry, while 
 a salvo on the knocker made the house echo from wall 
 to wall. 
 
 “Why, what is wrong with you?” asked the maid. 
 “Is it this old gentleman?” 
 
 “If he gets hold of me,” whispered Harry, “I am 
 as good as dead. He has been pursuing me all day, 
 carries a sword-stick, and is an Indian military officer.” 
 “These are fine manners,” cried the maid. “And 
 what, if you please, may be his name?” 
 
 “It is the General, my master,” answered Harry. 
 “He is after this bandbox.” 
 
 “Did not I tell you?” cried the maid in triumph. 
 “I told you I thought worse than nothing of your Lady 
 Vandeleur; and if you had an eye in your head you 
 might see what she is for yourself. An ungrateful 
 minx, I will be bound for that!” 
 
 The General renewed his attack upon the knocker, 
 and his passion growing with delay, began to kick and 
 beat upon the panels of the door. 
 
 “It is lucky,” observed the girl, “that I am alone 
 in the house; your General may hammer until he is 
 weary, and there is none to open for him. Follow me!” 
 So saying, she led Harry into the kitchen, where she 
 made him sit down, and stood by him herself in an 
 affectionate attitude, with a hand upon his shoulder. 
 The din at the door, so far from abating, continued to 
 increase in volume, and at each blow the unhappy 
 secretary was shaken to the heart. 
 
 “What is your name?” asked the girl. 
 
 “Harry Hartley,” he replied. 
 
 “Mine,” she went on, “is Prudence. Do you like it?” 
 
122 U/orl^5 of f^o^ert C0U15 Steuei?50ij 
 
 “Very much,” said Harry. “But hear for a mo- 
 ment how the General beats upon the door. He will 
 certainly break it in, and then, in Heaven’s name, what 
 have I to look for but death?” 
 
 “You put yourself very much about with no occa- 
 sion,” answered Prudence. “Let your General knock, he 
 will do no more than blister his hands. Do you think I 
 would keep 3’^ou here, if I . were not sure to save you? 
 Oh, no, I am a good friend to those that please me! 
 and we have a back door upon another lane. But,” 
 she added, checking him, for he had got upon his feet 
 immediately on this welcome news, “but I will not show 
 where it is unless you kiss me. Will you, Harry?” 
 
 “That I will,” he cried, remembering his gallantry, 
 “not for your back door, but because yoa are good 
 and pretty.” 
 
 And he administered two or three cordial salutes, 
 which were returned to him in kind. 
 
 Then Prudence led him to the back gate, and put 
 her hand upon the key. 
 
 “Will you come and see me?” she asked. 
 
 “I will, indeed,” said Harry. “Do not I owe you 
 my life?” 
 
 “And now,” she added, opening the door, “run as 
 hard as you can, for I shall let in the General.” 
 
 Harry scarcely required this advice; fear had him by 
 the forelock ; and he addressed himself diligently to flight. 
 A few steps, and he believed he would escape from his 
 trials, and return to Lady Vandeleur in honor and safety. 
 But these few steps had not been taken before he heard 
 a man’s voice hailing him by name with many execra- 
 tions, and, looking over his shoulder, he beheld Charlie 
 
ffetu /lirabiai) 
 
 123 
 
 Pendragon waving him with both arms to return. The 
 shock of this new incident was so sudden and profound, 
 and Harry was already worked into so high a state of 
 nervous tension, that he could think of nothing better 
 than to accelerate his pace, and continue running. He 
 should certainly have remembered the scene in Ken- 
 sington Gardens; he should certainly have concluded 
 that, where the General was his enemy, Charlie Pen- 
 dragon could be no other than a friend. But such 
 was the fever and perturbation of his mind that he was 
 struck by none of these considerations, and only con- 
 tinued to run the faster up the lane. 
 
 Charlie, by the sound of his voice and the vile terms 
 that he hurled after the secretary, was obviously beside 
 himself with rage He, too, ran his very best; but, try 
 as he might, the physical advantages were not upon 
 his side, and his outcries and the fall of his lame foot 
 on the macadam began to fall further and further into 
 the wake. 
 
 Harry’s hopes began once more to arise. The lane 
 was both steep and narrow, but it was exceedingly 
 solitary, bordered on either hand by garden walls, over- 
 hung with foliage; and, for as far as the fugitive could 
 see in front of him, there was neither a creature mov- 
 ing nor an open door. Providence, weary of persecu- 
 tion, was now offering him an open field for his escape. 
 
 Alas! as he came abreast of a garden door under a 
 tuft of chestnuts, it was suddenly drawn back, and he 
 could see inside, upon a garden path, the figure of a 
 butcher’s boy with his tray upon his arm. He had 
 hardly recognized the fact before he was some steps 
 beyond upon the other side. But the fellow had had 
 
134 U/orl^s of I^oberfc Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 time to observe him; he was evidently much surprised 
 to see a gentleman go by at so unusual a pace ; and 
 he came out into the lane and began to call after Harry 
 with shouts of ironical encouragement. 
 
 His appearance gave a new idea to Charlie Pen- 
 dragon, who, although he wa^ now sadly out of breath, 
 once more upraised his voice. 
 
 “Stop thief!” he cried. 
 
 And immediately the butcher’s boy had taken up the 
 cry and joined in the pursuit. 
 
 This was a bitter moment for the hunted secretary. 
 It is true that his terror enabled him once more to 
 improve his pace, and gain with every step on his pur- 
 suers; but he was well aware that he was near the end 
 of his resources, and should he meet any one coming the 
 other way, his predicament in the narrow lane would 
 be desperate indeed. 
 
 “I must find a place of concealment,” he thought, 
 “and that within the next few seconds, or all is over 
 with me in this world.” 
 
 Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind than the 
 lane took a sudden turning; and he found himself hid- 
 den from his enemies. There are circumstances in which 
 
 even the least energetic of mankind learn to behave 
 
 with vigor and decision; and the most cautious forget 
 their prudence and embrace foolhardy resoiutions. This 
 was one of those occasions for Harry Hartley ; and 
 
 those who knew him best would have been the most 
 astonished at the lad’s audacity. He stopped dead, flung 
 the bandbox over a garden wall, and leaping upward 
 with incredible agility and seizing the copestone with 
 his hands, he tumbled headlong after it into the garden. 
 
J'/eu; /irabiai? 
 
 125 
 
 He came to himself a moment afterward, seated in 
 a border of small rosebushes. His hands and knees were 
 cut and bleeding, for the wall had been protected against 
 such an escalade by a liberal provision of old bottles; 
 and he was conscious of a general dislocation and a 
 painful swimming in the head. Facing him across the 
 garden, which was in admirable order, and set with flow- 
 ers of the most delicious perfume, he beheld the back of 
 a house. It was of considerable extent, and plainly habi- 
 table; but, in odd contrast to the grounds, it was crazy, 
 ill-kept, and of a mean appearance. On all other sides 
 the circuit of the garden wall appeared unbroken. 
 
 He took in these features of the scene with me- 
 chanical glances, but his mind was still unable to piece 
 together or draw a rational conclusion from what he 
 saw. And when he heard footsteps advancing on the 
 gravel, although he turned his eyes in that direction, 
 it was with no thought either for defense or flight. 
 
 The new comer was a large, coarse, and very sordid 
 personage, in gardening clothes, and with a watering- 
 pot in his left hand. One less confused would have 
 been affected with some alarm at the sight of this 
 man’s huge proportions and black and lowering eyes. 
 But Harry was too gravely shaken by his fall to be so 
 much as terrified; and if he was unable to divert his 
 glances from the gardener, he remained absolutely pas- 
 sive, and suffered him to draw near, to take him by 
 the shoulder, and to plant him roughly on his feet, 
 without a motion of resistance. 
 
 For a moment the two stared into each other’s eyes, 
 Harry fascinated, the man filled with wrath and a 
 cruel, sneering humor. 
 
126 U/orl^s of F^obert Coui5 Steuep50i7 
 
 “Who are yoa?” he demanded at last. “Who are 
 you to come flying over my wall and break my Oloire 
 de Dijons? What is your name?” he added, shaking 
 him; “and what may be your business here?” 
 
 Harry could not as much as proffer a word in 
 explanation. 
 
 But just at that moment Pendragon and the butcher’s 
 boy went clumping past, and the sound of their feet 
 and their hoarse cries echoed loudly in the narrow lane. 
 The gardener had received his answer; and he looked 
 down into Harry’s face with an obnoxious smile. 
 
 “A thief!” he said. “Upon my word, and a very 
 good thing you must make of it; for I see you dressed 
 like a gentleman from top to toe. Are you not ashamed 
 to go about the world in such a trim, with honest 
 folk, I dare say, glad to buy your cast-off flnery 
 second-hand. Speak up, you dog,” the man went on; 
 “you can understand English, I suppose; and I mean 
 to have a bit of talk with you before I march you to 
 the station,” 
 
 “Indeed, sir,” said Harry, “this is all a dreadful 
 misconception ; and if you will go with me to Sir 
 Thomas Vandeleur’s in Eaton Place, I can promise that 
 all will be made plain. The most upright person, as I 
 now perceive, can be led into suspicious positions.” 
 
 “My little man,” replied the gardener, “I will go 
 with you no further than the station-house in the next 
 street. The inspector, no doubt, will be glad to take a 
 stroll with you as far as Eaton Place, and have a bit 
 of afternoon tea with your great acquaintances. Or 
 would you prefer to go direct to the Home Secretary? 
 Sir Thomas Vandeleur, indeed! Perhaps you think I 
 
J^euj /irabiaij 
 
 127 
 
 don’t know a gentleman when I see one from a com- 
 mon run-the-hedge like you? Clothes or no clothes, I 
 can read you like a book. Here is a shirt that maybe 
 cost as much as my Sunday hat; and that coat, I take 
 it, has never seen the inside of Rag-fair, and then 
 your boots — ” 
 
 The man, whose eyes had fallen upon the ground, 
 stopped short in his insulting commentary, and remained 
 for a moment looking intently upon something at his 
 feet. When he spoke his voice was strangely altered. 
 
 “What, in God’s name,” said he, “is all this?” 
 
 Harry, following the direction of the man’s eyes, be- 
 held a spectacle that struck him dumb with terror and 
 amazement. In his fall he had descended vertically upon 
 the bandbox and burst it open from end to end; thence 
 a great treasure of diamonds had poured forth, and 
 now lay abroad, part trodden in the soil, part scattered 
 on the surface in regal and glittering profusion. There 
 was a magnificent coronet which he had often admired 
 on Lady Vandeleur; there were rings and brooches, ear- 
 drops and bracelets, and even unset brilliants rolling here 
 and there among the rosebushes like drops of morning 
 dew. A princely fortune lay between the two men upon 
 the ground — a fortune in the most inviting, soKd, and 
 durable form, capable of being carried in an apron, 
 beautiful in itself, and scattering the sunlight in a mil- 
 lion rainbow flashes. 
 
 i “Good God I” said Harry, “I am lostl” 
 
 His mind raced backward into the past with the in- 
 calculable velocity of thought, and he began to compre- 
 hend his day’s adventures, to conceive them as a whole, 
 and to recognize the sad imbroglio in which his own 
 
128 U/orl^s of {Robert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 character and fortunes had become involved. He looked 
 round him as if for help, but he was alone in the gar- 
 den, with his scattered diamonds and his redoubtable 
 interlocutor; and when he gave ear, there was no sound 
 but the rustle of the leaves and the hurried pulsation 
 of his heart. It was little wonder if the young man 
 felt himself deserted bj’- his spirits, and with a broken 
 Voice repeated his last ejaculation — 
 
 “I am lost!” 
 
 The gardener peered in all directions with an air of 
 guilt; but there was no face at any of the windows, 
 and he seemed to breathe again. . 
 
 “Pick up a heart,” he said, “you fool! The worst 
 of it is done. Why could you not say at first there 
 
 was enough for two? Two?” he repeated, “ay, and for 
 two hundred! But come away from here, where we 
 may be observed; and, for the love of wisdom, straighten 
 out your hat and brush your clothes. You could not 
 travel two steps the figure of fun you look just now.” 
 
 While Harry mechanically adopted these suggestions, 
 the gardener, getting upon his knees, hastily drew to- 
 gether the scattered jdwels and returned them to the 
 bandbox. The touch of these costly crystals sent ^ a' 
 
 shiver of emotion through the man’s stalwart frame; 
 his face was transfigured, and his eyes shone with con- 
 cupiscence; indeed' it seemed as if he luxuriously pro- 
 longed his occupation, and dallied with every diamond 
 that he handled. At last, however, it was done; and, 
 concealing the bandbox in his smock, the gardener beck- 
 oned to Harry and preceded him in the direction of the 
 house. 
 
 Near the door they were met by a young man evi- 
 
]'^eu7 /irabiaij 
 
 129 
 
 dently in holy orders, dark and strikingly handsome, 
 with a look of mingled weakness and resolution, and 
 very neatly attired after the manner of his caste. The 
 gardener was plainly annoyed by this encounter; but he 
 put as good a face upon it as he could, and accosted 
 the clergyman with an obsequious and smiling air. 
 
 “Here is a fine afternoon, Mr. Holies,” said he: “a 
 fine afternoon, as sure as God made it! And here is 
 a young friend of mine who had a fancy to look at 
 my roses. I took the .liberty to bring him in, for I 
 thought none of the lodgers would object.” 
 
 “Speaking for myself,” replied the Reverend Mr. 
 Rolles, “I do not; nor do I fancy any of the rest of 
 us would be more difficult upon so small a matter. 
 The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must none 
 of us forget that; and because you give us liberty to 
 walk there we should be indeed ungracious if we so 
 far presumed upon your politness as to interfere with 
 the convenience of your friends. But, on second 
 thoughts,” he added, “I believe that this gentleman 
 and I have met before. Mr. Hartley, I think. I re- 
 gret to observe that you have had a fall.” 
 
 And he offered his hand. 
 
 A sort of maiden dignity and a desire to delay as 
 long as possible the necessity for explanation moved 
 Harry to refuse this chance of help, and to deny his 
 own identity. He chose the tender mercies of the gar- 
 dener, who was at least unknown to him, rather than 
 the curiosity and perhaps the doubts of an acquaintance. 
 
 “I fear there is some mistake,” said he. “My name 
 18 Thomlinson and I am a friend of Mr. Raeburn’s.” 
 “Indeed?” said Mr. Rolles. “The likeness is amazing.^’ 
 
130 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout 
 this colloquy, now felt it high time to bring it to a 
 period. 
 
 “I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir,” said he. 
 
 And with that he dragged Harry after him into the 
 house, and then into a chamber on the garden. His 
 
 first care was to draw down the blind, for Mr. Rolles 
 still remained where they had left him, in an attitude 
 of perplexity and thought. Then he emptied the broken 
 bandbox on the table, and stood before the treasure, 
 thus fully displayed, with, an expression of rapturous 
 
 greed, and rubbing his hands upon his thighs. For 
 
 Harry, the sight of the man’s face under the influence 
 
 of this base emotion, added another pang to those he 
 was already suffering. It seemed incredible that, from 
 his life of pure and delicate trifling, he should be 
 plunged in a breath among sordid and criminal rela- 
 tions. He could reproach his conscience with no sinful 
 act ; and yet he was now suffering the punishment of 
 sin in its most acute and cruel forms — the dread of 
 punishment, the suspicions of the good, and the com- 
 panionship and contamination of vile and brutal natures. 
 He felt he could lay his life down with gladness to 
 escape from the room and the society of Mr. Raeburn. 
 
 “And now,” said the latter, after he had separated 
 the jewels into two nearly equal parts, and drawn one 
 of them nearer to himself; “and now,” said he, “every- 
 thing in this world has to be paid for, and some things 
 sweetly. You must know, Mr. Hartley, if such be your 
 name, that I am a man of a very easy temper, and 
 good nature has been my stumbling-block from first to 
 last. I could pocket the whole of these pretty pebbles, 
 
]Veu/ /irabiaij 
 
 131 
 
 jf I chose, and I should like to see you dare to say a 
 word; but I think I must have taken a liking to 
 you; for I declare I have not the heart to shave you 
 so close. So, do you see, in pure kind feeling, I pro- 
 pose that we divide; and these,’* indicating the two 
 heaps, “are the proportions that seem to me just and 
 friendly. Do you see any objection, Mr. Hartley, may’ 
 I ask? I am not the man to stick upon a brooch.” 
 “But, sir,” cried Harry, “what you propose to me 
 is impossible. The jewels are not mine, and I cannot 
 share what is another’s, no matter with whom, nor in 
 what proportions.” 
 
 “They are not yours, are they not?” returned Rae- 
 burn. “And you could not share them with anybody, 
 couldn’t you? Well now, that is what I call a pity; 
 for here am I obliged to take you to the station. The 
 police — ^think of that,” he continued; “think of the dis- 
 grace for your respectable parents; think,” he went on, 
 taking Harry by the wrist; “think of the Colonies and 
 the Day of Judgment.” 
 
 “I cannot help it,” wailed Harry. “It is not my 
 fault. You will not come with me to Eaton Place.” 
 “No,” replied the man, “I will not, that is certain. 
 And I mean to divide these playthings with you here.” 
 And so saying he applied a sudden and severe tor- 
 sion to the lad’s wrist. 
 
 Harry could not suppress a scream, and the perspira- 
 tion burst forth upon his face. Perhaps pain and terror 
 quickened his intelligence, but certainly at that moment 
 the whole business flashed across him in another light; 
 and he saw that there was nothing for it but to ac- 
 cede to the ruffian’s proposal, and trust to find the 
 
132 U/orK 5 of Hot>eJ"t C0U15 Steuei?50i? 
 
 house and force him to disgorge, under more favorable 
 circumstances, and when he himself was clear from all - 
 suspicion. 
 
 “I agree,” he said. 
 
 “There is a lamb,” sneered the gardener. “I thought 
 you would recognize your interests at last. This band- 
 box,” he continued, “I shall burn with my rubbish; it 
 is a thing that curious folk might recognize; and as 
 for you, scrape up your gayeties and put them in your 
 pocket.” 
 
 Harry proceeded to obey, Baeburn watching him, 
 and every now and again, his greed rekindled by some 
 bright scintillation, abstracting another jewel from the 
 secretary’s share, and adding it to his own. 
 
 When this was finished, both proceeded to the front 
 door, which Raeburn cautiously opened to observe the 
 street. This was apparently clear of passengers; for he 
 suddenly seized Harry by the nape of the neck, and 
 holding his face downward so that he could see noth- 
 ing but the roadway and the doorsteps of the houses, 
 pushed him violently before him down one street and 
 up another for the space of perhaps a minute and a 
 half. Harry had counted three corners before the bully 
 relaxed his grasp, and crying, “Now be off with you!” 
 sent the lad flying headforemost with a well-directed and 
 athletic kick. 
 
 When Harry gathered himself up, half -stunned and 
 bleeding freely at the nose, Mr. Raeburn had entirely 
 disappeared. For the first time, anger and pain so com- 
 pletely overcame the lad’s spirits that he burst into a 
 fit of tears and remained sobbing in the middle of the 
 road. 
 
ffeu; /Irabiap 
 
 133 
 
 After he had thus somewhat assuaged his emotion, 
 he began to look about him and read the names of the 
 streets at whose intersection he had been deserted by 
 the gardener. He was still in an unfrequented portion 
 of West London, among villas and large gardens; but 
 he could see some persons at a window who had evi- 
 dently witnessed his misfortune; and almost immediately 
 after a servant came running from the house and offered 
 him a glass of water. At the same time, a dirty rogue, 
 who had been slouching somewhere in the neighborhood, 
 drew near him from the other side. 
 
 “Poor fellow,” said the maid, “how vilely you have 
 been handled, to be sure! Why, your knees are all 
 cut, and your clothes ruined! Do you know the wretch 
 who used you so?” 
 
 “That I do!” cried Harry, who was somewhat re- 
 freshed by the water; “and shall run him home in 
 spite of his precautions. He shall pay dearly for this 
 day’s work, I promise you.” 
 
 “You had better come into the house and have your- 
 self washed and brushed,” continued the maid. “My 
 mistress will make you welcome, never fear. And see, 
 I will pick up your hat. Why, love of mercy!” she 
 screamed, “if you have not dropped diamonds all over 
 the street!” 
 
 Such was the case; a good half of what remained 
 to him, after the depredations of Mr. Raeburn, had been 
 shaken out of his pockets by the summersault and once 
 more lay glittering on the ground. He blessed his fort- 
 une that the maid had been so quick of eye; “there is 
 nothing so bad but it might be worse,” thought he; 
 
 and the recovery of these few seemed to him almost as 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I, — 9 
 
134 U/orKs of F^obert Coui 5 steuepjoij 
 
 great an affair as the loss of all the rest. But, alas! 
 as he stooped to pick up his treasures, the loiterer mads 
 a rapid onslaught, overset both Harry and the maid 
 with a movement of his arms, swept up a double hand- 
 ful of the diamonds, and made off along the street with 
 an amazing swiftness. 
 
 Harry, as soon as he could get upon his feet, gave 
 chase to the miscreant with many cries, but the latter 
 was too fleet of foot, and probably too well acquainted 
 with the locality; for turn where the pursuer would he 
 could find no^ traces of the fugitive. 
 
 In the deepest despondency, Harry revisited the scene 
 of his mishap, where the maid, who was still waiting, 
 very honestly returned him his hat and the remainder of 
 the fallen diamonds. Harry thanked her from his heart, 
 and being now ,in no humor for economy, made his way 
 to the nearest cabstand and set off for Eaton Place by 
 coach. 
 
 The house, on his arrival, seemed in some confusion, 
 as if a catastrophe had happened in the family; and 
 the servants clustered together in the hall, and were 
 unable, or perhaps not altogether anxious, to suppress 
 their merriment at the tatterdemalion figure of the secre- 
 tary. He passed them with as good an air of dignity 
 as he could assume, and made directly for the boudoir. 
 When he opened the door an astonishing and even 
 menacing spectacle presented itself to his eyes; for he 
 beheld the General and his wife, and, of all people, 
 Charlie Pendragon, closeted together and speaking with 
 earnestness and gravity on some important subject. 
 Harry saw at once that there was little left for him 
 to explain — plenary confession had plainly been made to 
 
iVeu; /irabiaij 
 
 135 
 
 the General of the intended fraud upon his pocket, and 
 the unfortunate miscarriage of the scheme; and they 
 had all made common cause against a common danger. 
 
 “Thank Heaven!” cried Lady Vandeleur, “here he 
 is! The bandbox, Harry — the bandbox!” 
 
 But Harry stood before them silent and downcast. 
 
 “Speak!” she cried. “Speak! Where is the band- 
 box?” 
 
 And the men, with threatening gestures, repeated the 
 demand. 
 
 Harry drew a handful of jewels from his pocket. He 
 was very white. 
 
 “This is all that remains,” said he. “I declare be- 
 fore Heaven it was through no fault of mine; and if 
 you will have patience, although some are lost, I am 
 afraid, forever, others, I am sure, may be still recovered.” 
 
 “Alas!” cried Lady "Vandeleur, “all our diamonds 
 are gone, and I owe ninety thousand pounds for dress!” 
 
 “Madam,” said the General, “you might have paved 
 the gutter with your own trash; you might have made 
 debts to fifty times the sum you mention; you might 
 have robbed me of my mother’s coronet and ring; and 
 Nature might have still so far prevailed that I could 
 have forgiven you at last. But, madam, you have taken 
 the Rajah’s Diamond — the Eye of Light, as the Orien- 
 tals poetically termed it — the Pride of Kashgar! You 
 have taken from me the Rajah’s Diamond,” he cried, 
 raising his hands, “and all, madam, all is at an end 
 between us!” 
 
 “Believe me. General Vandeleur,” she replied, “that 
 is one of the most agreeable speeches that ever I heard 
 from your lips; and since we are to be ruined, I could 
 
136 U/orKs of F^oberfc Couis sceuei?»oij 
 
 almost welcome the change, if it deliv^rs me from you. 
 You have told me often enough that I married you for 
 your money; let me tell you now that I always bitterly 
 repented the - bargain; and if you were still marriage- 
 able, and had a diamond bigger than your head, I 
 should counsel even my maid against a union so unin- 
 viting and disastrous. , As for you, Mr. -Hartley,” she 
 continued, l;urning on the secretary, “you have suffi- 
 ciently exhibited your valuable qualities in ^ this house; 
 we are now persuaded that you equally lack manhood, 
 sense, and self-respect; and I can see only one course 
 open for you — to withdraw instanter, and, if possible, 
 return no more. For your wages you may rank as a 
 creditor in my late husband’s bankruptcy.” 
 
 Harry had scarcely comprehended this insulting ad- 
 dress before the General was down upon him with another. 
 
 “And in the meantime,” said that personage, “follow 
 me before the nearest Inspector of Police. You may 
 impose upon a simple-minded soldier, sir, but the eye 
 of the law will read your disreputable secret. If I 
 must spend my old age in poverty through your un- 
 derhand intriguing with my wife, I mean at least that 
 you shah, not remain unpunished for your pains; and 
 God, sir, will deny me a very considerable satisfaction if 
 you do not pick oakum from now until your dying day.” 
 
 With that, the General dragged Harry from the 
 apartment, and hurried him downstairs and along the 
 street to the police-station of the district. 
 
 [Here, says my Arabian author, ended this deplorable 
 business of the bandbox. But to the unfortunate Secretary 
 the whole affair was the beginning of a new and manlier life. 
 The police were easily persuaded of his innocence ; and, after 
 
)Veu/ /Irabiap 
 
 137 
 
 he had given what help he could in the subsequent investiga* 
 tions, he was even complimented by one of the ehiefs of the 
 detective department on the probity and simplicity of his 
 behavior. Several persons interested themselves in one so 
 unfortunate; and soon after he inherited a sum of money 
 from a maiden aunt in Worcestershire. With this he mar- 
 ried Prudence, and set sail for Bendigo, or according to 
 another account, for Trincomalee, exceedingly content, and 
 with the best of prospects.] 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN IN HOLY 
 
 ORDERS 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Simon Rolles had distinguished 
 himself in the Moral Sciences, and was more than usu- 
 ally proficient in the study of Divinity. His essay “On 
 the Christian Doctrine of the Social Obligations” ob- 
 tained for him, at the moment of its production, a 
 certain celebrity in the University of Oxford; and it 
 was understood in clerical and learned circles that young 
 Mr. Rolles had in contemplation a considerable work — a 
 folio, it was said — on the authority of the Fathers of 
 the Church. These attainments, these ambitious designs, 
 however, were far from helping him to any preferment; 
 and he was still in quest of his first curacy when a 
 chance ramble in that part of London, the peaceful and 
 rich aspect of the garden, a desire for solitude and 
 study, and the cheapness of the lodging, led him to 
 take up his abode with Mr. Raeburn, the nurseryman 
 of Stockdove Lane. 
 
138 n/orl ^5 of Coui 5 Sceueijjop 
 
 It was his habit every afternoon, after he had 
 worked seven or eight hours on St. Ambrose or St. 
 Chrysostom, to walk for a while in meditation among 
 the roses. And this was usually one of the most pro- 
 ductive moments of his day. But even a sincere appe- 
 tite for thought, and the excitement of grave problems 
 awaiting solution, are not always sufficient to preserve 
 the mind of the philosopher against the petty shocks 
 and contacts of the world. And when Mr. Holies found 
 General Vandejeur’s secretary, ragged and bleeding, in 
 the company of his landlord; when he saw both change 
 color and seek to avoid his questions; and, above all, 
 when the former denied his own identity with the most 
 unmoved assurance, he speedily forgot the Saints and 
 Fathers in the vulgar interest of curiosity. 
 
 “I cannot be mistaken,” thought he. “That is Mr. 
 Hartley beyond a doubt. How comes he in such a 
 pickle? why does he deny his name? and what can be 
 his business with that black-looking ruffian, my land- 
 lord?” 
 
 As he was thus reflecting, another peculiar circum- 
 stance attracted his attention. The face of Mr. Raeburn 
 * appeared at a low window next the door; and, as chance 
 directed, his eyes met those of Mr. Rolles. The nur- 
 seryman seemed disconcerted, and even alarmed; and 
 immediately after the blind of the apartment was pulled 
 sharply down. 
 
 “This may all be very well,” reflected Mr. Rolles; 
 “it may be all excellently well; but I confess freely 
 that I do not think so. Suspicious, underhand, untruth- 
 ful, fearful of observation — I believe upon my soul,” he 
 thought, “the pair are plotting some disgraceful action.” 
 
f/eu; /irabiaij 
 
 139 
 
 The detective that there is in all of us awoke and 
 became clamant in the bosom of Mr. Rolles ; and with 
 a brisk, eager step, that bore no resemblance to his 
 usual gait, he proceeded to make the circuit of the 
 garden. When he came to the scene of Harry’s esca- 
 lade, his eye was at once arrested by a broken rose- 
 bush and marks of trampling on the mould. He looked 
 up, and saw scratches on the brick, and a rag of 
 trouser floating from a broken bottle. This, then, was 
 the mode of entrance chosen by Mr. Raeburn’s partic- 
 ular friend! It was thus that General Vandeleur's 
 secretary came to admire a flower-garden! The young 
 clergyman whistled softly to himself as he stooped to 
 examine the ground. He could make out where Harry 
 had landed from his perilous leap; he recognized the 
 flat foot of Mr. Raeburn where it had sunk deeply in 
 the soil as he pulled up the Secretary by the collar; 
 nay, on a closer inspection, he seemed to distinguish 
 the marks of groping fingers, as though something had 
 been spilled abroad and eagerly collected. 
 
 “Upon my word,” he thought, “the thing grows 
 vastly interesting.” 
 
 And just then he caught sight of something almost 
 entirely buried in the earth. In an instant he had dis- 
 interred a dainty morocco case, ornamented and clasped 
 in gilt. It had been trodden heavily underfoot, and 
 thus escaped the hurried search of Mr. Raeburn. Mr. 
 Rolles opened the case, and drew a long breath of 
 almost horrified astonishment; for there lay before him, 
 in a cradle of green velvet, a diamond of prodigious 
 magnitude and of the finest water. It was of the big- 
 ness of a duck’s egg; beautifully shaped, and without 
 
140 WorK5 of HotiOrt Coui3 8 tevei? 50 ij 
 
 a flaw; and as the sun shone upon it, it gave forth a 
 luster like that of electricity, and seemed to burn in his 
 hand with a thousand internal fires. 
 
 He knew little of precious stones; but the Rajah’s 
 Diamond was a wonder that explained itself; a village 
 child, if he found it, would run screaming for the 
 nearest cottage; and a savage would prostrate himself 
 in adoration before so imposing a fetish. The beauty of 
 the stone flattered the young clergyman’s eyes; the 
 thought of its incalculable value overpowered his intellect. 
 He knew that what he held in his Jhand was worth 
 more than many years’ purchase of an archiepiscopal 
 see; that it would build cathedrals more stately than 
 Ely or Cologne; that he who possessed it was set free 
 forever from the primal curse, and might follow his 
 own inclinations without concern or hurry, without let 
 or hinderance. And as he suddenly turned it, the rays 
 leaped forth again with renewed brilliancy, and seemed 
 to pierce his very heart. 
 
 Decisive actions are often taken in a moment ^and 
 without any conscious deliverance from the rational parts 
 of man. So it was now with Mr. Rolles. He glanced 
 hurriedly round; beheld, like Mr. Raeburn before him, 
 nothing but the sunlit flower-garden, the tall treetops, 
 and the house with blinded windows; and in -a trice he 
 had shut the case, thrust it into his pocket, and was 
 hastening to his study with the speed of guilt. 
 
 The Reverend Simon Rolles had stolen the Rajah’s 
 Diamond. 
 
 Early in the afternoon the police arrived with Harry 
 Hartley. The nurseryman, who was beside himself with 
 terror, readily discovered his hoard; and the jewels were 
 
ffeuj /irabiaii, 
 
 141 
 
 identified and inventoried in the presence of the Secre- 
 tary. As for Mr. Rolles, he showed himself in a most 
 obliging temper, communicated what he knew with free- 
 dom, and professed regret that he could do no more to 
 help the officers in their duty. 
 
 “Still,” he added, “I suppose your business is nearly 
 at an end.” 
 
 “By no means,” replied the man from Scotland Yard; 
 and he narrated the second robbery of which Harry had 
 been the immediate victim, and gave the young clergy- 
 man a description of the more important jewels that 
 were still not found, dilating particularly on the Rajah’s 
 Diamond. 
 
 “It must be worth a fortune,” observed Mr. Rolles. 
 
 “Ten fortunes — twenty fortunes,” cried the officer. 
 
 “The more it is worth,” remarked Simon shrewdly, 
 “the more difficult it must be to sell. Such a thing 
 has a physiognomy not to be disguised, and I should 
 fancy a man might as easily negotiate St. Paul’s Ca- 
 thedral.” 
 
 “Oh, truly!” said the officer; “but if the thief be 
 a man of any intelligence, he will cut it into three or 
 four, and there will be still enough to make him rich.” 
 
 “Thank you,” said the clergyman. “You cannot 
 imagine how much your conversation interests me.” 
 
 Whereupon the functionary admitted that they knew 
 many strange things in his profession, and immediately 
 after took his leave. 
 
 Mr. Rolles regained his apartment. It seemed smaller 
 and barer than usual; the materials for his great work 
 had never presented so little interest; and he looked 
 upon his library with the eye of scorn. He took down. 
 
142 U/or^s of I^obert Couis Steucpsoij 
 
 volume by volume, several Fathers of the Church, and 
 glanced them through ; but they contained nothing to 
 his purpose. 
 
 “These old gentlemen,” thought he, “are no doubt 
 very valuable writers, but they seem to me conspicu- 
 ously ignorant of life. Here am I, with learning enough 
 to be a Bishop, and I positively do not know how to 
 dispose of a stolen diamond. I glean a hint from a 
 common policeman, and, with all my folios, I cannot 
 so much as put it into execution. This inspires me 
 with very low ideas of University training.” 
 
 Herewith he kicked over his book-shelf and, putting 
 on his hat, hastened from the house to the club of 
 which he was a member. In such a place of mundane 
 resort he hoped to find some man of good counsel and 
 a shrewd experience in life. In the reading-room he 
 saw many of the country clergy and an Archdeacon ; 
 there were three journalists and a writer upon the 
 Higher Metaphysic, playing pool ; and at dinner only 
 the raff of ordinary club frequenters showed their com- 
 monplace and obliterated countenances. Hone of these, 
 thought Mr. Rolles, would know more on dangerous 
 topics than he knew himself; none of them were fit to 
 give him guidance in his present strait. At length, in 
 the smoking-room, up many weary stairs, he hit upon 
 a gentleman of somewhat portly build and dressed with 
 conspicuous plainness. He was smoking a cigar and 
 reading the “Fortnightly Review”; his face was singu- 
 larly free from all sign of preoccupation or fatigue; and 
 there was something in his air which seemed to invite 
 confidence and to expect submission. The more the 
 young clergyman scrutinized his features, the more he 
 
ffeu; /Irabiai) 
 
 143 
 
 was convinced that he had fallen on one capable of 
 giving peivtinent advice. 
 
 “Sir,” said he, “you will excuse my abruptness; but 
 I judge you from your appearance to be pre-eminently 
 a man of the world.” 
 
 “I have indeed considerable claims to that distinc- 
 tion,” replied the stranger, laying aside his magazine 
 with a look of mingled amusement and surprise. 
 
 “I, sir,” continued the Curate, “am a recluse, a 
 student, a creature of ink-bottles and patristic folios. A 
 recent event has brought my folly vividly before my 
 eyes, and I desire to instruct myself in life. By life,” 
 he added, “I do not mean Thackeray’s novels; but the 
 crimes and secret possibilities of our society, and the 
 principles of wise conduct among exceptional events. I 
 am a patient reader; can the thing be learned in books?” 
 
 “You put me in a difficulty,” said the stranger. “I 
 confess I have no great notion of the use of books, ex- 
 cept to arnuse a railway journey; although, I believe, 
 there are some very exact treatises on astronomy, the 
 use of the globes, agriculture, and the art of making 
 paper-flowers. Upon the less apparent provinces of life 
 I fear you will find nothing truthful. Yet stay,” he 
 added, “have you read Gaboi-iau?” 
 
 Mr. Holies admitted he had never even heard the 
 name. 
 
 “You may gather some notions from Gaboriau,” re- 
 sumed the stranger. “He is at least suggestive; and 
 as he is an author much studied by Prince Bismarck, 
 you will, at the worst, lose your time in good society.” 
 
 “Sir,” said the Curate, “I am infinitely obliged by 
 your politeness.” 
 
144 U/orl^s of I^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 “You have already more than repaid me,” returned 
 the other. 
 
 “How?” inquired Simon. 
 
 “By the novelty of your request,” replied the gen- 
 tleman ; and with a polite gesture, as though to ask 
 permission, he resumed the study of the “Fortnightly 
 Review.” 
 
 On his way home Mr. Rolles purchased a work on 
 precious stones and several of Gaboriau’s novels. These 
 last he eagerly skimmed until an advanced hour in the 
 morning; but although they introduced him to many 
 new ideas, he could nowhere discover what to do with 
 a stolen diamond. He was annoyed, moreover, to find 
 the information scattered among romantic story-telling, 
 instead of soberly set forth after the manner of a man- 
 ual; and he concluded that, even if the writer had 
 thought much upon these subjects, he was totally lack- 
 ing in educational method. For the character and at- 
 tainments of Lecoq, however, he was unable to contain 
 his admiration. 
 
 “He was truly a great creature,” ruminated Mr. 
 Rolles. “He knew the world as I know Raley’s Evi-' 
 dences. There was nothing that he could not carry to 
 a termination with his own hand, and against the largest 
 odds. Heavens!” he broke out suddenly, “is not this 
 the lesson? Must I not learn to cut diamonds for my- 
 self?” 
 
 It seemed to him as if he had sailed at once out of 
 his perplexities; he remembered that he knew a jeweler, 
 one B. Macculloch, in Edinburgh, who would be glad 
 to put him in the way of the necessary training; a 
 few months, perhaps a few years, of sordid toil, and 
 
)>(eu; /)rabiai> 
 
 145 
 
 he would be sufficiently expert to divide and sufficiently 
 cunning to dispose with advantage of the Rajah’s Dia- 
 mond. That done, he might return to pursue his re- 
 searches at leisure, a wealthy and luxurious student, 
 envied and respected by all. Golden visions attended 
 him through his slumber, and he awoke refreshed and 
 light-hearted with the morning sun. 
 
 Mr. Raeburn’s house was on that day to be closed 
 by the police, and this afforded a pretext for his de- 
 parture. He cheerfully prepared his baggage, transported 
 it to King’s Cross, where he left it in the cloak-room, 
 and returned to the club to while away the afternoon 
 and dine. 
 
 “If you dine here to-day, Rolles,” observed an ac- 
 quaintance, “you may see two of the most remarkable 
 men in England — Prince Plorizel of Bohemia, and old 
 J ack V andeleur . ’ ’ 
 
 “I have heard of the Prince,” replied Mr. Rolles; 
 “and General Vandeleur I have even met in society.” 
 
 “General Vandeleur is an ass!” returned the other. 
 “This is his brother John, the biggest adventurer, the 
 best judge of precious stones, and one of the most acute 
 diplomatists in Europe. Have you never heard of his 
 duel with the Due de Val d’Orge? of his exploits and 
 atrocities when he was Dictator of Paraguay? of his 
 dexterity in recovering Sir Samuel Levi’s jewelry? nor 
 of his services in the Indian Mutiny — services by which 
 the Government profited, but which the Government 
 dared not recognize? You make me wonder what we 
 mean by fame, or even by infamy; for Jack Vandeleur 
 has prodigious claims to both. Run downstairs,” he con- 
 tinued, “take a table near them, and keep your ears 
 
146 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 open. You will hear some strange talk, or I am much 
 misled.” 
 
 “But how shall I know them?” inquired the clergyman. 
 
 “Know them!” cried his friend; “why, the Prince 
 is the finest gentleman in Europe, the only living creat- 
 ure who looks like a king; and as for Jack Vandeleur, 
 if you can imagine Ulysses at seventy years of age, 
 and .with a saber-cut across his face, you have the 
 man before you! Know them, indeed! Why, you could 
 pick either of them out of a Derby day!” 
 
 Rolles eagerly hurried to the dining-room. It was 
 as his friend had asserted; it was impossible to mistake 
 the pair in question. Old John Vandeleur was of a re- 
 markable force of body, and obviously broken to the 
 most difficult exercises. He had neither the carriage of 
 a swordsman, nor of a sailor, nor yet of one much 
 inured to the saddle ; but something made up of all 
 these, and the result and expression of many different 
 habits and dexterities. His features were bold and aqui-. 
 line; his expression arrogant and predatory; his whole 
 appearance that of a swift, violent, unscrupulous man 
 of action ; and his copious white hair and the deep 
 saber-cut that traversed his nose and temple added a 
 note of savagery to a head already remarkable and 
 menacing in itself.. 
 
 In his ppmpanion, the Prince of Bohemia, Mr. Rolles 
 was astonished to recognize the gentleman who had rec- 
 ommended him the study of Gaboriau. Doubtless Prince 
 Florizel, who rarely visited the club, of which, as of 
 most others, he was an honorary member, had been 
 waiting for John Vandeleur when Simon accosted him 
 on the previous evening. 
 
f/eu; /Irabiaij )'^i<5l?fc5 
 
 147 
 
 \ 
 
 The other diners had modestly retired into the angles 
 of the room, and left the distinguished pair in a cer- 
 tain isolation, but the young clergyman was unrestrained 
 by any sentiment of awe, and, marching boldly up, took 
 his place at the nearest table. 
 
 The conversation was, indeed, new to the student’s 
 ears. The ex-Dictator of Paraguay stated many ex- 
 traordinary experiences in different quarters of the world; 
 and the Prince supplied a commentary which, to a man 
 of thought, was even more interesting than the events 
 themselves. Two forms of experience were thus brought 
 together and laid before the young clergyman; and he 
 did not know which to admire the most — the desperate 
 actor or the skilled expert in life; the man who spoke 
 boldly of his own deeds and perils, or the man who 
 seemed, like a god, to know all things and to have 
 suffered nothing. The manner of each aptly fitted with 
 his part in the discourse. The Dictator indulged in 
 brutalities alike of speech and gesture; his hand opened 
 and shut and fell roughly on the table; and his voice 
 was loud and heady. The Prince, on the other hand, 
 seemed the very type of urbane docility and quiet; the 
 least movement, the least inflection, had with him a 
 weightier signiflcance than all the shouts and pantomime 
 of his companion; and if ever, as must frequently have 
 been the case, he described some experience personal to 
 himself, it was so aptly dissimulated as to pass unno- 
 ticed with the rest. 
 
 At length the talk wandered on to the late robberies 
 and the Rajah’s Diamond. 
 
 “That diamond would be better in the sea,” observed 
 Prince Florizel. 
 
148 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 “As a Vandeleur,” replied the Dictator, “your High- 
 ness may imagine my dissent.” 
 
 “I speak on grounds of public policy,” pursued the 
 Prince. “Jewels so valuable should be reserved for the 
 collection of a Prince or the treasury of a great nation. 
 To hand them about among the common sort of men 
 is to set a price on Virtue’s head; and if the Rajah 
 of Kashgar — a Prince, I understand, of great enlighren- 
 rhent — desired vengeance upon the men of Europe, he 
 could hardly have gone more efficaciously about his pur- 
 pose than by sending us this apple of discord. There 
 is no honesty too robust for such a trial. I myself, 
 who have many duties and many privileges of my own 
 — I myself, Mr. Vandeleur, could scarce handle the in- 
 toxicating crystal and be safe. As for you, who are a 
 diamond-hunter by taste and profession, I do not be- 
 lieve there is a crime in the calendar you would not 
 perpetrate — I do not believe you have a friend in the 
 world whom you would not eagerly betray — I do not 
 ' know if you have a family, but if you have I declare 
 you would sacrifice your children — and all this for what? 
 Not to be richer, nor to have more comforts or more 
 respect, but simply to call this diamond yours for a 
 year or two until you die, and^ow and again to open 
 a safe and look at it as one looks at a picture.” 
 
 “It is true,” replied Vandeleur. “I have hunted 
 most things, from men and women down to mosquitoes; 
 I have dived for coral; I have followed both whales 
 and tigers; and a diamond is the tallest quarry of the 
 lot. It has beauty and worth; it alone can properly 
 reward the ardors of the chase. At this moment, as 
 your Highness may fancy, I am upon the trail; I have 
 
fifeu; /^rabiap 
 
 149 
 
 a sure knack, a wide experience; I know every stone 
 of price in my brother’s collection as a shepherd knows 
 his sheep; and I wish I may die if I do not recover 
 them every one!” 
 
 “Sir Thomas Vandeleur will have great cause to 
 thank you,” said the Prince. 
 
 “I am not so sure,” returned the Dictator, with a 
 laugh. “One of the Yandeleurs will. Thomas or John 
 — Peter or Paul — we are all apostles.” 
 
 “I did not catch your observation,” said the Prince 
 with some disgust. 
 
 And at the same moment the waiter informed Mr. 
 Vandeleur that his cab was at the door. 
 
 Mr. RoUes glanced at the clock, and saw that he 
 also must be moving; and the coincidence struck him 
 sharply and unpleasantly, for he desired to see no more 
 of the diamond hunter. 
 
 Much study having somewhat shaken the young man’s 
 nerves, he was in the habit of traveling in the most 
 luxurious manner; and for the present journey he had 
 taken a sofa in the sleeping carriage. 
 
 “You will be very comfortable,” said the guard; 
 “there is no one in your compartment, and only one old 
 gentleman in the other end.” 
 
 It was close upon the hour, and the tickets were 
 being examined, when Mr. Rolles beheld this other fel- 
 low-passenger ushered by several porters into his place; 
 certainly, there was not another man in the world 
 whom he would not have preferred — for it was old 
 John Vandeleur, the ex-Dictator. 
 
 The sleeping carriages on the Great Northern line 
 
 were divided into three compartments — one at each 
 Steyenson. Vol. I. — 10 
 
150 U/orl^5 of Hot>OJ"t Coui$ Stevei? 50 ij 
 
 end for travelers, and one in the center fitted with 
 the conveniences of a lavatory. A door running in 
 
 grooves separated each of the others from the lavatory; 
 but as there were neither bolts nor locks, the whole 
 suite was practically common ground. 
 
 When Mr. Rolles had studied his position, he per- 
 ceived himself without defense. If the Dictator chose to 
 pay him a visit in the course of the night, he could do 
 no less than receive it; he had no means of fortification, 
 and lay open to attack as if he had been lying in the 
 fields. This situation caused him some agony of mind. 
 He recalled with alarm the boastful statements of his 
 fellow-traveler across the dining-table, and the professions 
 of immorality which he had heard him offering to the 
 disgusted Prince. Some persons, he remembered to have 
 read, are endowed with a singular quickness of percep- 
 tion for the neighborhood of precious metals; through 
 walls and even at considerable distances they are said 
 to divine tlie presence of gold. Might it not be the 
 same with diamonds? he wondered ; and if so, who was 
 more likely to enjoy this transcendental sense than the 
 person who gloried in the appellation of the Diamond 
 Hunter? From such a man he recognized that he had 
 everything to fear, and longed eagerly • for the arrival 
 of the day. 
 
 In the meantime he neglected no precaution, con- 
 cealed his diamond in the most internal pocket of a 
 system of great coats, and devoutly recommended him- 
 self to the care of Providence. 
 
 The train pursued its usual even and rapid course; 
 and nearly half the journey had been accomplished be- 
 fore slumber began to triumph over uneasiness in the 
 
f(eu7 /Irabiai) 
 
 151 
 
 breast of Mr. Rolles. For some time he resisted its in- 
 fluence; but it grew upon him more 'and more, and a 
 little before York he was fain to stretch himself upon 
 one of the couches and suffer his eyes to close ; and 
 almost at the same instant consciousness deserted the 
 young clergyman. His last thought was of his terrify- 
 ing neighbor. 
 
 When he awoke it was still pitch dark except for 
 the flicker of the veiled lamp; and the continual roar- 
 ing and oscillation testified to the unrelaxed velocity of 
 the train. He sat upright in a panic, for he had been 
 tormented by the most uneasy dreams ; it was some 
 seconds before he recovered his self-command; and even 
 after he had resumed a recumbent attitude sleep con- 
 tinued to flee him, and he lay awake with his brain in 
 a state of violent agitation, and his eyes fixed upon 
 the lavatory door. He pulled his clerical felt hat over 
 his brow still further to shield him from the light; and 
 he adopted the usual expedients, such as counting a 
 thousand or banishing thought, by which experienced 
 invalids are accustomed to woo the approach of sleep. 
 In the case of Mr. Rolles they proved one and all 
 vain; he was harassed by a dozen different anxieties — 
 the old man in the other end of the carriage haunted 
 him in the most alarming shapes ; and in whatever 
 attitude he chose to lie the diamond in his pocket oc- 
 casioned him a sensible physical distress. It burned, it 
 was too large, it bruised his ribs; and there were in- 
 finitesimal fractions of a second in which he had half 
 a mind to throw it from the window. 
 
 While he was thus lying, a strange incident took 
 place. 
 
152 . U/orK5 of F^obcrt Coui 5 Steuep 50 ij 
 
 The sliding-door into the lavatory stirred a little, 
 and then a little more, and was finally drawn back for 
 the space of about twenty inches. The lamp in the 
 lavatory was unshaded, and in the lighted aperture 
 thus disclosed, Mr. Rolles could see the head of Mr. 
 Vandeleur in an attitude of deep attention. He was con- 
 scious that the gaze of the Dictator rested intently on 
 his own face; and the instinct of self-preservation moved 
 him to hold his breath, to refrain from the least move- 
 ment, and keeping his eyes lowered, to watch his visitor 
 from underneath the lashes. After about a moment, the 
 head was withdrawn and the door of the lavatory 
 replaced. 
 
 The Dictator had not come to attack, but to observe; 
 his action was not that of a man threatening another, 
 but that of a man who was himself threatened; if Mr. 
 Rolles was afraid of him, it appeared that he, in his 
 turn, was not quite easy on the score of Mr. Rolles.. 
 He had come, it would seem, to make sure that his 
 only fellow-traveler was asleep; and, when satisfied on 
 that point, he had at once withdrawn. 
 
 The clergyman leaped to his feet. The extreme of 
 terror had given place to a reaction of foolhardy dar- 
 ing. He refiected that the rattle of the fiying train 
 concealed all other sounds, and determined, come what 
 might, to return the visit he had Just received. Divest- 
 ing himself of his cloak, which might have interfered 
 with the freedom of his action, he entered the lavatory 
 and paused to listen. As he had expected, there was 
 nothing to be heard above the roar of the train’s prog^ 
 ress; and laying his hand on the door at the further 
 side, he proceeded cautiously to draw it back for abo\4 
 
I'/eu; /Irabiai? 
 
 • 153 
 
 SIX inches. Then he stopped, and could not contain an 
 ejaculation of surprise. 
 
 John Vandeleur wore a fur traveling cap with lap- 
 pets to protect his ears; and this may have combined 
 with the sound of the express to keep him in igno- 
 rance of what was going forward. It is certain, at 
 least, that he did not raise his head, but continued 
 without interruption to pursue his strange employment. 
 Between his feet stood an open hat-box; in one hand 
 he held the sleeve of his sealskin greatcoat; in the 
 other a formidable knife, with which he had just slit up 
 the lining of the sleeve. Mr. Holies had read of persons 
 carrying money in a belt; and as he had no acquaint- 
 ance with any but cricket-belts, he had never been 
 able rightly to conceive how this was managed. But 
 here was a stranger thing before his eyes; for John 
 Vandeleur, it appeared, carried diamonds in the lining 
 of his sleeve; and even as the young clergyman gazed, 
 he could see one glittering brilliant drop after another 
 into the hat-box. 
 
 He stood riveted to the spot, following this unusual 
 business with his eyes. The diamonds were, for the 
 most part, small, and not easily distinguishable either 
 in shape or fire. Suddenly the Dictator appeared to find 
 a diflSculty ; he employed both hands and stopped over 
 his task; but it was not until after considerable ma- 
 neuvering that he extricated a large tiara of diamonds 
 from the lining, and held it up for some seconds’ ex- 
 amination before he placed it with the others in the 
 hat-box. The tiara was a ray of light to Mr. Holies; 
 he immediately recognized it for a part of the treasure 
 stolen from Harry Hartley by the loiterer. There was 
 
154 U/orI^5 of Hol^ert Coui5 Steuei 750 ij 
 
 no room for mistake; it was exactly as the detective 
 had described it; there were the ruby stars, with a 
 great emerald in the center; there were the interlacing 
 crescents; and there were the pear-shaped pendants, each 
 a single stone, which gave a special value to Lady 
 Vandeleur’s tiara. 
 
 Mr. Rolles was hugely relieved. The Dictator was as 
 deeply in the affair, as he was; neither could tell tales 
 upon the other. In the first glow of happiness, the 
 clergyman suffered a deep sigh to escape him; and as 
 his bosom had become chocked and his throat dry dur- 
 ing his previous suspense, the sigh was followed by a 
 cough. 
 
 Mr. Vandeleur looked up; his face contracted with 
 the blackest and most deadly passion ; his eyes opened 
 widely, and his under jaw dropped in an astonishment 
 that was upon the brink of fury. By an instinctive 
 movement he had covered the hat-box with the coat. 
 For half a minute the fiwo men stared upon each other 
 in silence. It waS not a long interval, but it sufficed 
 for Mr. Rolles; he was one of those who think swiftly 
 on dangerous occasions; he decided on a course of ac- 
 tion of a singularly daring nature; and although he felt 
 he was setting his life upon the hazard, he was the 
 first to break silence. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” said he. 
 
 The Dictator shivered slightly, and when he spoke 
 his voice was hoarse. 
 
 “What do you want here?” he asked. 
 
 “I take a particular interest in diamonds,” replied 
 Mr. Rolles, with an air of perfect self-possession. “Two 
 connoisseurs should be acquainted. I have here a trifle 
 
jveu/ /Irabiaij . 1§5 
 
 of my own which may perhaps serve for an intro- 
 duction.” 
 
 And so saying, he quietly took the case from his 
 pocket, showed the Rajah’s Diamond to the Dictator 
 for an instant, and replaced it in security. 
 
 “It was once your brother’s,” he added. 
 
 John Vandeleur continued to regard him with a look of 
 almost painful amazement ; but he neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 “I was pleased to observe,” resumed the young man, 
 “that we have gems from the same collection.” 
 
 The Dictator’s surprise overpowered him. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I begin to perceive 
 that I am growing old! I am positively not prepared 
 for little incidents like this. But set my mind at rest 
 upon one point : do my eyes deceive me, or are you 
 indeed a parson?” 
 
 “I am in holy orders,” answered Mr. Rolles. 
 
 “Well,” cried the other, “as long as I live I will 
 never hear another word against the cloth!” 
 
 “You flatter me,” said Mr. Rolles. 
 
 “Pardon me,” replied Vandeleur; “pardon me, young 
 man. You are no coward, but it still remains to be 
 seen whether you are not the worst of fools. Perhaps,” 
 he continued, leaning back upon his seat, “perhaps you 
 would oblige me with a few particulars. I must sup- 
 pose you had some object in the stupefying impudence 
 of your proceedings, and I confess I have a curiosity 
 to know it.” 
 
 “It is very simple,” replied the clergyman; “it pro- 
 ceeds from my great inexperience of life.” 
 
 “I shall be glad to be persuaded,” answered Van- 
 deleur. 
 
156 U/orKs of {Robert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Rolles told him the whole story of 
 his connection with the Ea,jah’s Diamond, from the 
 time he found it in Raeburn’s garden to the time when 
 he left London in the Flying Scotchman. He added a 
 brief sketch of his feelings and thoughts during the 
 journey, and concluded in these words : 
 
 “When I recognized the tiara I knew we were in 
 the same attitude toward Sgciety, and this inspired me 
 with a hope, which I trust you will say was not ill- 
 founded, that you might become in some sense my 
 partner in the difficulties and, of course, the profits of 
 my situation. To one of your special knowledge and 
 obviously great experience the negotiation of the dia- 
 mond would give but little trouble, while to me it was 
 a matter of impossibility. On the other part, I judged 
 that I might lose nearly as much by cutting the dia- 
 mond, iand that not improbably with an unskillful hand, 
 as might enable me to pay you with proper generosity 
 for your assistance. The subject was a delicate one to 
 broach ; and perhaps I fell short in delicacy. But I 
 must ask you to remember that for me the situation 
 was a new one, and I was entirely unacquainted with 
 the etiquette in use. I believe without vanity that I 
 could have married or baptized you in a very accept- 
 able manner ; but every man has his own aptitudes, 
 and this sort of bargain was not among the list of my 
 accomplishments. ’ ’ 
 
 “I do not wish to fiatter you,” replied Vandeleur; 
 “but, upon my word, you have an unusual disposition 
 for a life of crime. You have more accomplishments 
 than you imagine; and though I have encountered a 
 number of rogues in different quarters of the world, I 
 
)^{eu; firahiaj) 
 
 167 
 
 never met with one so unblushing as yourself. Cheer 
 up, Mr. Rolles, you are in the right profession at last I 
 As for helping you, you may command me as you 
 will. I have only a day’s business in Edinburgh on a 
 little matter for my brother; and once that is concluded, 
 I return to Paris, where I usually reside. If you please 
 you may accompany me thither. And before the end 
 of a month I believe I shall have brought your little 
 business to a satisfactory conclusion.” 
 
 [At this point, contrary to all the canons of his art, our 
 Arabian Author breaks off the “Story of the Young Man in 
 Holy Orders.” I regret and condemn such practices; but I 
 must follow my original, and refer the reader for the con- 
 clusion of Mr. Holies’ adventures to the next number of the 
 cycle, the “Story of the House with the Green Blinds.”] 
 
 STOBY OF THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN 
 
 BLINDS 
 
 Francis Scrymgeour, a clerk in the Bank of Scot- 
 land at Edinburgh, had attained the age of twenty-five 
 in a sphere of quiet, creditable, and domestic life. His 
 mother died while he was young; but his father, a man 
 of sense and probity, had given him an excellent educa- 
 tion at school, and brought him up at home to orderly 
 and frugal habits. Francis, who was of a docile and 
 affectionate disposition, profited by these advantages with 
 zeal, and devoted himself heart and soul to his em- 
 ployment. A walk upon Saturday afternoon, an occa- 
 sional dinner with members of his family, and a yearly 
 
158 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 tour of a fortnight in the Highlands or even on the 
 continent of Europe, were his principal distractions, and 
 he grew rapidly in favor with his superiors, and en- 
 joyed already a salary of nearly two hundred pounds a 
 year, with the prospect of an ultimate advance to 
 almost double that amount. Few young men were more 
 contented, few more willing and laborious, than Francis 
 Scrymgeour. Sometimes at night, when he had read the 
 daily paper, he would play upon the flute to amuse his 
 father, for whose qualities he entertained a great respect. 
 
 One day he received a note from a well-known firm 
 of Writers to the Signet, requesting the favor of an 
 immediate interview with him. The letter was marked 
 “Private and Confidential,” and had been addressed to 
 him at the bank, instead of at home — two unusual cir- 
 cumstances which made him obey the summons with the' 
 more alacrity. The senior member of the firm, a man 
 of much austerity of manner, made him gravely wel- ' 
 come, requested him to take a seat, and proceeded to 
 explain the matter in hand in the picked expressions of 
 a veteran man of business. A person, who must re- 
 main nameless, but of whom the lawyer had every 
 reason to think well — a man, in short, of some station 
 in the country — desired to make Francis an annual 
 allowance of five hundred pounds. The capital was to 
 be placed under the control of the lawyer’s firm and 
 two trustees who must also remain anonymous. There 
 were conditions annexed to this liberality, but he was 
 of opinion that his new client would find nothing either 
 excessive or dishonorable in the terms; and he repeated 
 these two words with emphasis, as though he desired 
 to commit himself to nothing more. 
 
flew /Irabiap 
 
 159 
 
 Francis asked their nature. 
 
 “The conditions,” said the Writer to the Signet, 
 “are, as I have twice remarked, neither dishonorable 
 nor excessive. At the same time I cannot conceal from 
 you that they are most unusual. Indeed, the whole 
 case is very much out of our way; and I should cer- 
 tainly have refused it had it not been for the reputa- 
 tion of the gentleman who intrusted it to my care, and, 
 let me add, Mr. Scrymgeour, the interest I have been 
 led to take in yourself by many complimentary and, I 
 have no doubt, well-deserved reports.” 
 
 Francis entreated him to be more specific. 
 
 “You cannot picture my uneasiness as to these con- 
 ditions,” he said. 
 
 “They are two,” replied the lawyer, “only two; and 
 the sum, as you will remember, is five hundred a year 
 — and unburdened, I forgot to add, unburdened.” 
 
 And the lawyer raised his eyebrows at him with 
 solemn gusto. 
 
 “The first,” he resumed, “is of remarkable simplic- 
 
 I 
 
 ity. You must be in Paris by the afternoon of Sun- 
 day, the 15th; there you will find, at the box-oflSce of 
 the Comedie Frangaise, a ticket for admission taken in 
 your name and waiting you. You are requested to sit 
 out the whole performance in the seat provided, and 
 that is all.” 
 
 “I should certainly have preferred a week-day,” re- 
 plied Francis. “But, after all, once in a way — ” 
 
 “And in Paris, my dear sir,” added the lawyer, 
 soothingly. “I believe I am something of a precisian 
 myself, but upon such a consideration, and in Paris, I 
 should not hesitate an instant.” 
 
160 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 And the pair laughed pleasantly together. 
 
 “The other is of more importance,” continued the 
 Writer to the Signet. “It regards your marriage. My 
 client, taking a deep interest in your welfare, desires to 
 idvise you absolutely in the choice of a wife. Abso- 
 lutely, you understand,” he repeated. 
 
 “Let us be more explicit, if you please,” returned 
 Francis. “Am I to marry any one, maid or widow, black 
 or white, whom this invisible person chooses to propose?” 
 “I was to assure you that suitability of age and 
 position should be a principle with your benefactor, ’ ’ 
 replied the lawyer. “As to race, I confess the difld- 
 culty had not occurred to me, and I failed to inquire; 
 ‘but if you like I will make a note of it at once, and 
 advise, you on the earliest opportunity.” 
 
 “Sir,” said Francis, “it remains to be seen whether 
 this whole affair is not a most unworthy fraud. The 
 circumstances are inexplicable — I had almost said in- 
 credil)le; and until I see a little more daylight, and 
 some plausible motive, I confess I should be very sorry 
 to put a hand to the transaction. I appeal to you in 
 this difficulty for information. I must learn what is at 
 the bottom of it all. If you do not know, cannot guess, 
 or are not at liberty to tell me, I shall take my hat 
 and go back to my bank as I came.” 
 
 “I do not know,” answered the lawyer, “but I have 
 an excellent guess. Your father, and no one else, is at 
 the root of this apparently unnatural business.” 
 
 “My father!” cried Francis, in extreme disdain. 
 “Worthy man, I know every thought of his mind, 
 every penny of his fortune!” 
 
 “You misinterpret my words,” said the lawyer. “I 
 
js^eu; /iraDiai) 
 
 161 
 
 do not refer to Mr. Scrymgeour, senior; for he is not 
 your father. When he and his wife came to Edin- 
 burgh, you were already nearly one year old, and you 
 had not yet been three months in their care. The secret 
 has been well kept; but such is the fact. Your father 
 is unknown, and I say again that I believe him to be 
 the original of the offers I am charged at present to 
 transmit to you.” 
 
 It would be impossible to exaggerate the astonishment 
 of Francis Scrymgeour at this unexpected information. 
 He pled this confusion to the lawyer. 
 
 “Sir,” said he, “after a piece of news so startling, 
 you must grant me some hours for thought. You shall 
 know this evening what conclusion I have reached.” 
 
 The lawyer commended his prudence; and Francis, 
 excusing himself upon some pretext at the bank, took 
 a long walk into the country, and fully considered the 
 different steps and aspects of the case. A pleasant sense 
 of his own importance rendered him the more deliber- 
 ate: but the issue was from the first not doubtful. His 
 whole carnal man leaned irresistibly toward the five 
 hundred a year, and the strange conditions with which 
 it was burdened; he discovered in his heart an invincible 
 repugnance to the name x>f Scrymgeour, which he had 
 never hitherto disliked; he began to despise the narrow 
 and unromantic interests of his former life; and when 
 once his mind was fairly made up, he walked with a 
 new feeling of strength and freedom, and nourished 
 himself with the gayest anticipations. 
 
 He said but a word to the lawyer, and immediately 
 received a check for two quarters’ arrears; for the al- 
 lowance was ante-dated from the first of January. With 
 
162 U/orl^5 of HoliOJ't Coui 5 Steuei^jop 
 
 f 
 
 this in his pocket, he walked home. The flat in Scot- 
 land Street looked mean in his eyes; his nostrils, for 
 the first time, rebelled against the odor of broth; and 
 he observed little defects of manner in his adoptive 
 father which filled him with surprise and almost with 
 disgust. The next day, he determined, should see him 
 on his way to Paris. ' 
 
 In that city, where he arrived lon^ before the ap- 
 pointed date, he put up at a modest hotel frequented 
 by English and Italians, and devoted himself . to im- 
 provement in the French tongue; for this purpose he 
 had a master twice a week, entered into conversation 
 with loiterers in the Champs Elysees, and nightly fre- 
 quented the theater. He had his whole toilet fashion- 
 ably renewed; and was shaved and had his hair dressed 
 every morning by a barber in a neighboring street. This 
 gave him something of a foreign air, and seemed to 
 wipe off the reproach of his past years. 
 
 At length, on *the Saturday afternoon, he betook 
 himself to the box-office of the theater in the Rue 
 Richelieu. No sooner had he mentioned his name than 
 the clerk produced the order in an envelope of which 
 the address was scarcely dry. 
 
 “It has been taken this moment,” said the clerk. 
 
 “Indeed!” said Francis. “May I ask what the gen- 
 tleman was like?” 
 
 “Your friend is easy to describe,” replied the official. 
 “He is old and strong and beautiful, with white hair 
 and a saber-cut across his face. You cannot fail to 
 recognize so marked a person.” 
 
 “No, indeed,” returned Francis; “and I thank you 
 for your politeness.” 
 
/Irabiai^ 
 
 163 
 
 “He cannot yet be far distant,” added the clerk. 
 “If you make haste you might still overtake him.” 
 
 Francis did not wait to be twice told; he ran pre- 
 cipitately from the theater into the middle of the street 
 and looked in all directions. More than one white-haired 
 man was within sight; but though he overtook each of 
 them in succession, all wanted the saber-cut. For nearly 
 half-an-hour he tried one street after another in the 
 neighborhood, until at length, recognizing the folly of 
 continued search, he started on a walk to compose his 
 agitated feelings; for this proximity of an encounter with 
 him to whom he could not doubt he owed the day had 
 profoundly moved the young man. 
 
 It chanced that his way lay up the Rue Drouot and 
 thence up the Rue des Martyrs; and chance, in this 
 case, served him better than all the forethought in the 
 world. For on the outer boulevard he saw two men in - 
 earnest colloquy upon a seat. One was dark, young, 
 >nd handsome, secularly dressed, but with an indelible 
 clerical stamp; the other answered in every particular 
 to the description given him by the clerk. Francis felt 
 his heart beat high in his bosom; he knew he was 
 now about to hear the voice of his father; and mak- 
 ing a wide circuit, he noiselessly took his place behind 
 the couple in question, who were too much interested 
 in their talk to observe much else. As Francis had 
 expected, the conversation was conducted in the English 
 language. 
 
 “Your suspicions begin to annoy me, Rolles,” said 
 the older man. “I tell you I am doing my utmost; a 
 man cannot lay his hand on millions in a moment. 
 Have I not taken you up, a mere stranger, out of 
 
164 U/orl^5 of Hot>ert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 pure goodwill? Are you not living largely on my 
 bounty?” 
 
 “On your advances, Mr. Vandeleur,” corrected the 
 .other. 
 
 “Advances, if you choose; and interest instead of 
 goodwill, if you prefer it,” returned Vandeleur, angrily. 
 “I am not here to pick expressions. Business is busi- 
 ness; and your business, let me remind you, is too 
 muddy for such airs. Trust me, or leave me alone and 
 find some one else; but let us have an end, for God’s 
 sake, of your jeremiads.” 
 
 “I am beginning to learn the world,” replied the 
 other, “and I see that you have every reason to play 
 me false, and not one to deal honestly. I am not here 
 to pick expressions either; you wish the diamond for 
 yourself ; you know you do — ^you dare not deny it. 
 Have you not alreadyj forged my name, and searched 
 my lodging in my absence? I understand the cause of 
 your delays; you are lying in wait; you are the dia- 
 mond-hunter, forsooth ; and sooner or later, by fair 
 means or foul, you’ll lay your hands upon it. I tell 
 you, it must stop; push me much further and I prom- 
 ise you a surprise.” 
 
 “It does not become you to use threats,” returned 
 Vandeleur. “Two can play at that. My brother is here 
 in Paris; the police are on the alert; and if you per- 
 sist in wearying me with your caterwauling, I will ar- 
 range a little astonishment for you, Mr. Rolles. But 
 mine shall be once and for all. Do you understand, 
 or would you prefer me to tell it you in Hebrew? 
 There is an end to all things, and you have come to 
 the end of my patience. Tuesday, at seven; not a day, 
 
fleu; /irabiai? 
 
 165 
 
 not an hour sooner, not the least part of a second, if 
 it were to save your life. And if you do not choose 
 to wait, you may go to the bottomless pit for me, and 
 welcome.” 
 
 And so saying, the Dictator arose from the bench, 
 and marched off in the direction of Montmartre, shak- 
 ing his head and swinging his cane with a most furi- 
 ous air; while his companion remained where he was, 
 in an attitude of great dejection. 
 
 Francis was at the pitch of surprise and horror; his 
 sentiments had been shocked to the last degree ; the 
 hopeful tenderness with which he had taken his place 
 upon the bench was transformed into repulsion and de- 
 spair; old Mr. Scrymgeour, he reflected, was a far more 
 kindly and creditable parent than this dangerous and 
 violent intriguer; but he retained his presence of mind, 
 and suffered not a moment to elapse before he was on 
 the trail of the Dictator. 
 
 That gentleman’s fury carried him forward at a brisk 
 pace, and he was so completely occupied in his angry 
 thoughts that he never so much as cast a look behind 
 him till he reached his own door. 
 
 His house stood high up in the Rue Lepic, com- 
 manding a view of all Paris and enjoying the pure air 
 of the heights. It was two stories high, with green 
 blinds and shutters ; and all the windows looking on 
 the street were hermetically closed. Tops of trees showed 
 over the high garden wall, and the wall was protected 
 by chevaux-de-frise. The Dictator paused a moment while 
 he searched his pocket for a key; and then, opening a 
 gate, disappeared within the inclosure. 
 
 Francis looked about him; the neighborhood was very 
 Stevenson. Vol. I.— ii 
 
166 U/orK5 of Ho^jert C0U15 SteuepjoQ 
 
 lonely; the house isolated in its garden. It seemed m 
 if his observation must here come to an abrupt end. A 
 second glance, however, showed him a tall house next 
 door presenting a gable to the garden, and in this gable 
 a single window. He passed to the front and saw 8 
 ticket offering unfurnished l(^gings by the month; and, 
 on inquiry, the room which commanded the Dictator’s 
 garden proved to be one of those to let. Francis did 
 not hesitate a moment ; he took the room, paid an ad- 
 vance upon the rent, and returned to his hotel to seek 
 his baggage. 
 
 The old man with the saber-cut might or might not 
 be his father; he might or he might not be upon the 
 true scent; but he was certainly on the edge of an ex- 
 citing mystery, and he promised himself that he would 
 not relax his observation until "he had got to the bot- 
 tom of the secret. 
 
 From the window of his new apartment Francis 
 Scrymgeour commanded a complete view into the gar- 
 den of the house with the green blinds. Immediately 
 below him a very comely chestnut with wide boughs 
 sheltered a pair of rustic tables where people might 
 dine in the height of summer. On all sides save one 
 a dense vegetation concealed the soil; but there, be- 
 tween the tables and the house, he saw a patch of 
 gravel walk leading from the veranda to the garden 
 gate. Studying the place from between the boards of 
 the Venetian shutters, which he durst not open for fear 
 of attracting attention, Francis observed but little to 
 indicate the manners of the inhabitants, and that little 
 argued no more than a close reserve and a taste for 
 solitude. The garden was conventual, the house had 
 
ffeu/ /^rabiap 
 
 167 
 
 the air of a prison. The green blinds were all drawn 
 down upon the outside; the door into the veranda was 
 closed; the garden, as far as he could see it, was left 
 entirely to itself in the evening sunshine. A modest 
 curl of smoke from a single chimney alone testified to 
 the presence of living people. 
 
 In order that he might not be entirely idle, and to 
 give a certain color to his way of life, Francis had 
 purchased Euclid’s Geometry in French, which he set 
 himself to copy and translate on the top of his port- 
 manteau and seated on the floor against the wall; for 
 he was equally without chair or table. From time to 
 time he would rise and cast a glance into the inclosure 
 of the house with the green blinds; but the windows 
 remained obstina,tely closed and the garden empty. 
 
 Only late in the evening did anything occur to re- 
 ward his continued attention. Between nine and ten the 
 sharp tinkle of a bell aroused him from a fit of doz- 
 ing; and he sprang to his observatory in time to hear 
 an important noise of locks being opened and bars re- 
 moved, and to see Mr. Vandeleur, carrying a lantern 
 and clothed in a flowing robe of black velvet with a 
 skull-cap to match, issue from under the veranda and 
 proceed leisurely toward the garden gate. The sound of 
 bolts and bars was then repeated; and a moment after 
 Francis perceived the Dictator escorting into the house, 
 in the mobile light of the lantern, an individual of the 
 lowest and most despicable appearance. 
 
 Half-an-hour afterward the visitor was reconducted 
 to the street; and Mr. Vandeleur, setting his light upon 
 one of the rustic tables, finished a cigar with great de- 
 liberation under the foliage of the chestnut. Francis, 
 
168 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 peering through a clear space among the leaves, was 
 able to follow his gestures as he threw away the ash 
 or enjoyed a copious inhalation ; and beheld a cloud 
 upon the old man’s brow and a forcible action of the 
 lips, which testified to some deep and probably painful 
 train of thought. The cigar was already almost at an 
 end, when the voice of a young girl was heard sud- 
 denly crying the hour from the interior of the house. 
 
 “In a moment,” replied John Vandeleur. 
 
 And, with that, he threw away the stump and, tak- 
 ing up the lantern, sailed away under the veranda for 
 the night. As soon as the door was closed, absolute 
 darkness fell upon the house. Francis might try his 
 eyesight as much as he pleased, he could not detect so 
 much as a single chink of light below a blind; and he 
 concluded, with great good sense, that the bedchambers 
 were all ^upon the other side. ^ 
 
 Early the next morning (for he was early awake 
 after an uncomfortable night upon the floor), he saw 
 cause to adopt a different explanation. The blinds rose, 
 one after another, by means of a spring in the interior, 
 and disclosed steel shutters such as we see on the front 
 of shops; these in their turn were rolled up by a simi- 
 lar contrivance; and, for the space of about an hour, 
 the chambers were left open to the morning air. At 
 the end of that time Mr. Vanderleur, with his own 
 hand, once more closed the shutters and replaced the 
 blinds from within. 
 
 "While Francis was still marveling at these precau- 
 tions, the door opened and a young girl came forth to 
 look about her in the garden. It was not two minutes 
 before she re-entered the house, but even in that short 
 
fiJeu/ /irabiai? 
 
 169 
 
 time he saw enough to convince him that she possessed 
 the most unusual attractions. His curiosity was not 
 only highly excited by this incident, but his spirits were 
 improved to a still more notable degree. The alarming 
 manners and more than equivocal life of his father 
 ceased from that moment to prey upon his mind; from 
 that moment he embraced his new family with ardor; 
 and whether the young lady should prove his sister or 
 his wife, he felt convinced she was an angel in dis- 
 guise. So much was this the case that he was seized 
 with a sudden horror when he reflected how little he 
 really knew, and how possible it was that he had fol- 
 lowed the wrong person when he followed Mr. Vandeleur. 
 
 The porter, whom he consulted, could afford him lit- 
 tle information; but, such as it was, it had a mysteri- 
 ous and questionable sound. The person next door was 
 an English gentleman of extraordinary wealth, and pro- 
 portionately eccentric in his tastes and habits. He pos- 
 
 % 
 
 sessed great collections, which he kept in the house be- 
 side him; and it was to protect these that he had fltted 
 the place with steel shutters, elaborate fastenings, and 
 chevaux-de-frise along the garden wall. He lived much 
 alone, in spite of some strange visitors with whom, it 
 seemed, he had business to transact; and there was no 
 one else in the house, except Mademoiselle and an old 
 woman servant. 
 
 “Is Mademoiselle his daughter?” inquired Francis. 
 
 “Certainly,” replied the porter. “Mademoiselle is the 
 daughter of the house; and strange it is to see how 
 she is made to work. For all his riches, it is she who 
 goes to market; and every day in the week you may 
 see her going by with a basket on her arm.” 
 
170 U/orl^5 of F^obert C0U15 Steueij50i) 
 
 “And the collections?” asked the other. 
 
 “Sir,” said the man, “they are immensely valuable. 
 More I cannot tell you. Since M. de Vandeleur’s ar- 
 rival no one in the quarter has so much as passed the 
 door.” 
 
 “Suppose not,” returned Francis, “you must surely 
 have some notion what these famous galleries contain. 
 Is it pictures, silks, statues, jewels, or what?” 
 
 “My faith, sir,” said the fellow with a shrug, “it 
 might be carrots, and still I could not tell you. How 
 should I know? The house is kept like a garrison, as 
 you perceive.” 
 
 And then as Francis was returning disappointed to 
 his room, the porter called him back. 
 
 “I have just remembered, sir,” said he. “M. de 
 Vandeleur has been in all parts of the world, and I 
 once heard the old woman declare that he had brought 
 many diamonds back with him. If that be the truth, 
 there must be a fine show behind those shutters.” 
 
 By an early hour on Sunday Francis was in his 
 place at the theater. The seat which had been taken 
 for him was only two or three numbers from the left- 
 hand side, and directly opposite one of the lower boxes. 
 As the seat had been specially chosen there was doubt- 
 less something to be learned from its position; and he 
 judged by an instinct that the box upon his right was, 
 in some way or other, to be connected with the drama 
 in which he ignorantly played a part. Indeed it was so 
 situated that its occupants could safely observe him from 
 beginning to end of the piece, if they were so minded; 
 while, profiting by the depth, they could screen them- 
 selves sufficiently well from any counter-examination on 
 
/ 
 
 jvfeu; /Irabrap 171 
 
 his side. He promised himself not to leave it for a 
 moment out of sight; and while he scanned the rest 
 of the theater, or made a show of attending to the 
 business of the stage, he always kept a corner of an 
 eye upon the empty box. 
 
 The second act had been some time in progress, and 
 was even drawing toward a close, when the door opened 
 and two persons entered and ensconced themselves in 
 the darkest of the shade. Francis could hardly control 
 his emotion. It was Mr. Vandeleur and his daughter. 
 The blood came and went in his arteries and veins with 
 stunning activity; his ears sang; his head turned. He 
 dared not look lest he should awake suspicion; his play- 
 bill, which ht kept reading from end to end and over 
 and over again, turned from white to red before his 
 eyes ; and when he cast a glance upon the stage, it 
 seemed incalculably far away, and he found the voices 
 and gestures of the actors to the last degree impertinent 
 and absurd. 
 
 From time to time he risked a momentary look in 
 the direction which principally interested him; and once 
 at least he felt certain that his eyes encountered those 
 of the young girl. A shock passed over his body, and 
 he saw all the colors of the rainbow. What would he 
 not have given to overhear what passed between the 
 Vandeleurs? What would he not have given for the 
 courage to take up his opera-glass and steadily inspect 
 their attitude and expression? There, for aught he knew, 
 his whole life was being decided — and he not able to in- 
 terfere, not able even to follow the debate, but con- 
 demned to sit and suffer where he was, in impotent 
 anxiety. 
 
172 U/orI^8 of f^oberfc Couls Steueijsoi^ 
 
 At last the act came to an end. The curtain fell, 
 and the people around him began to leave their places 
 for the interval. It was only natural that he should 
 follow their example; and if he did so, it was not only 
 natural but necessary that he should pass immediately 
 in front of the box in question. Summoning all his 
 courage, but keeping his eyes lowered, Francis drew 
 near the spot. His progress was slow,, for the old gen- 
 tleman before him moved with incredible deliberation, 
 ’wheezing as he went. What was he to do? Should he 
 address the Vandeleurs by name as he went by? 
 Should he take the flower from his buttonhole and 
 throw it into the box? Should he raise his face and 
 direct one long and affectionate look upon the lady who 
 was either his sister or his betrothed? As he found 
 himself thus struggling among so many alternatives, he 
 had a vision of his old equable existence in the bank, 
 and was assailed by a thought of regret for the past. 
 
 By this time he had arrived directly opposite the 
 box; and although he was still undetermined what to 
 do or whether to do anything, he turned his head and 
 lifted his eyes. No sooner had he done so than he ut- 
 tered a cry of disappointment and remained rooted to 
 the spot. The box was empty. During his slow ad- 
 vance Mr. Vandeleur and his daughter had quietly 
 shpped away. 
 
 ‘ A polite person in his rear reminded him that h( 
 was stopping the path; and he moved on again with 
 mechanical footsteps, and suffered the crowd to carry 
 him unresisting out of the theater. Once in the street, 
 the pressure ceasing, he came to a halt, and the cool 
 night air speedily restored him to the possession of his 
 
jyfeu; /irabiaij )Vi^I?t8 
 
 175 
 
 faculties. He was surprised to find that his head ached 
 violently, and that he remembered not one word of the 
 two acts which he had witnessed. As the excitement 
 wore away, it was succeeded by an overweening appe- 
 tite for sleep, and he hailed a cab and drove to his 
 lodging in a state of extreme exhaustion and some 
 disgust of life. 
 
 Next morning he lay in wait for Miss Vandeleur on 
 her road to market, and by eight o’clock beheld her 
 stepping down a lane. She was simply, and even poorly, 
 attired; but in the carriage of her head and body there 
 was something flexible and noble that would have lent 
 distinction to the meanest toilette. Even her basket, so 
 aptly did she carry it, became her like an ornament. It 
 seemed to Francis, as he slipped into a doorway, that 
 the sunshine followed and the shadows fled before her 
 as she walked; and he was conscious, for the first time, 
 of a bird singing in a cage above the lane. 
 
 He suffered her to pass the doorway, and then, coming 
 forth once more, addressed her by name from behind. 
 
 “Miss Vandeleur,” said he. 
 
 She turned, and, when she saw who he was, became 
 deadly pale. 
 
 “Pardon me,” he continued; “Heaven knows I had 
 no will to startle you ; and, indeed, there should be 
 nothing startling in the presence of one who wishes you 
 so well as I do. And, believe me, I am acting rather 
 from necessity than choice. "We have many things in 
 common, and I am sadly in the dark. There is much 
 that I should be doing, and my hands are tied. I do 
 not know even what to feel, nor who are my friends 
 and enemies.” 
 
174 U/orKs of r^obert Coui5 Steuepsop 
 
 She found her voice with an effort. 
 
 “I do not know who you are,” she said. 
 
 “Ah, yes! Miss Vandeleur, you do,” returned Francis; 
 “better than I do myself. Indeed it is on that, above 
 all, that I seek light. Tell me what you know,” he 
 pleaded. “Tell me who I am, who you are, and how 
 our destinies are intermixed. Give me a little help with 
 my life. Miss Vandeleur — only a word or two to guide 
 me, only the name of my father, if you will — and I 
 shall be grateful and content.” 
 
 “I will not attempt to deceive you,” she replied. 
 “I know who you are, but I am not at liberty to say.” 
 “Tell me, at least, that you have forgiven my pre- 
 sumption, and I shall wait with all the patience I have,” 
 he said. “If I am not to know, I must do without. 
 It is cruel, but I can bear more upon a push. Only 
 do not add to my troubles the thought that I have 
 made an enemy of you.” 
 
 “You did only what was natural,” she said, “and 
 I have nothing to forgive you. Farewell.” 
 
 “Is it to be farewell?*^ he asked. 
 
 “Nay, that I do not know myself,” she answered. 
 “Farewell for the present, if you like.” 
 
 And with these words she was gone. 
 
 Francis returned to his lodging in a state of con- 
 siderable commotion of mind. He made the most trifling 
 progress with his Euclid for that forenoon, and was 
 more often at the window than at his improvised 
 writing-table. But beyond seeing the return of Miss 
 Vandeleur, and the meeting between her and her father, 
 who was smoking a Trichinopoli cigar in the veranda, 
 there was nothing notable in the neighborhood of the 
 
I^eu; /li-abiaij 
 
 175 
 
 house with the green blinds before the time of the mid- 
 day meal. The young man hastily allayed his appetite 
 in a neighboring restaurant, and returned with the 
 speed of unallayed curiosity to the house in the Rue 
 Lepic. A mounted servant was leading a saddle-horse 
 to and fro before the garden wall; and the porter of 
 Francis’s lodging was smoking a pipe against the door- 
 post, absorbed in contemplation of the livery and the 
 steeds. 
 
 “Look!” he cried to the young man, “what fine 
 cattle! what an elegant costume! They belong to the 
 brother of M. de Vandeleur, who is now within upon 
 a visit. He is a great man, a general, in your coun- 
 try; and you doubtless know him well by reputation.” 
 
 “I confess,” returned Francis, “that I have never heard 
 of General Vandeleur before. We have many officers of 
 that grade, and my pursuits have been exclusively civil.” 
 
 “It is he,” replied the porter, “who lost the great 
 diamond of the Indies. Of that at least you must have 
 read often in the papers.” 
 
 As soon as Francis could disengage himself from 
 the porter he ran upstairs and hurried to the window. 
 Immediately below the clear space in the chestnut 
 leaves, the two gentleman were seated in conversation 
 over a cigar. The General, a red, military looking man, 
 offered some traces of a family resemblance to his 
 brother; he had something of the same features, some- 
 thing, although very little, of the same free and pow- 
 erful carriage ; but he was older, smaller, and more 
 common in air; his likeness was that of a caricature, 
 and he seemed altogether a poor and debile being by 
 the side of the Dictator. 
 
176 U/orl^5 of Hofc»ert C 0 U 15 SteucQSoi? 
 
 They spoke in tones so low, leaning over the table 
 with every appearance of interest, that Francis could 
 catch no more than a word or two on an occasion. 
 For as little as he heard, he was convinced that the 
 conversation turned upon himself and his‘ own career; 
 several times the name of Scrymgeour reached his ear, 
 for it was easy to distinguish, and still more frequently 
 he fancied he could distinguish the name Francis. 
 
 At length the General, as if in a hot anger, broke 
 forth into several violent exclamations. 
 
 “Francis Vandeleur!” he cried, accentuating the last 
 word. “Francis Vandeleur, I tell you.” 
 
 The Dictator made a movement of his whole body, 
 half affirmative, half contemptuous, but his answer was 
 inaudible to the young man. 
 
 Was he the Francis Vandeleur in question? he won- 
 dered. Were they discussing the name under which he 
 was to be married? Or was the whole affair a dream 
 and a delusion of his own conceit and self-absorption? 
 
 After another interval of inaudible talk, dissension 
 seemed again to arise between the couple underneath the 
 chestnut, and again the General raised his voice angrily 
 so as to be audible to Francis. 
 
 “My wife?” he cried. “I have done with my wife 
 *for good. I will not hear her name. I am sick of her 
 very name.” 
 
 And he swore aloud and beat the table with his fist. 
 
 The Dictator appeared, by his gestures, to pacify him 
 after a paternal fashion; and a little after he conducted 
 him to the garden gate. The pair shook hands affec- 
 tionately enough ; but as soon as the door had closed 
 behind his visitor, John Vandeleur fell into a fit of 
 
s 
 
 I'feu; /irabiai? 177 
 
 , laughter which sounded unkindly and even devilish in 
 the ears of Francis Scrymgeour. 
 
 So another day had passed, and little more learned. 
 But the young man remembered that the morrow was 
 Tuesday, and promised himself some curious discoveries; 
 all might be well, or all might be ill; he was sure, at 
 least, to glean some curious information, and, perhaps, 
 by good luck, get at the heart of the mystery which 
 surrounded his father and his family. 
 
 As the hour of the dinner drew near many prepara- 
 tions were made in the garden of the house with the 
 green blinds. That table which was partly visible to 
 Francis through the chestnut leaves was destined to 
 serve as a sideboard, and carried relays of plates and 
 the materials for salad ; the other, which was almost 
 entirely concealed, had been set apart for the diners, 
 and Francis could catch glimpses of white cloth and 
 silver plate. 
 
 Mr. Rolles arrived, punctual to the minute; he looked 
 like a man upon his guard, and spoke low and spar- 
 ingly. The Dictator, on the other hand, appeared to 
 enjoy an unusual flow of spirits; his laugh, which was 
 youthful and pleasant to hear, sounded frequently from 
 the garden; by the modulation and the changes of his 
 voice it was obvious that he told many droll stories 
 and imitated the accents of a variety of different na- 
 tions ; and before he and the young clergyman had 
 finished their vermouth *?,11 feeling of distrust was at 
 an end, and they were talking together like a pair of 
 |school companions. 
 
 j At length Miss Vandeleur made her appearance, carry- 
 jing the soup-tureen. Mr. Rolles ran to offer her assist- 
 
178 U/orfe[5 of F^obert C 0 U 15 Steueijjoi) 
 
 ance which she laughingly refused; and there was an 
 interchange of pleasantries among the trio which seemed 
 to have reference to this primitive manner of waiting by 
 one of the company. 
 
 “One is more at one’s ease,” Mr. Vandeleur was 
 heard to declare. 
 
 Next moment they were all three in their places, 
 and Francis could see as little ,as he could hear of 
 what passed. But the dinner seemed to go merrily; 
 there was a perpetual babble of voices and sound of 
 knives and forks below' the chestnut; and Francis, who 
 had no more than a roll to gnaw, was affected with 
 envy by the comfort and deliberation of the meal. The 
 party lingered over one dish after another, and then 
 over a delicate dessert, with a bottle of old wine care- 
 fully uncorked by the hand of the Dictator himself. As 
 it began to grow dark a lamp was set upon the table 
 and a couple of candles on the sideboard; for the night 
 was perfectly pure, starry, and windless. Light over- 
 flowed besides from the door and window in the ve- 
 randa, so that the garden was fairly illuminated and the 
 leaves twinkled in the darkness. 
 
 For perhaps the tenth time Miss Vandeleur entered 
 the house; and on this occasion she returned with the 
 coffee-tray, which she placed upon the sideboard. At 
 the same moment her father rose from his seat. 
 
 “The coffee is my province,” Francis heard him say. 
 
 And next moment he saw his supposed father stand- 
 ing by the sideboard in the light of the candles. 
 
 Talking over his shoulder all the while, Mr. Van- 
 deleur poured out two cups of the brown stimulant, and 
 then, by a rapid act of prestidigitation, emptied the con- 
 
ffeu; /irabiai) 
 
 179 
 
 tents of a tiny phial into the emaller of the two. The 
 thing was so swiftly done that even Francis, who looked 
 straight into his face, had hardly time to perceive the 
 movement before it was completed. And next instant, 
 and still laughing, Mr. Vandeleur had turned again to- 
 ward the table with a cup in either hand. 
 
 “Ere we have done with this,” said he, “we may 
 expect our famous Hebrew.” 
 
 It would be impossible to depict the confusion and 
 distress of Francis Scrymgeour. He saw foul play go- 
 ing forward before his eyes, and he felt bound to in- 
 terfere, but knew not how. It might be a mere pleas- 
 antry, and then how should he look if he were to offer 
 an imnecessary warning? Or again, if it were serious, 
 the criminal might be his own father, and then how 
 should he not lament if he were to bring ruin on the 
 author of his days? For the first time he became con- 
 scious of his own position as a spy. To wait inactive 
 at such a juncture and with such a confiict of senti- 
 ments in his bosom was to suffer the most acute tor- 
 ture; he clung to the bars of the shutters, his heart 
 beat fast and with irregularity, and he felt a strong 
 sweat break forth upon his body. 
 
 Several minutes passed. 
 
 He seemed to perceive the conversation die away and 
 grow less and less in vivacity and volume; but still no 
 sign of any alarming or even notable event. 
 
 Suddenly the ring of a glass breaking was followed 
 by a faint and dull sound, as of a person who should 
 have fallen forward with his head upon the table. At 
 the same moment a piercing scream rose from the 
 garden. 
 
180 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 “What have you done?” cried Miss VanAeleur. “He 
 is dead!” 
 
 The Dictator replied in a violent whisper, so strong 
 and sibilant that every word was audible to the watcher 
 at the window. 
 
 “Silence!” said Mr. Yandeleur; “the man is as well 
 as I am. Take him by the heels while I carry him 
 by the shoulders.” 
 
 Francis heard Miss Vandeleur break forth into a 
 passion of telars. - - 
 
 “Do you hear what I say?” resumed the Dictator, 
 in the same tones. “Or do you wish to quarrel wjth 
 me? I give you your choice. Miss Vandeleur.” 
 
 There was another pause, and the Dictator spoke again. 
 
 “Take that man by the heels,” he said. “I must 
 have him brought into the house. If I were a little 
 younger, I could help myself against J;he world. Bht 
 now that years and dangers ar6 upon me and my 
 hands are weakened, I must turn to you for aid.” 
 
 “It is a crime,” replied the girl. 
 
 “I am your father,” said Mr. Vandeleur. 
 
 This appeal seemed to produce its effect. A sculBding 
 noise followed upon the gravel, a chair was overset, 
 and then Francis saw the father and daughter stagger 
 across the walk and disappear under the veranda, bear- 
 ing the inanimate body of Mr. Rolles embraced about 
 the knees and shoulders. The young clergyman was 
 limp and pallid, and his head rolled upon his shoulders 
 at every step. 
 
 Was he alive or dead? Francis, in spite of the Dic- 
 tator’s declaration, inclined to the -latter view. A great 
 crime had been committed; a great calamity had fallen 
 
fleu; /Irablap 
 
 181 
 
 upon the inhabitants of the house with the green blinds. 
 To his surprise, Francis found all horror for the deed 
 swallowed up in sorrow for a girl and an old man 
 whom he judged to be in the height of peril. A tide 
 of generous feeling swept into his heart; he, too, would 
 help his father against man and mankind, against fate 
 and justice; and casting open the shutters he closed his 
 eyes and threw himself with outstretched arms into the 
 foliage of the chestnut. 
 
 Branch after branch slipped from his grasp or broke 
 under his weight; then he caught a stalwart bough 
 under his armpit, and hung suspended for a second; 
 and then he let himself drop and fell heavily against 
 the table. A cry of alarm from the house warned him 
 that his entrance had not been effected unobserved. He 
 recovered himself with a stagger, and in three bounds 
 crossed the intervening space and stood before the door 
 in the veranda. 
 
 In a small apartment, carpeted with matting and 
 surrounded by glazed cabinets full of rare and costly 
 curios, Mr. Vandeleur was stooping over the body of 
 Mr. Holies. He raised himself as Francis entered, and 
 there was an instantaneous passage of hands. It was 
 the business of a second; as fast as an eye can wink 
 the thing was done; the young man had not the time 
 to be sure, but it seemed to him as if the Dictator 
 had taken something from the curate’s breast, looked at 
 it for the least fraction of time as it lay in his hand, 
 and then suddenly and swiftly passed it to his daughter. 
 
 All this was over while Francis had still one foot 
 upon the threshold, and the other raised in air. The 
 
 next instant he was on his knees to Mr. Vandeleur. 
 
 Stevenson. Yoh . I — 12 
 
182 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 Father!” he cried. “Let me too help you. I will 
 do what you wish and ask no questions; I will obey 
 you with my life; treat me as a son, and you will find 
 I have a son’s devotion.” 
 
 A deplorable explosion of oaths was the Dictator’s 
 first reply. 
 
 “Son and father?”, he cried. “Father and son? What 
 
 d d unnatural comedy is all this? How do you come 
 
 in my garden? What do you want? And who, in God’s 
 name, are you?” 
 
 Francis, with a stunned and shamefaced aspect, got 
 upon his feet again, and stood in silence. 
 
 Then a light seemed to break upon Mr. Vandeleur, 
 and he laughed aloud. 
 
 “I see,” cried he. “It is the Scrymgeour. Very 
 well, Mr. Scrymgeour. Let me tell you in a few 
 words how you stand. You have entered my private 
 
 ]^esidence by force, or perhaps by fraud, but certainly 
 with no encouragement from me; and you come at a 
 moment of some annoyance, a guest having fainted at 
 my table, to besiege me with your protestations. You 
 are no son of mine. You are my brother’s bastard by 
 a fishwife, if you want to know. I regard you with 
 an indifference closely bordering on aversion; and from 
 what I now see of your conduct, I judge your mind 
 to be exactly suitable to your exterior. I recommend 
 you these mortifying refiections for your leisure ; and, 
 in the meantime, let me beseech you to rid us of your 
 presence. If I were not occupied,” added the Dictator, 
 with a terrifying oath, “I should give you the un- 
 holiest drubbing ere you went!” 
 
 Francis listened in profound humiliation. He would 
 
I'/eu; /)rabiaQ 
 
 183 
 
 have fled had it been possible; but as he had no means 
 of leaving the residence into which he had so unfortu- 
 nately penetrated, he could do no more than stand fool- 
 ishly where he was. 
 
 It was Miss Vandeleur who broke the silence. 
 
 “Father,” she said, “you speak in anger. Mr. 
 Scrymgeour may have been mistaken, but he meant 
 well and kindly.” 
 
 “Thank you for speaking,” returned the Dictator. 
 “You remind me of some other observations which I 
 hold it a point of honor to make to Mr. Scrymgeour. 
 My brother,” he continued, addressing the young man, 
 “has been foolish enough to give you an allowance; he 
 was foolish enough and presumptuous enough to propose 
 a match between you and this young lady. You were 
 exhibited to her two nights ago; and I rejoice to tell 
 you that she rejected the idea with disgust. Let me 
 add that I have considerable influence with your father; 
 and it shall not be my fault if you are not beggared 
 of your allowance and sent back to your scrivening ere 
 the week be out.” 
 
 The tones of the old man’s voice were, if possible, 
 more wounding than his language; Francis felt himself 
 exposed to the most cruel, 'blighting, and unbearable 
 contempt ; his head turned, and he covered his face 
 with his hands, uttering at the same time a tearless 
 sob of agony. But Miss Vandeleur once again inter- 
 fered in his behalf. 
 
 “Mr. Scrymgeour,” she said, speaking in clear and 
 even tones, “you must not be concerned at my father’s 
 harsh expressions. I felt no disgust for you; on the 
 contrary, I asked an opportunity to make your better 
 
184 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsoi) 
 
 acquaintance. As for what has passed to-night, believe 
 me, it has filled my mind with both pity and esteem.” 
 Just then Mr. Rolles made a convulsive movement 
 with his arm, which convinced Francis that he was 
 only drugged, and was beginning to throw off the in- 
 fluence of the opiate. Mr. Vandeleur stooped over him 
 and examined his face for an instant. 
 
 “Come; come!” cried he, raising '^is head. “Let 
 • there ^be an end of this. And since yoa are so pleased 
 with his conduct, Miss Vandeleur, tak;e a candle and 
 show the bastard out.” 
 
 The young lady hastened to obey. 
 
 “Thank you,” said Francis, as soon^as he was alone 
 with her in the garden. “I thank you from my soul. 
 This has been the bitterest evening of . my life, but it 
 will have always one pleasant recollectidh. ” 
 
 “I spoke as I felt,” she replied, “and in justice to 
 you. It made my heart sorry that you should be so 
 unkindly used.” 
 
 By this time they had reached the garden gate; and 
 Miss Vandeleur, having set the candle on the ground, 
 was already unfastening the bolts. 
 
 “One word more,” said Francis, “'iljjiis is not for 
 the last time — I shall see you again, shall I not?” 
 “Alas!” she answered. “You have heard my father. 
 What can I do but obey?” 
 
 “Tell me at least that it is not with your consent,” 
 returned Francis; “tell me that you have no wish to 
 see the last of me.” 
 
 “Indeed,” replied she, “I have none. You seem to 
 me both brave and honest.” 
 
 “Then,” said Francis, “give me a keepsake.” 
 
 1 
 
. I'fevu /^rabiai) 
 
 185 
 
 She paused for a moment, with her hand upon the 
 key; for the various bars and bolts were all undone, 
 and there was nothing left but to open the lock. 
 
 “If I agree,” she said, “will you promise to do as 
 I tell you from point to point?” 
 
 “Can you ask?’/^ replied Francis. “I would do so 
 willingly on your bare word.” 
 
 She turned the key and threw open the door. 
 
 “Be it so,” said she. “You do not know what you 
 ask, but be it so. Whatever you hear,” she continued, 
 “whatever happens, do not return to this house; hurry 
 fast until you reach the lighted and populous quarters 
 of the city; even there be upon your guard. You are 
 in a greater danger than you fancy. Promise me you 
 will not so much as look at my keepsake until you are 
 in a place of safety.” 
 
 “I promise,” replied Francis. 
 
 She put something loosely wrapped in a handkerchief 
 into the young man’s hand; and at the same time, with 
 more strength than he could have anticipated, she pushed 
 him into the street. 
 
 “Now, run!” she cried. 
 
 He heard the door close behind him, and the noise 
 of the bolts being replaced. 
 
 “My faith,” said he, “since I have promised!” 
 
 And he took to his heels down the lane that leads 
 into the Rue Ravignan. 
 
 He was not fifty paces from the house with the green 
 blinds when the most diabolical outcry suddenly arose 
 out of the stillness of the night. Mechanically he stood 
 still; another passenger followed his example; in the 
 neighboring floors he saw people crowding to the win- 
 
186 U/orl^s of {Robert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 V 
 
 dows ; a conflagration could not have produced more 
 disturbance in this empty quarter. And yet it seemed 
 to be all the work of a single man, roaring between 
 grief and rage, like a lioness robbed of her whelps; 
 and Francis was surprised and alarmed to bear bis own 
 ♦ name shouted with Englisl^ imprecations to the wind. 
 
 His first movement was to return to the house; his 
 second, as he remembered Miss Yandeleur’s advice, to 
 continue his flight ‘ with greater expedition than before ; 
 and he was in the act of turning to put his ‘thought 
 ♦ in action, when the Dictator, bare-headed, bawling aloud, 
 
 his white hair blowing about his head, shot past him 
 like a ball out of the cannon’s mouth, and went career- 
 ing down the street. ;; 
 
 “That was a close shav^^” thought Francis to him- 
 self. “What he wants with me, and why he should be 
 so disturbed, I cannot think; but he is plainly not good 
 company for the moment, and I cannot do better than 
 follow Miss Vandeleur’s advice.” 
 
 So saying, he turned to retrace his steps, thinking 
 to double and descend by the Rue Lepic itself while 
 his pursuer should continue to follow after him on the 
 other line of street. The plan was ill-devised : as a 
 matter of fact, he should have taken his seat in the 
 nearest cafe, and waited there until the first heat of 
 the pursuit was over. But besides that Francis had no 
 experience and little natural aptitude for the small war 
 of private life, he was so unconscious of any evil on 
 his part, that he saw nothing to fear beyond a dis- 
 agreeable interview. And to disagreeable interviews he 
 felt he had already served his apprenticeship that even- 
 ing; nor could he suppose that Miss Vandeleur had 
 
 
fleur /irablar> 
 
 187 
 
 left anything unsaid. Indeed, the young man was sore 
 both in body and mind— the one was all bruised, the 
 other was full of smarting arrows; and he owned to 
 himself that Mr. Vandeleur was master of a very deadly 
 tongue. 
 
 The thought of his bruises reminded him that he 
 had not only come without a hat, but that his clothes 
 had considerably suffered in his descent through the 
 chestnut. At the first magazine he purchased a cheap 
 wideawake, and had the disorder of his toilet summarily 
 repaired. The keepsake, still rolled in the handkerchief, 
 he thrust in the meanwhile into his trousers pocket. 
 
 Not many steps beyond the shop he was conscious 
 of a sudden shock, a hand upon his throat, an infuri- 
 ated face close to his own, and an open mouth bawl- 
 ing curses in his ear. The Dictator, having found no 
 trace of his quarry, was returning by the other way. 
 Francis was a stalwart young fellow; but he was no 
 match for his adversary whether in strength or skill; 
 and after a few ineffectual struggles he resigned him- 
 self entirely to his captor. 
 
 “What do you want with me?” said he. 
 
 “We will talk of that at home,” returned the Dic- 
 tator, grimly. 
 
 And he continued to march the young man up hill 
 in the direction of the house with the green blinds. 
 
 But Francis, although he no longer struggled, was 
 only waiting an opportunity to make a bold push for 
 freedom. With a sudden jerk he left the collar of his 
 coat in the hands of Mr. Vandeleur, and once more 
 made off at his best speed in the direction of the 
 Boulevards. 
 
188 U/orK5 of Robert Couij Steuei^soij 
 
 The tables were now turned. If the Dictator was . 
 
 the stronger, Francis, in the top of his youth, was the 
 more fleet of foot, and he had soon effected his escape 
 among the crowds. Relieved for a moment, but with' 
 
 a growing sentiment of alarm and wonder in his mind, 
 
 he walked briskly until he debouched upon the Place 
 de 1’ Opera, lit up like ay with electric lamps. 
 
 “This, at leasik,’’ ffiought he, “should satisfy Miss 
 Vandeleur.” » ' ’ 
 
 And turning to his right along the Boulevards, he 
 entered the Cafe Amerieain and ordered some beer. It 
 was both late and early for the majority of the fre- 
 
 quenters of the establishment. Only two or three persons, 
 all men, were dotted here and there at separate tables 
 in the hall; and Francis was too much occupied by his 
 own thoughts to observe their presence. 
 
 He drew the handkerchief from his pocket. The ob- 
 ject wrapped in it proved to be a morocco case, clasped 
 and ornamented in gilt, which opened by means of a 
 spring, and, disclosed to the horrified young man a dia- 
 mond of monstrous bigness and extraordinary brilliancy. 
 The circumstance was so inexplicable, the value of the 
 stone was plainly so enormous, that Francis sat staring 
 into the open casket without movement, without con- 
 scious thought, like a man stricken suddenly with’ 
 
 » A " 
 
 idiocy. 
 
 A hand was laid upon his shoulder, lightly but 
 firmly, and a quiet voice, which yet had in it the ring 
 of command, uttered these words in his ear: 
 
 “Close the casket, and compose your face.” 
 
 Looking up, he beheld a man, still young, of an ur- 
 bane and tranquil presence, and dressed with rich sim- 
 
]'feu7 /irabiai) 
 
 189 
 
 plicity. This personage had risen from a neighboring 
 table, and, bringing his glass with him, had taken a 
 seat beside Francis. 
 
 “Close the casket,” repeated the stranger, “and put 
 it quietly back into your pocket, where I feel persuaded 
 it should never have been. Try, if you please, to throw 
 off your bewildered air, and act as though I were one 
 of your acquaintances whom you had met by chance. 
 So ! Touch glasses with me. That is better. I fear, 
 sir, you must be an amateur.” 
 
 And the stranger pronounced these last words with 
 a smile of peculiar meaning, leaned back in his seat, 
 and enjoyed a deep inhalation of tobacco. 
 
 “For God’s sake,” said Francis, ‘tell me who you 
 are and what this means? Why I should obey your 
 most unusual suggestions I am sure I know not; but 
 the truth is, I have fallen this evening into so many 
 perplexing adventures, and all I meet conduct themselves 
 so strangely, that I think I must either have gone mad 
 or wandered into another planet. You face inspires me 
 with confidence; you seem wise, good, and experienced; 
 tell me, for Heaven’s sake, why you accost me in so 
 odd a fashion?” 
 
 “All in due time,” replied the s'tranger. “But I 
 have the first hand, and you must begin by telling me 
 how the Rajah’s Diamond is in your possession.” 
 
 “The Rajah’s Diamond!” echoed Francis. 
 
 “I would not speak so loud, if I were you,” re- 
 turned the other. “But most certainly you have the 
 Rajah’s Diamond in your pocket. I have seen and 
 handled it a score of times in Sir Thomas Vandeleur’s 
 
 collection.” 
 
190 n/orl^S of Robert Couis Steuei> 80 i> v 
 
 “Sir Thomas Vandeleur! The General! My father I** 
 cried Francis. 
 
 “Your father?” repeated the stranger. “I was not 
 aware the General had any family.’* 
 
 “I am illegitimate, sir,” replied Francis, with a flush. 
 
 The other bowed with gravity. It was a respectful 
 bow, as of a man silently apologizing to his equal; and 
 Francis felt relieved and comforted, he scarce knew why. 
 The society of this person did him good; he seemed to 
 touch firm ground; a strong feeling of respect grew up 
 in his bosom, and mechanically ho removed his wide- 
 ’ awake as though in the presence of a superior. 
 
 “I perceive,” said the stranger, “that your adven- 
 tures have not all been peaceful. Your collar is torn, 
 your face is scratched, you have a cut upon your tem- 
 ple; you will, perhaps, pardon my curiosity when I ask 
 you to explain how you came by these injuries, and 
 how you happen to have stolen property to an enormous 
 value in your pocket.” 
 
 “I must differ from you!” returned Francis, hotly. 
 “I possess no stolen property. And if you refer to the 
 diamond, it was given to me not an hour ago by Miss 
 Vandeleur in the Rue Lepic.” 
 
 “By Miss Vandeleur of the Rue Lepic!” repeated the 
 other. “You interest me more than you suppose. Pray 
 continue.” 
 
 “Heavens!” cried Francis. 
 
 His memory had made a sudden bound. He had 
 seen Mr. Vandeleur take an article from the breast of 
 his drugged visitor, and that article, he was now 
 persuaded, was a morocco case. 
 
 “You have a light?” inquired the stranger. 
 
ffeu; /irabiaij 
 
 191 
 
 '‘Listen,** replied Francis. “I know not who you 
 are, but I believe you to be worthy of confidence and 
 helpful; I find myself in strange waters; I must have 
 counsel and support, and since you invite me I shall 
 tell you all.’* 
 
 And he briefly recounted his experiences since the day 
 when he was summoned from the bank by his lawyer. 
 
 “Yours is indeed a remarkable history,” said the 
 stranger, after the young man had made an end of his 
 narrative; “and your position is full of difficulty and 
 peril. Many would counsel you to seek out your father, 
 and give the diamond to him; but I have other views. 
 Waiter!” he cried. 
 
 The waiter drew near. 
 
 “Will you ask the manager to speak with me a mo- 
 ment?” said he; and Francis observed once more, both 
 in his tone and manner, the evidence of a habit of 
 command. 
 
 The waiter withdrew, and returned in a moment 
 with the manager, who bowed with obsequious respect. 
 
 “What,” said he, “can I do to serve you?” 
 
 “Have the goodness,” replied the stranger, indicating 
 Francis, “to tell this gentleman my name.” 
 
 “You have the honor, sir,” said the functionary^ 
 addressing young Scrymgeour, “to occupy the same 
 table with His Highness Prince Florizel of Bohemia.” 
 
 Francis rose with precipitation, and made a grateful 
 reverence to the Prince, who bade him resume his seat. 
 
 “I thank you,” said Florizel, once more addressing 
 the functionary; “I am sorry to have deranged you for 
 80 small a matter.” 
 
 And he dismissed him with a movement of his hand 
 
193 Worths of C0UI5 Steueij50i> 
 
 'o 
 
 “And now,” added the Prince, turning to Francis, 
 “give me the diamond.” 
 
 Without a word the casket was handed over. 
 
 “You have done right,” said Florizel; “your senti- 
 ments have properly inspired you, and you will live to 
 be grateful for the misfortunes of to-night. A man, 
 Mr. Scrymgeour, may fall into a thousand perplexities, 
 but if his heart be upright and his intelligence un- 
 clouded, he will issue from them all without dishonor. 
 Let your mind be at rest; your affairs are in my '“hand; 
 and with the aid of Heaven I am strong enough to 
 bring them to a good end„ Follow me, if you please, 
 to my carriage.” 
 
 So saying, the Prince arose and, having left a piece 
 of gold for the waiter, conducted the young man from 
 the cafe and along the Boulevard to where an unpre- 
 tentious brougham and a couple of servants out of livery 
 awaited his arrival. 
 
 “This carriage,” said he, “is at your disposal; col- 
 lect your baggage as rapidly as you can make it con- 
 venient, and my servants will conduct you to a villa in 
 the neighborhood of Paris where you can wait in some 
 degree of comfort until I have had time to arrange 
 your situation. You will find there a pleasant garden, 
 a library' of good authors, a cook, a cellar, and some 
 good cigars, which I recommend to your attention. 
 Jerome,” he added, turning to one of the servants, 
 “you have heard what I say; I leave Mr. Scrymgeour 
 in your charge; you will, I know, be careful of my 
 friend.” 
 
 Francis uttered some broken phrases of gratitude. 
 
 “It will be time enough to thank me,” said the 
 
4 
 
 \ 
 
 ' fiew /Irabiaij ^ 193 
 
 Prince, “when you are acknowledged by your father 
 ,and married to Miss Vandeleur.” 
 
 And with that the Prince turned away and strolled 
 leisurely in the direction of Montmartre. He hailed the 
 first passing cab, gave an address, and a quarter of an 
 hour afterward, having discharged the driver some dis- 
 tance lower, he was knocking at Mr. Vandeleur ’s garden 
 gate. 
 
 It was opened with singular precautions by the Dic- 
 tator in person. 
 
 “Who are you?” he demanded. 
 
 “You must pardon me this late visit, Mr. Vande- 
 leur,” replied the Prince. 
 
 ; “Your Highness is always welcome,” returned Mr. 
 .Vandeleur, stepping back. 
 
 The Prince profited by the open space, and without 
 waiting for his host walked right into the house and 
 opened the door of the salon. Two people were seated 
 there; one was Miss Vandeleur, who bore the marks of 
 weeping about her eyes, and was still shaken from time 
 to > time by a sob ; in the other the Prince recognized 
 the young man who had consulted him on literary 
 matters about a month before, in a club smoking-room. 
 
 “Good evening, Miss Vandeleur,” said Plorizel; “you 
 look fatigued. Mr. Holies, I believe? I hope you have 
 profited by the study of Gaboriau, Mr. Holies.” 
 
 But the young clergyman’s temper was too much 
 imbittered for speech; and he contented himself with 
 bowing stiffly, and continued to gnaw his lip. 
 
 “To what good wind,” said Mr. Vandeleur, follow- 
 ing his guest, “am I to attribute the honor of youf 
 Highness’s presence?” 
 
194 g, U/orK 5 of F^obert Couis Steveij 50 ij 
 
 “I am come on business,” returned the Prince; “oa 
 
 « 
 
 business with you; as soon as that is settled I shall 
 request Mr. Rolles to accompany me for a walk. Mr. 
 Rolles,” he added, with severity, “let me remind you 
 that I have not yet sat down.” 
 
 The clergyman sprang to his feet with an apology; 
 whereupon the Prince took an arm-chair beside the 
 
 table, handed his hat to Mr. Vandeleur, his cane to 
 Mr. Rolles, and, leaving them standing and thus meni- 
 ally employed upon his service, spoke as follows; 
 
 “I have come here, as I said, upon business; but, 
 
 had I come looking for pleasure, I could not have been 
 
 more displeased with my reception nor more dissatisfied 
 with my company. You, sir,” addressing Mr. Rolles, 
 “you have treated your superior in station with dis- 
 courtesy; you, Vandeleur, receive me with a smile, but 
 you know right well that your hands are not yet 
 
 cleansed from misconduct. I do not desire to be inter- 
 rupted, sir,” he added, imperiously; “I am here to 
 speak, and not to listen; and I have to ask you to 
 hear me with respect, and to obey punctiliously. At 
 the earliest possible date your daughter shall be married 
 at the Embassy fo my friend, Francis Scrymgeour, your 
 brother’s acknowledged son. You will oblige me by 
 dffering not less than ten thousand pounds dowry. For 
 yourself, t will indicate to you in writing a mission of 
 some importance in Siam which I destine to your care. 
 And now, sir, you will answer me in two words whether 
 or not you agree to these conditions.” 
 
 “Your Highness will pardon me,” said Mr. Vande- 
 leur, “and permit me, with all respect, to submit to 
 him two queries?” 
 
J^euj /Irabiaij 
 
 195 
 
 “The permission is granted,” replied the Prince. 
 
 “Your Highness,” resumed the Dictator, “has called 
 Mr. Scrymgeour his friend. Believe me, had I known, 
 he was thus honored, I should have treated him with 
 proportional respect. ’ ’ 
 
 “You interrogate adroitly,” said the Prince; “but it 
 will not serve your turn. You have my commands; if 
 I had never seen that gentleman before to-night, it 
 would not render them less absolute.” 
 
 “Your Highness interprets my meaning with his 
 usual subtlety,” returned Vandeleur. “Once more: I 
 have, unfortunately, put the police upon the track of 
 Mr. Scrymgeour on a charge of theft; am I to with- 
 draw or to uphold the accusation?” 
 
 “You will please yourself,” replied Florizel. “The 
 question is one between your conscience and the laws 
 of this land. Give me my hat; and you, Mr. Rolles, 
 give me my cane and follow me. Miss Vandeleur, I 
 wish you good-evening. I judge,” he added to Vande- 
 leur, “that your silence means unqualified assent.” 
 
 “If I can do no better,” replied the old man, “I 
 shall submit; but I warn you openly it shall not be 
 without a struggle.” 
 
 “You are old,” said the Prince; “but years are dis- 
 graceful to the wicked. Your age is more unwise than 
 the youth of others. Do not provoke me, or you may 
 find me harder than you dream. This is the first time 
 that I have fallen across your path in anger; take care 
 that it be the last.” 
 
 With these words, motioning the clergyman to fol- 
 low, Florizel left the apartment and directed his steps 
 toward the garden gate ; and the Dictator, following 
 
196 U/orKs of Hol^ert C0U15 Steuei?5op 
 
 with a candle, gave them light, and once more undid 
 II the elaborate fastenings with which he sought to protect 
 himself from intrusion. 
 
 “Your daughter is no longer present,” said the 
 Prince, turning on the threshold. “Let me tell you 
 that I understand your threats; and you have only to 
 lift your hand to bring upon yourself sudden and ir- 
 remediable ruin.” ' , 
 
 The Dictator made no reply;- but as the Prince 
 turned his back upon him in the lamplight he made a 
 gesture full of menace and insane fury; and the next 
 moment, slipping round a corner, he was running at 
 full speed for the nearest cab-stand. 
 
 [Here, says my Arabian, the thread of events is finally 
 diverted from “The House with the Green Blinds.” One 
 more adventure, he adds, and we have done with “The 
 Rajah’s Diamond.” . That last link in the chain is known 
 among the inhabitants of Bagdad by the name of “The Ad- 
 venture of Prince Florizel and a Detective.”] 
 
 THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCE FLORIZEL 
 AND A DETECTIVE 
 
 Prince Florizel walked with Mr. Rolles to the 
 door of a small hotel where the^^latter resided. They 
 spoke much J:ogether, .and the clergyman was more than 
 once affected to tears by the mingled severity and ten- 
 derness of Florizel ’s reproaches, 
 
 “I have made ruin of my life,” he said at last. 
 “Help me; tell me what I am to do; I have, alas! nei- 
 ther the virtues of a priest nor the dexterity of a rogue.” 
 
I'^eu; /Irabiai? 
 
 197 
 
 “Now that you are humbled,” said the Prince, “I 
 command no longer; the repentant have to do with 
 God and not with princes. But if you will let me ad- 
 vise you, go to Australia as a colonist, seek menial 
 labor in the open air, and try to forget that you have 
 ever been a clergyman, or that you ever set eyes on 
 that accursed stone.” 
 
 “Accurst indeed!” replied Mr. Rolles. “Where is it 
 now? What further hurt is it not working for mankind?” 
 
 “It will do no more evil,” returned the Prince. “It 
 is here in my pocket. And this,” he added, kindly, 
 “will show that I place some faith in your penitence, 
 young as it is.” 
 
 “Suffer me to touch your hand,” pleaded Mr. Rolles. 
 
 “No,” replied Prince Florizel, “not yet.” 
 
 The tone in which he uttered these last words was 
 eloquent in the ears of the young clergyman; and for 
 some minutes after the Prince had turned away he 
 stood on the threshold following with his eyes the re- 
 treating figure and invoking the blessing of Heaven upon 
 a man so excellent in counsel. 
 
 For several hours the Prince walked alone in unfre- 
 quented streets. His mind was full of concern; what 
 to do with the diamond, whether to return it to its 
 owner, whom he judged unworthy of this rare posses- 
 sion, or to take some sweeping and courageous measure 
 and put it out of the reach of all mankind at once 
 and forever, was a problem too grave to be decided in 
 a moment. The manner in which it had come into his 
 hands appeared manifestly providential; and as he took 
 out the jewel and looked at it under the street lamps, 
 
 its size and surprising brilliancy inclined him more and 
 
 Stevexson. Vol. I.~ 13 
 
198 \I/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 more to think of it as of an unmixed and dangerous 
 evil for the world. 
 
 “God help me!” he thought; “if I look at it much 
 oftener I shall begin to grow covetous myself.” 
 
 At last, though still uncertain in his mind, he turned 
 his steps toward the small but elegant mansion on the 
 riverside which had' belonged! for centuries to his royal 
 family. The arms of Bohemia are deeply graved over 
 the door and upon the tall chimneys; passengers have 
 a look into a green court set with the most costly 
 flowers, and a stork, the only one in Paris, perches 
 on the gable all day long and keeps a crowd before 
 the house. Grave, servants are seen passing to and fro 
 within; and from time to time the great gate is thrown 
 open and a carriage rolls below the arch. For many 
 reasons this residence was especially dear to the heart 
 of Prince . Florizel ; he never drew near to it without 
 enjoying that sentimeiit of home-comiS^ so rare in the 
 lives of the great; and on the present evening he be- 
 held its tall roof and mildly illuminated windows with 
 unfeigned relief and satisfaction. 
 
 As he was approaching the postern door by which 
 he always entered when alone, a man stepped forth 
 from the shadow and presented himself with an obei- 
 sance in'tjie Prince’s path. 
 
 “I have the honor of addressing Prince Florizel of 
 Bohemia?’ ’ said he. 
 
 “Such is my title,” replied the Prince. “What do 
 you want with me?” 
 
 “I am,” said the man, “a detective, and I have to 
 present your Highness with this billet from the Prefect 
 of Police.” 
 
j^eu; /irabiaij 
 
 199 
 
 The Prince took the letter and glanced it through 
 by the light of the street lamp. It was highly apolo- 
 getic, but requested him to follow the bearer to the 
 Prefecture without delay. 
 
 “In short,” said Plorizel, “I am arrested.” 
 
 “Your Highness,” replied the officer, “nothing, I am 
 certain, could be further from the intention of the Pre- 
 fect. You will observe that he has not granted a war- 
 rant. It is mere formality, or call it, if you prefer, an 
 obligation that your Highness lays on the authorities.” 
 
 “At the same time,” asked the Prince, “if I were 
 to refuse to follow you?” 
 
 “I will not conceal from your Highness that a con- 
 siderable discretion has been granted me,” replied the 
 detective with a bow. 
 
 “Upon my word,” cried Plorizel, “your effrontery 
 astounds me! Yourself, as an agent, I must pardon; 
 but your superiors shall dearly smart for their miscon- 
 duct. What, have you any idea, is the cause of this 
 impolitic and unconstitutional act? You will observe that 
 I have as yet neither refused nor consented, and much 
 may depend on your prompt and ingenuous answer. 
 Let me remind you, officer, that this is an affair of 
 some gravity.” 
 
 “Your Highness,” said the detective humbly, “Gen- 
 eral Vandeleur and his brother have had the incredible 
 presumption to accuse you of theft. The famous dia- 
 mond, they declare, is in your hands. A word from 
 you in denial will most amply satisfy the Prefect; nay, 
 I go further: if your Highness would so far honor a 
 subaltern as to declare his ignorance of the matter even to 
 myself, I should ask permission to retire upon the spot.” 
 
/JOO \I/or^$ of F^obert Couij Steueijsor?. v 
 
 Florizel, up to the last moment, had regarded 'his ad- 
 venture in the light of a trifle, only serious upon in- 
 ternational considerations. At the name of Vandeleur 
 the horrible truth broke upon him in a moment; he 
 was not only arrested, but he was guilty. This *was 
 not only an annoying incident — it was a peril to his 
 honor. What was he to^say? What was he to do? 
 The Rajah’s Diamond was indeed an. accursed stone; 
 and it seemed as if he were to be the last victim to 
 its influence. 
 
 One thing was certain. He could not give the re- 
 quired assurance to the detective. He must gain time. 
 
 His hesitation had not lasted a second. 
 
 “Be it so,” said he, “let us walk together to the 
 
 Prefecture.” ♦ 
 
 . 1 . 
 
 The man once more bow^, and proceeded to follow 
 Florizel at a respect^^il distance in the rear. 
 
 “Approach,” said the Prince. “I am in a humor 
 to talk, and, if I mistake not, now I look at g you 
 again, this is not the first time that we have met.” 
 
 “I count it an honor,” replied the officer, “that your 
 Highness should recollect my face. It is eight years 
 since I had the pleasure of an interview.” 
 
 “To remember faces,” returned Florizel, “is as much 
 a part of my profession as it is of yours. Indeed, 
 rightly looked upon, a Prince and a detective serve in 
 the same corps. We are both combatants against crime; 
 only mine is the more lucrative and yours the more 
 dangerous rank, and there is a sense in which both 
 may be made equally honorable to a good man. I had 
 rather, strange as you may think it, be a detective of 
 character and parts than a weak and ignoble sovereign.” 
 
i /IrabiaQ 201 
 
 The officer was overwhelmed. 
 
 “Your Highness returns good for evil,” said he. 
 “To an act of presumption he replies by the most ami- 
 able condescension. ’ ’ 
 
 “How do you know,” replied Florizel, “that I am 
 not seeking to corrupt you?” 
 
 “Heaven preserve me from the temptation!” cried 
 the detective. 
 
 “I applaud your answer,” returned the Prince. “It 
 is that of a wise and honest man. The world is a 
 great place and stocked with wealth and beauty, and 
 there is no limit to the rewards that may be offered. 
 Such a one who would refuse a million of money may 
 sell his honor for an empire or the love of a woman; 
 and I myself, who speak to you, have seen occasions 
 so tempting, provocations so irresistible to the strength 
 of human virtue, that I have been glad to tread in 
 your steps and recommend myself to the grace of God. 
 It is thus, thanks to that modest and becoming habit 
 
 alone,” he added, “that you and I can walk this town 
 
 together with untarnished hearts.” 
 
 “I had always heard that you were brave,” replied 
 
 the officer, “but I was not aware that you were wise 
 
 and pious. You speak the truth, and you speak it with 
 an accent that moves me to the heart. This world is 
 indeed a place of trial.” 
 
 “We are now,” said Florizel, “in the middle of the 
 bridge. Lean your elbows on the parapet and look 
 over. As the water rushing below, so the passions and 
 complications of life carry away the honesty of weak 
 men. Let me tell you a story.” 
 
 “I receive your Highness’s commands,” replied the man. 
 
202 U/orl^8 of f^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 And, imitating the Prince, he leaned against the 
 parapet, and disposed himself to listen. The city was 
 already sunk in slumber ; had it not been for the in- 
 finity of lights and the outline of buildings on the starry 
 sky, they might have been alone beside some country 
 river. 
 
 “An officer,” began Prince Florizel, “a man of cour- 
 age and conduct, who had already risen by merit to 
 an eminent rank, and won not only admiration but re- 
 spect, visited, in an unfortunate hour for his peace of 
 mind, the collections of an Indian Prince. Here he be- 
 held a diamond so extraordinary for size and beauty 
 that from that instant he had only one desire in life: 
 honor, reputation, friendship, the love of country, he 
 was ready to sacrifice all for this lump of sparkling 
 crystal. For three years he served this semi-barbarian 
 potentate as Jacob served Laban; he falsified frontiers, 
 he connived at murders, he unjustly condemned and 
 executed a brother-officer who had the misfortune to 
 displease the Rajah by some honest freedoms; lastly, 
 at a time of great danger to his native land, he be- 
 trayed a body of his fellow-soldiers, and suffered them 
 to be defeated and massacred by thousands. In the 
 end, he had amassed a magnificent fortune, and brought 
 home with him the coveted diamond. 
 
 “Years passed,” continued the Prince, “and at length 
 the diamond is accidentally lost. It falls into the hands 
 of a simple and laborious youth, a student, a minister 
 of God, just entering on a career of usefulness and 
 even distinction. Upon him also the spell is cast; he 
 deserts everything, his holy calling, his studies, and 
 flees with the gem into a foreign country. The officer 
 
 * 
 
ffeu; /Irabiai; 
 
 203 
 
 has a brother, an astute, daring, unscrupulous man, 
 who learns the clergyman’s secret. What does he do? 
 Tell his brother, inform the police? No; upon this man 
 also the Satanic charm has fallen; he must have the 
 stone for himself. At the risk of murder, he drugs 
 the young priest and seizes the prey. And now, by an 
 accident which is not important to my moral, the jewel 
 passes out of his custody into that of another, who, 
 terrified at what he sees, gives it into the keeping of 
 a man in high station and above reproach. 
 
 “The ofl&cer’s name is Thomas Vandeleur,” continued 
 Florizel. “The stone is called the Rajah’s Diamond. 
 And”— suddenly opening his hand — “you behold it here 
 before your eyes.” The officer started back with a cry. 
 
 “We have spoken of corruption,” said the Prince. 
 “To me this nugget of bright crystal is as loathsome 
 as though it were crawling with the worms of death; 
 it is as shocking as though it were compacted out of 
 innocent blood. I see it here in my hand, and I know 
 it is shining with hell-fire. I have told you but a hun- 
 dredth part of its story; what passed in former ages, 
 to what crimes and treacheries it incited men of yore, 
 the imagination trembles to conceive ; for years and 
 years it has faithfully served the powers of hell ; 
 enough, I say, of blood, enough of disgrace, enough of 
 broken lives and friendships ; all things come to an 
 end, the evil like the good; pestilence as well as beau- 
 tiful music; and as for this diamond, God forgive me 
 if I do wrong, but its empire ends to-night.” 
 
 The Prince made a sudden movement with his hand, 
 and the jewel, describing an arc of light, dived with 
 a splash into the flowing river. 
 
204 Worlds of Couis Steuep 50 i? 
 
 “Amen,” said Florizel, with gravity. “I have slain 
 a cockatrice!” 
 
 “God pardon me!” cried the detective. “What have 
 you done? I am a ruined man.” 
 
 “I think,” returned the Prince with a smile, “that 
 many well-to-do people in this city might envy you 
 your ruin.” 
 
 “Alas! your Highness!” said the officer, “and you 
 corrupt me after all?” 
 
 “It seems there was no help for it,” replied Florizel. 
 “And now let us go forward to the Prefecture.” 
 
 Not long after, the marriage of Francis Scrymgeour 
 and Miss Vandeleur was celebrated in great privacy; 
 and the Prince acted on that occasion as groom’s man. 
 The two Vandeleurs surprised some rumor of what had 
 happened to the diamond ; and their vast diving opera- 
 tions on the River Seine are the wonder and amusement 
 of the idle. It is true that through some miscalculation 
 they have chosen the wrong branch of the river. As 
 for the Prince, that sublime person, having now served 
 his turn, may go, along with the “Arabian Author,” 
 topsy-turvy into space. But if the reader insists on 
 more specific information, I am happy to say that a 
 recent revolution hurled him from the throne of Bo- 
 hemia, in consequence of his continued absence and 
 edifying neglect of public business; and that his High- 
 ness now keeps a cigar store in Rupert Street, much 
 frequented by other foreign refugees. I go there from 
 time to time to smoke and have a chat, and find him 
 as great a creature as in the days of his prosperity; he 
 has an Olympian air behind the counter; and although 
 a sedentary life is beginning to tell upon his waistcoat, 
 he is probably, take him for all in all, the handsomest 
 tobacconist in London. 
 
fiew /lrabiai> 
 
 m 
 
 THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 TELLS HOW I CAMPED IN GKADEN SEA-WOOD, AND 
 BEHELD A LIGHT IN THE PAVILION 
 
 I WAS a great solitary when I was young. I made 
 it my pride to keep aloof and suffice for my own en- 
 tertainment; and I may say that I had neither friends 
 nor acquaintances until I met that friend who became 
 my wife and the mother of my children. With one 
 man only was I on private terms; this was R. North- 
 mour, Esquire, of Oraden Easter, in Scotland. We had 
 met at college; and though there was not much liking 
 between us, nor even much intimacy, we were so nearly 
 of a humor that we could associate with ease to both. 
 Misanthropes, we believed ourselves to be; but I have 
 thought since that we were only sulky fellows. It was 
 scarcely a companionship, but a coexistence in unso- 
 ciability. Northmour’s exceptional violence of temper 
 made it no easy affair for him to keep the peace with 
 any one but me; and as he respected my silent ways, 
 and let me come and go as I pleased, I could tolerate 
 his presence without concern. I think we called each 
 other friends. 
 
206 U/orl^5 of Robert Coui$ SteueijsoQ 
 
 When Northmour took his degree and I decided to 
 leave the university without one, he invited me on a 
 long visit to Graden Easter; and it was thus that I first 
 became acquainted with the scene of my adventures. 
 The mansion house of Graden stood in a bleak stretch 
 of country some three miles from the shore of the Ger- 
 man Ocean. It was as large as a barrack; and as it 
 had been built of a soft stone, liable to consume in 
 the eager air of the seaside, it was damp and draughty 
 within and half ruinous without. It was impossible for 
 two young men to lodge with comfort in such a dwell- 
 ing. But there stood in the northern part of the estate, 
 in a wilderness of links and blowing sand-hills, and be- 
 tween a plantation and the sea, a small Pavilion or 
 Belvidere, of modern design, which was exactly suited 
 to our wants; and in this hermitage, speaking little, 
 reading much, and rarely associating except at meals, 
 Northmour and I spent four tempestuous winter months. 
 I might have stayed longer; but one March night there 
 sprang up between us a dispute, which rendered my 
 departure necessary. Northmour spoke hotly, I remem- 
 ber, and I suppose I must have made some tart re- 
 joinder. He leaped from his chair and grappled me; I 
 had to fight, without exaggeration, for my life; and it 
 was only with a great effort that I mastered him, for 
 he was near as strong in body as myself, and seemed 
 filled with the devil. The next morning, we met on. 
 our usual terms; but I judged it more delicate to with- 
 draw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me. 
 
 It was nine years before I revisited the neighbor- 
 hood. I traveled at that time with a tilt cart, a tent, 
 and a cooking-stove, tramping all day beside the wagon, 
 
]'/eu; /irabiai) 
 
 207 
 
 and at night, whenever it was possible, gypsying in a 
 cove of the hills, or by the side of a wood. I believe 
 I visited in this manner most of the wild and desolate 
 regions both in England and Scotland; and, as I had 
 neither friends nor relations, I was troubled with no 
 correspondence, and had nothing in the nature of head- 
 quarters, unless it was the office of my solicitors, from 
 whom I drew my income twice a year. It was a life 
 in which I delighted ; and I fully thought to have 
 grown old upon the march, and at last died in a ditch. 
 
 It was my whole business to find desolate corners, 
 where I could camp without the fear of interruption; 
 and hence, being in another part of the same shire, I 
 bethought me suddenly of the Pavilion on the Links. 
 No thoroughfare passed within three miles of it. The 
 nearest town, and that was but a fisher village, was 
 at a distance of six or seven. For ten miles of length, 
 and from a depth varying from three miles to half a 
 ^ mile, this belt of barren country lay along the sea. 
 The beach, which was the natural approach, was full 
 ' of quicksands. Indeed I may say there is hardly a 
 better place of concealment in the United Kingdom. I 
 determined to pass a week in the Sea- Wood of Graden 
 Easter, and making a long stage, reached it about sun- 
 down on a wild September day. 
 
 The country, I have said, was mixed sand-hill and 
 links; links being a Scottish name for sand which has 
 ceased drifting and become more or less solidly covered 
 with turf. The pavilion stood on an even space; a little 
 behind it, the wood began in a hedge of elders huddled 
 together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand- 
 hills stood between it and the sea. An outcropping of 
 
208 U/ork5 of Robert Coui 5 Steuei? 50 i) 
 
 rock had formed a bastion for the sand, so that there 
 was here a promontory in the coast-line between two 
 shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, the rock again 
 cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensions 
 but strikingly designed. The quicksands were of great 
 extent at low water, and had an infamous reputation 
 in the country. Close in shore, between the islet and 
 the promontory, it was said they would swallow a 
 man in four minutes and a half; but there may have 
 been little ground for this precision. The district was 
 alive with rabbits, and haunted by gulls which made a 
 continual piping about the pavilion. On summer days 
 the outlook was bright and even gladsome; but at sun- 
 down in September, with a high wind, and a heavy 
 
 surf rolling in close along the links, the place told of 
 
 nothing but dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship 
 beating to windward on the horizon, and a huge 
 
 truncheon of wreck half buried in the sands at my 
 feet, completed the innuendo of the scene. 
 
 The pavilion— it had been built by the last proprietor, 
 Northmour’s uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso— pre- 
 sented little signs of age. It was two stories in height, 
 Italian in design, surrounded by a patch of garden in 
 which nothing had prospered but a few coarse flowers; 
 and looked, with its shuttered windows, not like a 
 house that had been deserted, but like one that had 
 
 never been tenanted by man. Northmour was plainly 
 from home; whether, as usual, sulking in the cabin of 
 his yacht, or in one of his fitful and extravagant ap- 
 pearances in the world of society, I had, of course, no 
 means of guessing. The place had an air of solitude 
 that daunted even a solitary like myself; the wind cried 
 
f^eu; /irabiai) 
 
 209 
 
 in the chimneys with a strange and wailing note; and 
 it was with a sense of escape, as if I were going in* 
 doors, that I turned away and, driving my cart before 
 me, entered the skirts of the wood. 
 
 The Sea- Wood of Graden had been planted to 
 shelter the cultivated fields behind, and check the en- 
 croachments of the blowing sand. As you advanced 
 into it from coastward, elders were succeeded by other 
 hardy shrubs ; but the timber was all stunted and 
 bushy; it led a life of conflict; the trees were accus- 
 tomed to swing there all night long in fierce winter 
 tempests; and even in early spring, the leaves were 
 already flying, and autumn was beginning, in this ex- 
 posed plantation. Inland the ground rose into a little 
 hill, which, along with the islet, served as a sailing 
 mark for seamen. When the hill was open of the islet 
 to the north, vessels naust bear well to the eastward 
 to clear Graden Ness and the Graden Bullers. In the 
 lower ground, a streamlet ran among the trees, and, 
 ' being dammed with dead leaves and clay of its own 
 carrying, spread out every here and there, and lay in 
 stagnant pools. One or two ruined cottages were dotted 
 about the wood; and, according to Northmour, these 
 Vere ecclesiastical foundations, and in their time had 
 sheltered pious hermits. 
 
 I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a 
 spring of pure water ; and there, clearing away the 
 brambles, I pitched the tent, and made a fire to cook 
 my supper. My horse I picketed further in the wood 
 where there was a patch of sward. The banks of the 
 den not only concealed the light of my fire, but shel- 
 tered me from the wind, which was cold as well as high. 
 
210 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 The life I was leading made me both hardy and 
 frugal. I never drank but water, and rarely ate any- 
 thing more costly than oatmeal; and I required so 
 little sleep, that, although I rose with the peep of day, 
 I would often lie long awake in the dark or starry 
 watches of the night. Thus in Graden Sea- Wood, 
 although I fell thankfully asleep by eight in the even- 
 ing I was awake again before eleven with a full pos- 
 session of my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness or 
 fatigue. I rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees 
 and clouds tumultuously tossing and fieeing overhead, 
 and hearkening to the wind and the rollers along the 
 shore ; till at length, growing weary of inaction, I 
 quitted the den, and strolled toward the borders of the 
 wood. A young moon, buried in mist, gave a faint il- 
 lumination to my steps; and the light grew brighter as 
 I walked forth into the links. At the same moment, 
 the wind, smelling salt of the open ocean and carrying 
 particles of sand, struck me with its full force, so that 
 I had to bow my head. 
 
 When I raised it again to look about me, I was 
 aware of a light in the pavilion. It was not stationary; 
 but passed from one window to another, as though 
 some one were reviewing the different apartments with 
 a lamp or candle. I watched it for some seconds in 
 great surprise. When I had arrived in the afternoon 
 the house had been plainly deserted; now it was as 
 
 plainly occupied. It was my first idea that a gang of 
 
 thieves might have broken in and be now ransacking 
 Korthmour’s cupboards, which* were many and not ill 
 supplied. But what should bring thieves to Graden 
 
 Easter? And, again, all the shutters had been thrown 
 
fleu; /^rabiap 
 
 211 
 
 open, and it would have been more in the character 
 of such gentry to close them. I dismissed the notion, 
 and fell back upon another. Northmour himself must 
 have arrived, and was now airing and inspecting the 
 pavilion. 
 
 I have said that there was no real affection between 
 this man and me; but, had I loved him like a brother, 
 I was then so much more in love with solitude that I 
 should none the less have shunned his company. As it 
 was, I turned and ran for it; and it was with genuine 
 satisfaction that I found myself safely back beside the 
 fire. I had escaped an acquaintance; I should have one 
 more night in comfort. In the morning, I might either 
 slip away before Northmour was abroad, or pay him as 
 short a visit as I chose. 
 
 But when morning came, I thought the situation so 
 diverting that I forgot my shyness. Northmour was at 
 my mercy; I arranged a good practical jest, though I 
 knew well that my neighbor was not the man to jest 
 with in security ; and, chuckling beforehand over its 
 success, took my place among .the elders at the edge 
 of the wood, whence I could command the door of the 
 pavilion. The shutters were all once more closed, which 
 I remember thinking odd; and the house, with its white 
 walls and green Venetians, looked spruce and habitable 
 in the morning light. Hour after hour passed, and still 
 no sign of Northmour. I knew him for a sluggard in 
 the morning; but, as it drew on toward noon, I lost 
 my patience. To say the truth, I had promised myself 
 to break my fast in the pavilion, and hunger began to 
 prick me sharply. It was a pity to let the opportunity 
 go by without some cause for mirth; but the grosser 
 
212 U/orl^s of [Robert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 appetite prevailed, and I relinquished my jest with 
 ffegret, and sallied from the wood. 
 
 The appearance of the house affected me, as I drew 
 near, with disquietude. It seemed unchanged since last 
 evening; and I had expected it, I scarce knew why, 
 to wear some external signs of habitation. But no: the 
 windows were all closely shuttered, the chimneys breathed 
 no smoke, and the front door itself was closely pad- 
 locked. Northmour, therefore, had entered by the back; 
 this was the natural, and, indeed, the necessary conclu- 
 sion; and you may judge of my surprise when, on 
 turning the house, I found the back door similarly 
 secured. 
 
 My mind at once reverted to the original theory of 
 thieves; and I blamed myself sharply for my last night’s 
 Inaction. I examined all the windows on the lower 
 story, but none of them had been tampered with ; I 
 tried the padlocks, but they were both secure. It thus 
 became a problem how the thieves, if thieves they were, 
 had managed to enter the house. They must have got, 
 
 I reasoned, upon the roof of the outhouse where JTorth- 
 mour used to keep his photographic battery; and from 
 thence, either by the window of the study or that of 
 my old bedroom, completed their burglarious entry. 
 
 I followed what I supposed was their example; and, 
 getting on the roof, tried the shutters of each room. 
 Both were secure; but I was not to be beaten; and, 
 with a little force, one of them flew open, grazing, as 
 it did so, the back of my hand. I' remember, I put. 
 the wound to my mouth, and stood for perhaps half a 
 minute licking it like a dog, and mechanically gazing 
 behind me over the waste links and the sea; and, in 
 
I'/eu; /Irabiap 
 
 213 
 
 that space of time, my eye made note of a large 
 schooner yacht some miles to the northeast. Then I 
 
 threw up the window and climbed in. 
 
 I went over the house, and nothing can express my 
 mystification. There was no sign of disorder, but, on 
 the contrary, the rooms were unusually clean and pleas- 
 ant. I found fires laid, ready for lighting; three bed- 
 rooms prepared with a luxury quite foreign to ISTorth- 
 mour’s habits, and with water in the ewers and the 
 beds turned down; a table set for three in the dining- 
 room ; and an ample supply of cold meats, game, and 
 vegetables on the pantry shelves. There were guests 
 expected, that was plain; but why guests, when North- 
 mour hated society? And, above all, why was the 
 house thus stealthily prepared at dead of night? and 
 why were the shutters closed * and the doors padlocked? 
 
 I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth 
 from the window feeling sobered and concerned. 
 
 The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and 
 it flashed for a moment through my mind that this 
 might be the “Red Earl” bringing the owner of the 
 pavilion and his guests. But the ve^el’s head was set 
 the other way. 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 TELLS OF THE NOCTUKNAL LANDING FROM THE YACHT 
 
 I RETURNED to the den to cook myself a meal, of 
 which I stood in great need, as well as to care for my 
 horse, whom I had somewhat neglected in the morn- 
 ing. Prom time to time I went down to the edge of 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I.— 14 
 
314 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 1 
 
 tlie wood; but there was no change in the pavilion, 
 and not a human creature was seen all day upon the 
 links. The schooner in the oflSng was the one touch of 
 life within my range of vision. She, apparently with 
 no set object, stood off and on or lay to, hour after 
 hour; but as the evening deepened, she drew steadily 
 nearer. I became more convinced that she carried North- 
 mour and his friends, and that they would probably 
 come ashore after dark; not only because that was of 
 a piece with the secrecy of the preparations, but be- 
 cause the tide would not have flowed sufficiently before 
 eleven to cover Graden Floe and the other sea quags 
 that fortified the shore against invaders. 
 
 All day the wind had been going down, and the 
 sea along with it; but there was a return toward sun- 
 set of the heavy weather of the day before. The night 
 set in pitch dark. The wind came off the sea in squalls, 
 like the firing of a battery of cannon; now and then 
 there was a flaw of rain, and the surf rolled heavier 
 with the rising tide. I was down at my observatory 
 among the elders, when a light was run up to the 
 masthead of the schooner, and showed she was closer 
 in than when I had last seen her by the dying day- 
 light. I concluded that this must be a signal to North- 
 mour’s associates on shore; and, stepping forth into the 
 links, looked around me for something in response. 
 
 A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, 
 and formed the most direct communication between the 
 pavilion and the mansion-house; and, as I cast my eyes 
 to that side, I saw a spark of light, not a quarter of 
 a mile away, and rapidly approaching. From its un- 
 even course it appeared to be the light of a lantern 
 
fleu; /irabtaQ 
 
 215 
 
 carried by a person who followed the windings of the 
 path, and was often staggered and taken aback by the 
 more violent squalls. I concealed myself once more 
 among the elders, and waited eagerly for the new- 
 comer’s advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as 
 she passed within half a rod of my ambush, I was 
 able to recognize the features. The deaf and silent old 
 dame, who had nursed Northmour in his childhood, 
 was his associate in this underhand affair. 
 
 I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage 
 of the innumerable heights and hollows, concealed by 
 the darkness, and favored not only by the nurse’s deaf- 
 ness, but by the uproar of the wind and surf. She 
 entered the pavilion, and, going at once to the upper 
 story, opened and set a light in one of the windows 
 that looked toward the sea. Immediately afterward the 
 light at the schooner’s masthead was run down and ex- 
 tinguished. Its purpose had been attained, and those on 
 board were sure that they were expected. The old wo- 
 man resumed her preparations; although the other shut- 
 ters remained closed, I could see a glimmer going to 
 and fro about the house; and a gush of sparks from 
 one chimney after another soon told me that the fires 
 were being kindled. 
 
 Northmour and his guests, I was now persuaded, 
 would come ashore as soon as there was water on the 
 floe. It was a wild night for boat service; and I felt 
 some alarm mingle with my curiosity as I reflected on 
 the danger of the landing. My old acquaintance, it 
 was true, was the most eccentric of men; but the pres- 
 ent eccentricity was both disquieting and lugubrious to 
 consider. A variety of feelings thus led me toward the 
 
216 U/orKs of f^oberfc Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 beach, where I lay flat on my face in a* hollow within 
 six feet of the track that led to the pavilion. Thence, 
 I should have the satisfaction of recognizing the arrivals, 
 and, if they should prove to be acquaintances, greeting 
 them as soon as they had landed. 
 
 Some time before eleven, while the tide was still 
 dangerously low, a boat’s lantern appeared close in 
 shore; and, my attention being thus awakened, I could 
 perceive another still far to seaward, violently tossed, 
 and sometimes hidden by the billows. The weather, 
 which was getting dirtier as the night went on, and 
 the perilous situation of the yacht upon a lee-shore, had 
 probably driven them to attempt a landing at the earli- 
 est possible moment. 
 
 A little afterward, four yachtsmen carrying a very 
 heavy chest, and guided by a flfth with a lantern, 
 passed close in front of me as I lay, and were ad- 
 mitted to the pavilion by the nurse. They returned to 
 the beach, and passed me a third time with another 
 chest, larger but apparently not so heavy as the first. 
 A third time they made the transit; and on this occa- 
 sion one of the yachtsmen carried a leather portman- 
 teau, and the others a lady’s trunk and carriage bag. 
 My curiosity was sharply excited. If a woman were 
 among the guests of Northmour, it would show a 
 change in his habits and an apostasy from his pet 
 theories of life well calculated to fill me with surprise 
 When he and I dwelt there together, the pavilion had 
 been a temple of misogyny. And now, one of the de- 
 tested sex was to be installed under its roof. I remem- 
 bered one or two particulars, a few notes of daintiness 
 and almost of coquetry which had struck me the day 
 
ffeu; /Irablap 
 
 217 
 
 before as I surveyed the preparations in the house; their 
 purpose was now clear, and I thought myself dull not 
 to have perceived it from the first. 
 
 While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew 
 near me from the beach. It was carried by a yachts- 
 man whom I had not yet seen, and who was conduct- 
 ing two other persons to the pavilion. These two per- 
 sons were unquestionably the guests for whom the house 
 was made ready; and, straining eye and ear, I set my- 
 self to watch them as they passed. One was an un- 
 usually tall man, in a traveling hat slouched over his 
 eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned and turned 
 up so as to conceal his face. You could make out no 
 more of him than that he was, as I have said, un- 
 usually tall, and walked feebly with a heavy stoop. By 
 his side, and either clinging to him or giving him sup- 
 port — I could not make out which— was a young, tall, 
 and slender figure of a woman. She was extremely 
 pale; but in the light of the lantern her face was so 
 marred by strong and changing shadows that she might 
 equally well have been as ugly as sin or as beautiful 
 as I afterward found her to be. 
 
 When they were just abreast of me, the girl made 
 some remark which was drowned by the noise of the 
 wind. 
 
 “Hush!” said her companion; and there was some- 
 thing in the tone with which the word was uttered 
 that thrilled and rather shook my spirits. It seemed 
 to breathe from a bosom laboring under the deadliest 
 terror; I have never heard another syllable so expres- 
 sive; and I still hear it again when I am feverish at 
 night, and my mind runs upon old times. The man 
 
218 U/orl^5 of Hot>ert Couis Sfceueijsoi? 
 
 turned toward the girl as he spoke; I had a glimpse 
 of much red beard and a nose which seemed to have 
 been broken in youth; and his light eyes seemed shin- 
 ing in his face with some strong and unpleasant emotion. 
 
 But these two passed on and were admitted in their 
 turn to the pavilion. 
 
 One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to 
 the beach. The wind brought me the sound of a rough 
 voice crying, “Shove off!” Then, after a pause, another 
 lantern drew near. It was iN’orthmour alone. 
 
 My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often 
 agreed to wonder how a person could be, at the same 
 time, so handsome and so repulsive as Northmour. He 
 had the appearance of a finished gentleman; his face 
 bore every mark of intelligence and courage ; but you 
 had only to look at him, even in his most amiable mo- 
 ment, to see that he had the temper of a slaver cap- 
 tain. I never knew a character that was both explo- 
 sive and revengeful to the same degree; he combined 
 the vivacity of the south with the sustained and deadly 
 hatreds of the north; and both traits were plainly writ- 
 ten on his face, which was a sort of danger signal. In 
 person, he was tall, strong, and active; his hair and 
 complexion very dark; his features handsomely designed, 
 but spoiled by a menacing expression. 
 
 At that moment he was somewhat paler than by 
 nature; he wore a heavy frown; and his lips worked, 
 and he looked sharply round him as he walked, like a 
 man besieged with apprehensions. And yet I thought 
 he had a look of triumph underlying all, as though he 
 had already done much, and was near the end of an 
 achievement. 
 
f/eu; /^rabiap 
 
 219 
 
 Partly from a scruple of delicacy — which I daresay 
 came too late — partly from the pleasure of startling an 
 acquaintance, I desired to make my presence known to 
 him without delay. 
 
 I got suddenly to my feet, and stepped forward. 
 
 “Northmour!” said I. 
 
 I have never had so shocking a surprise in all my 
 days. He leaped on me without a word; something 
 shone in his hand; and he struck for my heart with a 
 dagger. At the same moment I knocked him head over 
 heels. Whether it was my quickness, or his own un- 
 certainty, I know not; but the blade only grazed my 
 shoulder, while the hilt and his fist struck me violently 
 on the mouth. 
 
 I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed 
 the capabilities of the sand-hills for protracted ambush 
 or stealthy advances and retreats; and, not ten yards 
 from the scene of the scuffle, plumped down again upon 
 the grass. The lantern had fallen and gone out. But 
 what was my astonishment to see Horthmour slip at a 
 bound into the pavilion, and hear him bar the door be- 
 hind him with a clang of iron! 
 
 He had not pursued me. He had run away. North- 
 mour, whom I knew for the most implacable and dar- 
 ing of men, had run away! I could scarce believe my 
 reason; and yet in this strange business, where all was 
 incredible, there was nothing to make a work about 
 in an incredibility more or less. For why was the 
 pavilion secretly prepared? Why had Horthmour landed 
 with his guests at dead of night, in half a gale of 
 wind, and with the floe scarce covered? Why had he 
 sought to kill me? Had he not recognized my voice? 
 
220 \I/orl^s of F^obert Couis Stet/epsop 
 
 I wondered. And, above all, how had he come to have 
 a dagger ready in his hand? A dagger, or even a 
 sharp knife, seemed out of keeping with the age in 
 which we lived; and a gentleman landing from his 
 yacht on the shore of his own estate, even although it 
 was at night and with some mysterious circumstances, 
 does not usually, as a matter of fact, walk thus pre- 
 pared for deadly onslaught. The more I reflected, the 
 further I felt at sea. I recapitulated the elements of 
 mystery, counting them on my fingers : the pavilion 
 
 secretly prepared for guests ; the guests landed at the 
 risk of their lives and to the imminent peril of the 
 yacht; the guests, or at least one of them, in undis- 
 guised and seemingly causeless terror; Northmour with 
 a naked weapon; Northmour stabbing his most intimate 
 acquaintance at a word; last, and not least strange, 
 Northmour fleeing from the man whom he had sought 
 to murder, and barricading himself, like a hunted creat- 
 ure, behind the door of the pavilion. Here were at 
 least six separate causes for extreme surprise; each part 
 and parcel with the others, and forming all together 
 
 one consistent story. I felt almost ashamed to believe 
 my own senses. 
 
 As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began 
 to grow painfully conscious of the injuries I had re- 
 ceived in the scuffle; skulked round among the sand- 
 hills; and, by a devious path, regained the shelter of 
 the wood. On the way, the old nurse passed agair. 
 within several yards of me, still carrying her lantern, 
 
 on the return journey to the mansion-house of Graden. 
 This made a seventh suspicious feature in the case. 
 Northmour and his guests, it appeared, were to cook 
 
J'/eu; /irabiai) 
 
 221 
 
 and do the cleaning for themselves, while the old wo- 
 man continued to inhabit the big empty barrack among 
 the policies. There must surely be great cause for se- 
 crecy, when so many inconveniences were confronted to 
 preserve it. 
 
 So thinking, I made my way to the den. For 
 greater security, I trod out the embers of the fire, and 
 lighted my lantern to examine the wound upon my 
 shoulder. It was a trifling hurt, although it bled some- 
 what freely, and I dressed it as well as I could (for 
 its position made it difiicult to reach) with some rag 
 and cold water from the spring. While I was thus 
 busied, I mentally declared war against Northmour and 
 his mystery. I am not an angry man by nature, and 
 I believe there was more curiosity than resentment in 
 my heart. But war I certainly declared; and, by way 
 of preparation, I got out my revolver, and, having 
 drawn the charges, cleaned and reloaded it with scrupu- 
 lous care. Next I became preoccupied about my horse. 
 It might break loose, or fall to neighing, and so betray 
 my camp in the Sea- Wood. I determined to rid myself 
 of its neighborhood; and long before dawn I was leading 
 it over the links in the direction of the fisher village. 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 TELLS HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH MY WIPE 
 
 For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profit- 
 ing by the uneven surface of the links. I became an 
 adept in the necessary tactics. These low hillocks and 
 
222 U/orl^5 of F^obert C 0 U 15 Steueijjoi) 
 
 shallow dells, running one into another, became a kind 
 of cloak of darkness for my enthralling, but perhaps 
 dishonorable, pursuit. Yet, in spite of this advantage, 
 I could learn but little of Northmour or his guests. 
 
 Fresh provisions were brought under cover of dark- 
 ness by the old woman from the mansion-house. North- 
 mour, and the young lady, sometimes .together, but 
 more often singly, would walk for an hour or two at 
 X time on the beach beside the quicksand. I could not 
 but conclude that this promenade was chosen with an 
 eye to secrecy; for the spot was open only to the sea- 
 ward. But it suited me not less excellently; the high- 
 est and most accidented of the sand-hills immediately 
 adjoined; and from these, lying flat in a hoUow, I 
 could overlook Northmour or the young lady as they 
 walked. 
 
 The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only 
 did he never cross the threshold, but he never so much 
 as showed face at a window; or, at least, not so far 
 as I could see ; for I dared not creep forward beyond a 
 certain distance in the day, since the upper floor com- 
 manded the bottoms of the links; and at night, when 
 I could venture further, the lower windows were barri- 
 caded as if to stand a siege. Sometimes I thought the 
 tall man must be confined to bed, for I remembered 
 the feebleness of his gait; and sometimes I thought he 
 must have gone clear away, and that Northmour and 
 the young lady remained alone together in the pavilion. 
 The idea, even then, displeased me. 
 
 "Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had 
 seen abundant reason to doubt the friendliness of their 
 relation. Although I could hear nothing of what they 
 
ffeu; /Irabiaij 
 
 223 
 
 .said, and rarely so much as glean a decided expression 
 on the face of either, there was a distance, almost a 
 stiffness, in their bearing which showed them to be 
 either unfamiliar or at enmity. The girl walked faster 
 when she was with Northmour than when she was 
 alone; and I conceived that any inclination between a 
 man and a woman would rather delay than accelerate 
 the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard free of him, 
 and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a barrier, on 
 the side between them. Northmour kept sidling closer; 
 and, as the girl retired from his advance, their course 
 lay at a sort of diagonal across the beach, and would 
 have landed them in the surf had it been long enough 
 continued. But, when this was imminent, the girl would 
 unostentatiously change sides and put Northmour be- 
 tween her and the sea. I watched these maneuvers, 
 for my part, with high enjoyment and approval, and 
 chuckled to myself at every move. 
 
 On the morning of the third day, she walked alone 
 for some time, and I perceived, to my great concern, 
 that she was more than once in tears. You will see 
 that my heart was already interested more than I sup- 
 posed. She had a firm yet airy motion of the body, 
 and carried her head with unimaginable grace; every 
 step was a thing to look at, and she seemed in my 
 eyes to breathe sweetness and distinction. 
 
 The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, 
 with a tranquil sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy 
 and vigor in the air, that, contrary to custom, she was 
 tempted forth a second time to walk. On this occasion 
 she was accompanied by Northmour, and they had been 
 ' but a short while on the beach, when I saw him take 
 
224 U/orl^5 of I^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 forcible possession of her band. She struggled, and ut- 
 tered a cry that was almost a scream. I sprang to 
 my feet, unmindful of my strange position; but, ere 
 I had taken a step, I saw Northmour bare-headed and 
 bowing very low, as if to apologize; and dropped again 
 at once into my ambush. A few words were inter- 
 changed; and then, with another bow, he left the beach 
 to return to the pavilion. He passed not far from me, 
 and I could see him, flushed and lowering, and cutting 
 savagely with his cane among the grass. It was not 
 without satisfaction that I recognized my own handi- 
 work in a great cut under his right eye, and a consid- 
 erable discoloration round the socket. 
 
 For some time the girl remained where he had left 
 her, looking out past the islet and over the bright sea. 
 Then with a start, as one who throws off preoccupation 
 and puts energy again upon its mettle, she broke into 
 a rapid and decisive walk. She also was much incensed 
 by what had passed. She had forgotten where she was. 
 And I beheld her walk straight into the borders of the 
 quicksand where it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two 
 or three steps further and her life would have been in 
 serious jeopardy, when I slid down the face of the 
 sand-hill, which is there precipitous, and, running half- 
 way forward, called to her to stop. 
 
 She did so, and turned round. There was not a 
 tremor of fear in her behavior, and she marched di- 
 rectly up to me like a queen. I was barefoot, and 
 clad like a common sailor, save for an Egyptian scarf 
 round my waist; and she probably took me at first 
 for some one from the fisher village, straying after bait. 
 As for her, when I thus saw her face to face, her 
 
I'/eu; /Irabiai? 
 
 225 
 
 eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I was filled 
 with admiration and astonishment, and thought her even 
 more beautiful than I had looked to find her. Nor 
 could I think enough of one who, acting with so much 
 boldness, yet preserved a maidenly air that was both 
 quaint and engaging; for my wife kept an old-fashioned 
 precision of manner through all her admirable life — an 
 excellent thing in woman, since it sets another value 
 on her sweet familiarities. 
 
 “What does this mean?” she asked. 
 
 “You were walking,” I told her, “directly into 
 Graden Floe.” 
 
 “You do not belong to these parts,” she said again. 
 “You speak like an educated man.” 
 
 “I believe I have right to that name,” said I, “al- 
 though in this disguise.” 
 
 But her woman’s eye had already detected the sash. 
 
 “Oh!” she said; “your sash betrays you.” 
 
 “You have said the word befra?/,” I resumed. “May 
 I ask you not to betray me? I was obliged to disclose 
 myself in your interest; but if Northmour learned my 
 presence it might be worse than disagreeable for me.’* 
 
 “Do you know,” she asked, “to whom you are 
 speaking?” 
 
 “Not to Mr. Northmour’s wife?” I asked, by way 
 of answer. 
 
 She shook her head. All this while she was study- 
 ing my face with an embarrassing intentness. Then 
 she broke out — 
 
 “You have an honest face. Be honest like your 
 face, sir, and tell me what you want and what you 
 are afraid of. Do you think I could hurt you? I be- 
 
326 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuei>soij 
 
 lieve you have far more power to injure me! And yet 
 you do not look unkind. What do you mean — you, a 
 gentleman — by skulking like a spy about this desolate 
 place? Tell me,” she said, “who is it you hate?” 
 
 “I hate no one,” I answered; “and I fear no one 
 
 face to face. My name is Cassilis — Frank Cassilis. I 
 lead the life of a vagabond for my own good pleasure. 
 I am one of Northmour’s oldest friends; and three 
 
 nights ago, when I addressed him on these links, he 
 
 stabbed me in the shoulder with a knife.” 
 
 “It was you!” she said. 
 
 “Why he did so,” I continued, disregarding the in- 
 terruption, “is more than I can guess, and more than 
 I care to know. I have not many friends, nor am I 
 very susceptible to friendship; but no man shall drive 
 me from a place by terror. I had camped in Graden 
 Sea-Wood ere he came; I camp in it still. If you 
 think I mean harm to you or yours, madam, the 
 remedy is in your hand. Tell him that my camp is 
 in the Hemlock Hen, and to-night he can stab me in 
 safety while I sleep.” 
 
 With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up 
 once more among the sand-hills. I do not know why, 
 but I felt a prodigious sense of injustice, and felt like 
 a hero and a martyr; while, as a matter of fact, I 
 had not a word to say in my defense, nor so much as 
 one plausible reason to offer for my conduct. I had 
 stayed at Graden out of a curiosity natural enough, but 
 undignified; and though there was another motive grow- 
 ing in along with the first, it was not one which, at 
 that period, I could have properly explained to the lady 
 of my heart. 
 
I*/eu; /irabiai? 
 
 227 
 
 Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, 
 though her whole conduct and position seemed sus- 
 picious, I could not find it in my heart to entertain a 
 doubt of her integrity. I could have staked my life 
 that she was clear of blame, and, though all was dark 
 at the present, that the explanation of the mystery 
 would show her part in these events to be both right 
 and needful. It was true, let me cudgel my imagina- 
 tion as I pleased, that I could invent no theory of her 
 relations to Northmour; but I felt none the less sure 
 of my conclusion because it was founded on instinct in 
 place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep that 
 night with the thought of her under my pillow. 
 
 Next day she came out about the same hour alone, 
 and, as soon as the sand-hills concealed her from the 
 pavilion, drew nearer to the edge, and called me by 
 name in guarded tones. I was astonished to observe 
 that she was deadly pale, and seemingly under the 
 infiuence of strong emotion. 
 
 “Mr. Cassilis!” she cried; “Mr. Cassilis!” 
 
 I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the 
 
 beach. A remarkable air of relief overspread her 
 countenance as soon as she saw me. 
 
 “Oh!” she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one 
 
 whose bosom has been lightened of a weight. And then, 
 “Thank God you are still safe!” she added; “I knew, 
 
 if you were, you would be here.” (Was not this 
 
 strange? So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare 
 our hearts for these great life-long intimacies, that both 
 my wife and I ha d been given a presentiment on this 
 the second day of our acquaintance. I had even then 
 hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure that 
 
228 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Stsuepsoi) 
 
 she would find me.) “Do not,” she went on swiftly, 
 “do not stay in this place. Promise me that you will 
 sleep no longer in that wood. You do not know how 
 I suffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking 
 of your peril.” 
 
 “Peril?” I repeated. “Peril from whom? Prom 
 Northmour?” 
 
 “Not so,” she said. “Did you think I would tell 
 him after what you said?” 
 
 “Not from Northmour?” I repeated. “Then how? 
 From whom? I see none to be afraid of.” 
 
 “You must not ask me,” was her reply, “for I am 
 not free to tell you. Only believe me, and go hence— 
 believe me, and go away quickly, quickly for your 
 life!” 
 
 An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid 
 one’s self of a spirited young man. My obstinacy was 
 but increased by what she said, and I made it a point 
 of honor to remain. And her solicitude for my safety 
 still more confirmed me in the resolve. 
 
 “You must not think me inquisitive, madam,” I 
 replied; “but, if Graden is so dangerous a place, you 
 yourself perhaps remain here at some risk.” 
 
 She only looked at me reproachfully. 
 
 “You and your father — ” I resumed; but she inter- 
 rupted me almost with a gasp. 
 
 “My father! How do you know that?” she cried. 
 
 “I saw you together when you landed,” was my 
 answer; and I do not know why, but it seemed satis- 
 factory to both of us, as indeed it was the truth. 
 “But,” I continued, “you need have no fear from me. 
 I see you have some reason to be secret, and, you 
 
I'teu; /irabiaij 
 
 229 
 
 may believe me, your secret is as safe with me as if 
 I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spoken to any- 
 one for years; my horse is my only companion, and 
 even he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, 
 you may count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, 
 my dear young lady, are you not in danger?” 
 
 “Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man,” 
 she returned, “and I believe it when I see you. I will 
 tell you so much; you are right; we are in dreadful, 
 dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining where 
 you are.” 
 
 “Ah!” said I; “you have heard of me from North- 
 mour? And he gives me a good character?” 
 
 “I asked him about you last night,” was her reply. 
 “I pretended,” she hesitated, “I pretended to have met 
 you long ago, and spoken to you of him. It was not 
 true; but I could not help myself without betraying 
 you, and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised 
 you highly.” 
 
 “And — you may permit me one question — does this 
 danger come from Northmour?” I asked. 
 
 “From Mr. Northmour?” she cried. “Oh, no; he 
 stays with us to share it.” 
 
 “While you propose that I should run away?” I said. 
 “You do not rate me very high.” 
 
 “Why should you stay?” she asked. “You are no 
 friend of ours.” 
 
 I know not what came over me, for I had not been 
 conscious of a similar weakness since I was a child, 
 but I was so mortified by this retort that my eyes 
 pricked and filled with tears, as I continued to gaze 
 
 upon her face. 
 
 Stevenson. Yol. I. — 15 
 
230 U/orl^s of F^oberfc Coui5 Steueijjoij 
 
 “No, no,” she said, in a changed voice; “I did not 
 mean the words unkindly.” 
 
 “It was I who offended,” I said; and I held out 
 my hand with a look of appeal that somehow touched 
 her, for she gave me hers at once, and even eagerly. 
 I held it for a while in mine, and gazed into her eyes. 
 It was she who first tore her hand away, and, forget- 
 ting all about her request and the promise she had 
 sought to extort, ran at the top of her speed, and 
 without turning, till she was out of sight. And then I 
 knew that I loved her, and thought in my glad heart 
 that she — she herself — was not indifferent to my suit. 
 Many a time she has denied it in after days, hut it was 
 with a smiling and not a serious denial. For my part, 
 I am sure our hands would not have lain so closely in 
 each other if she had not begun to melt to me already. 
 And, when all is said, it is no great contention, since, 
 by her own avowal, she began to love me on the 
 morrow. 
 
 And yet on the morrow very little took place. She 
 came and called me down as on the day before, up- 
 braided me for lingering at Graden, and, when she 
 found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more par- 
 ticularly as to my arrival. I told her by what series 
 of accidents I had come to witness their disembarkation, 
 and how I had determined to remain, partly from the 
 interest which had been wakened in me by Northmour’s 
 guests, and partly because of his own murderous attack. 
 As to the former, I fear I was disingenuous, and led 
 her to regard herself as having been an attraction to 
 me from the first moment that I saw her on the links. 
 It relieves my heart to make this confession even now, 
 
I'/cu; /)rabiai^ 
 
 231 
 
 when my wife is with God, and already knows all 
 things, and the honesty of my purpose even in this; for 
 while she lived, although it often pricked my conscience, 
 I had never the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a 
 little secret, in such a married life as ours, is like the 
 rose-leaf which kept the Princess from her sleep. 
 
 From this the talk branched into other subjects, and 
 I told her much about my lonelv and wandering ex- 
 istence; she, for her part, giving ear, and saying little. 
 Although we spoke very naturally, and latterly on topics 
 ^hat might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly agi- 
 tated. Too soon it was time for her to go; and we 
 separated, as if by mutual consent, without shaking 
 hands, for both knew that, between us, it was no idle 
 ceremony. 
 
 The next, and that was the fourth day of our ac- 
 quaintance, we met in the same spot, but early in the 
 morning, with much familiarity and yet much timidity 
 on either side. When she had once more spoken about 
 my danger — and that, I understood, was her excuse for 
 coming— I, who had prepared a great deal of talk dur- 
 ing the night, began to tell her how highly I valued 
 her kind interest, and how no one had ever cared to 
 hear about my life, nor had I ever cared to relate it, 
 before yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me, saying 
 with vehemence: 
 
 “And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not 
 so much as speak to me!” 
 
 I told her such a thought was madness, and, little 
 as we had met, I counted her already a dear friend; 
 but my protestations seemed only to make her more 
 desperate. 
 
232 \l/orKs of F^obert Couie Steue980i7 
 
 “My father is in hiding!” she cried. 
 
 “My dear,” I said, forgetting for the first time to 
 add “young lady,” “what do I care? If he were in 
 hiding twenty times over, would it make one thought 
 of change in you?” 
 
 “Ah, but the cause!” she cried, “the cause! It is — ” 
 she faltered for a second — “it is disgraceful to us!” 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 TELLS IN WHAT A STARTLING MANNER I LEARNED THAT 
 I WAS NOT ALONE IN GRADEN SEA-WOOD 
 
 This was my wife’s story, as I drew it from her 
 among tears and sobs. Her name was Clara Huddle- 
 stone: it sounded very beautiful in my earsj but not so 
 beautiful as that other name of Clara Cassilis, which 
 she wore during the longer and, I thank God, the hap- 
 pier portion of her life. Her father, Bernard Huddle- 
 stone, had been a private banker in a very large way 
 of business. Many years before, his affairs becoming 
 disordered, he had been led to try dangerous, and at 
 last criminal, expedients to retrieve himself from ruin. 
 All was in vain; he became more and more cruelly in- 
 volved, and found his honor lost at the same moment 
 with his fortune. About this period, Northmour had 
 been courting his daughter with great assiduity, though 
 with small encouragement; and to him, knowing him 
 thus disposed in his favor, Bernard Huddlestone turned 
 for help in his extremity. It was not merely ruin and 
 dishonor, nor merely a legal condemnation, that the un- 
 
fleu; /Irabiar) 
 
 233 
 
 happy man had brought upon his head. It seems he 
 could have gone to prison with a light heart. What 
 he feared, what kept him awake at night or recalled 
 him from slumber into frenzy, was some secret, sud- 
 den, and unlawful attempt upon his life. Hence, he 
 desired to bury his existence and escape to one of the 
 islands in the South Pacific, and it was in Horthmour’s 
 yacht, the “Red Earl,” that he designed to go. The 
 yacht picked them up clandestinely upon the coast of 
 Wales, and had once more deposited them at Graden, 
 till she could be refitted and provisioned for the longer 
 voyage. Nor could Clara doubt that her hand had been 
 stipulated as the price of passage. For, although North- 
 mour was neither unkind nor even discourteous, he had 
 shown himself in several instances somewhat overbold 
 in speech and manner. 
 
 I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and 
 put many questions as to the more mysterious part. It 
 was in vain. She had no clear idea of what the blow 
 was, nor of how it was expected to fall. Her father’s 
 alarm was unfeigned and physically prostrating, and he 
 had thought more than once of making an unconditional 
 surrender to the police. But the scheme was finally 
 abandoned, for he was convinced that not even the 
 strength of our English prisons could shelter him from 
 his pursuers. He had had many affairs with Italy, 
 and with Italians resident in London, in the later years 
 of his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, were 
 somehow connected with the doom that threatened him. 
 He had shown great terror at the presence of an 
 Italian seaman on board the “Red Earl,” and had bit- 
 terly and repeatedly accused Northmour in consequence. 
 
234 U/orKs of r^obert C0U15 Steueijjoi) 
 
 The latter had protested that Beppo (that was the 
 seaman’s name) was a capital fellow, and could be 
 trusted to the death; but Mr. Huddlestone had con- 
 tinued ever since to declare that all was lost, that it 
 was only a question of days, and that Beppo would be 
 the ruin of him yet. 
 
 I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a 
 mind shaken by calamity. He had suffered heavy loss 
 by his Italian transactions; and hence the sight of an 
 Italian was hateful to him, and the principal part in 
 his nightmare would naturally enough be played by one 
 of that nation. 
 
 “What your father wants,” I said, “is a good doc- 
 tor and some calming medicine.” 
 
 “But Mr. Northmour?” objected your mother. “He 
 is untroubled by losses, and yet he shares in this 
 terror. ’ ’ 
 
 I could not help laughing at what I considered her 
 simplicity. 
 
 “My dear,” said I, “you have told me yourself what 
 reward he has to look for. All is fair in love, you 
 must remember; and if Northmour foments your father’s 
 terrors, it is not at all because he is afraid of any 
 Italian man, but simply because he is infatuated with 
 a charming English woman.” 
 
 She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the 
 night of the disembarkation, and this I was unable to 
 explain. In short, and from one thing to another, it 
 was agreed between us that I should set out at once 
 for the fisher village, Graden Wester, as it was called, 
 look up all the newspapers I could find, and see for 
 myself if there seemed any basis of fact for these con- 
 
f<feu; /Irabiai) 
 
 235 
 
 tinued alarms. The next morning, at the same hour 
 and place, I was to make my report to Clara. She 
 said no more on that occasion about my departure ; 
 nor, indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung 
 to the thought of my proximity as something helpful 
 and pleasant; and, for my part, I could not have left 
 her, if she had gone upon her knees to ask it. 
 
 I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; 
 for in those days I was an excellent pedestrian, and the 
 distance, as I think I have said, was little over seven 
 miles; fine walking all the way upon the springy turf. 
 The village is one of the bleakest on that coast, which 
 is saying much: there is a church in a hollow; a mis- 
 erable haven in the rocks, where man}’^ boats have been 
 lost as they returned from fishing; two or three score 
 of stone houses arranged along the beach and in two 
 streets, one leading from the harbor, and another strik- 
 ing out from it at right angles; and, at the corner of 
 these two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, by way 
 of principal hotel. 
 
 I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my 
 station in life, and at once called upon the minister in 
 his little manse beside the graveyard. He knew me, 
 
 although it was more than nine years since we had 
 met; and when I told him that I had been long upon 
 a walking tour, and was behind with the news, readily 
 lent me an armful of newspapers, dating from a month 
 back to the day before. With these I sought the tavern, 
 and, ordering some breakfast, sat down to study the 
 ‘ ‘ Huddlestone Failure. ’ ’ 
 
 It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. 
 Thousands of persons were reduced to poverty; and one 
 
236 U/orK5 of f^obert Couij Steueijjoi? 
 
 in particular liad blown out his brains as soon as pay- 
 ment was suspended. It was strange to myself that, 
 while I read these details, I continued rather to sym- 
 pathize with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so 
 complete already was the empire of my love for my 
 wife. A price was naturally set upon the banker’s 
 head; and, as the case was inexcusable and the public 
 indignation thoroughly aroused, the unusual figure of 
 750Z. was offered for his capture. He was reported to 
 have large sums of money in his possession. One day, 
 he had been heard of in Spain; the next, there was 
 sure intelligence that he was still lurking between Man- 
 chester and Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; 
 and the day after, a telegram would announce his 
 arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But in all this there was 
 no word of an Italian, nor any sign of mystery. 
 
 In the very last paper, however, there was one item 
 not so clear. The accountants who were charged to 
 verify the failure had, it seemed, come upon the traces 
 of a very large number of thousands, which figured for 
 some time in the transactions of the house of Huddle- 
 stone ; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared 
 in the same mysterious fashion. It was only once re- 
 ferred to by name, and then under the initials “X. 
 X.”; but it had plainly been floated for the first time 
 into the business at a period of great depression some 
 six years ago. The name of a distinguished Royal per- 
 sonage had been mentioned by rumor -in connection with 
 this sum. “The cowardly desperado” — such, I remem- 
 ber, was the editorial expression — was supposed to have 
 escaped with a large part of this mysterious fund still 
 in his possession. 
 
]^eu7 /irabiaij 
 
 237 
 
 I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to 
 torture it into some connection with Mr. Huddlestone’s 
 danger, when a man entered the tavern and asked for 
 some bread and cheese with a decided foreign accent. 
 “Siete Italiano?” said I. 
 
 “Si, signor,” was his reply. 
 
 I said it was unusually far north to find one of his 
 compatriots; at which he shrugged his shoulders, and 
 replied that a man would go anywhere to find work. 
 What work he could hope to find at Graden Wester, 
 I was totally unable to conceive ; and the incident 
 struck so unpleasantly upon my mind that I asked the 
 landlord, while he was counting me some change, 
 whether he had ever before seen an Italian in the vil- 
 lage. He said he had once seen some Norwegians, who 
 had been shipwrecked on the other side of Graden Ness 
 and rescued by the lifeboat from Cauld-haven. 
 
 “No!” said I; “but an Italian, like the man who 
 has just had bread and cheese.” 
 
 “What?” cried he, “yon black-avised fellow wi’ the 
 teeth? Was he an I-talian? Weel, yon’s the first that 
 ever I saw, an’ I daresay he’s like to be the last.” 
 Even as he was speaking, I raised my eyes, and, 
 casting a glance into the street, beheld three men in 
 earnest conversation together, and not thirty yards away. 
 One of them was my recent companion in the tavern 
 parlor; the other two, by their handsome, sallow feat- 
 ures and soft hats, should evidently belong to the same 
 race. A crowd of village children stood around them, 
 gesticulating and talking gibberish in imitation. The 
 trio looked singularly foreign to the bleak dirty street 
 (in which they were standing, and the dark gray heaven 
 
238 U/orI^5 of F^obert Couis Steuerjsop 
 
 that overspread them; and I confess my incredulity re- 
 ceived at that moment a shock from which it never 
 recovered. I might reason with myself as I pleased, 
 but I could not argue down the effect of what I had 
 seen, and I began to share in the Italian terror. 
 
 It was already drawing toward the close of the day 
 before I had returned the newspapers at the manse, 
 and got well forward on to the links on my way home. 
 I shall never forget that walk. It grew very cold and 
 boisterous; the wind sang in the short grass about my 
 feet; thin rain showers came running on the gusts; and 
 an immense mountain range of clouds began to arise 
 out of the bosom of the sea. It would be hard to 
 
 imagine a more dismal evening; and whether it was 
 from these external influences, or because my nerves 
 were already affected by what I had heard and seen, 
 my thoughts were as gloomy as the weather. 
 
 The upper windows of the pavilion commanded a 
 considerable spread of links in the direction of Graden 
 Wester. To avoid observation, it was necessary to hug 
 the beach until I had gained cover from the higher 
 sand-hills on the little headland, when I might strike 
 across, through the hollows, for the margin of the 
 wood. The sun was about setting; the tide was low, 
 and all the quicksands uncovered; and I was moving 
 along, lost in unpleasant thought, when I was suddenly 
 thunderstruck to perceive the prints of human feet. 
 They ran parallel to my own course, but low down upon 
 the beach instead of along the border of the turf; and, 
 when I examined them, I saw at once, by the size 
 and coarseness of the impression, that it was a stranger 
 to me and to those in the pavilion who had recently 
 
J'Teu; /irabiap 
 
 239 
 
 passed that way. Not only so; but from the reckless- 
 ness of the course which he had followed, steering near 
 to the most formidable portions of the sand, he was as 
 evidently a stranger to the country and to the ill-repute 
 of Graden beach. 
 
 Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter 
 of a mile further, I beheld them die away into the 
 southeastern boundary of Graden Floe. There, whoever 
 he was, the miserable man had perished. One or two 
 gulls, who had, perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled 
 over his sepulcher with their usual melancholy piping. 
 The sun had broken through the clouds by a last effort, 
 and colored the wide level of quicksands with a dusky 
 purple. I stood for some time gazing at the spot, 
 chilled and disheartened by my own reflections, and 
 with a strong and commanding consciousness of death. 
 I remember wondering how long the tragedy had taken, 
 and whether his screams had been audible at the pa- 
 vilion. And then, making a strong resolution, I was 
 about to tear myself away, when a gust fiercer than 
 usual fell upon this quarter of the beach, and I saw, 
 now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across 
 the surface of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat, some- 
 what conical in shape, such as I had remarked already 
 on the heads of the Italians. 
 
 I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. 
 The wind was driving the hat shoreward, and I ran 
 round the border of the floe to be ready against its 
 arrival. The gust fell, dropping the hat for a while 
 upon the quicksand, and then, once more freshening, 
 |landed it a few yards from where I stood. I seized it 
 with the interest you may imagine. It had seen some 
 
240 U/orl^s of [Robert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 service; indeed, it was rustier than either of those I 
 had seen that day upon the street. The lining was 
 red, stamped with the name of the maker, which I 
 have forgotten, and that of the place of manufacture, 
 Venedig. This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name 
 given by the Austrians to the beautiful city of Venice, 
 then, and for long after, a part of their dominions. 
 
 The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians 
 upon every side; and for the first, and, I may say, 
 for the last time in my experience, became overpowered 
 by what is called a panic terror. I knew nothing, that 
 is, to be afraid of, and yet I admit that I was heartily 
 afraid; and it was with a sensible reluctance that I re- 
 turned to my exposed and solitary camp in the Sea- 
 Wood. 
 
 There I ate some cold porridge which had been left 
 over from the night before, for I was disinclined to 
 make a fire ; and, feeling strengthened and reassured, 
 dismissed all these fanciful terrors from my mind, and 
 lay down to sleep with composure. 
 
 How long I may have slept it is impossible for me 
 to guess; but I was awakened at last by a sudden, 
 blinding flash of light into my face. It woke me like 
 a blow. In an instant I was upon my knees. But the 
 light had gone as suddenly as it came. The darkness 
 was intense. And, as it was blowing great guns from 
 the sea and pouring with rain, the noises of the storm 
 effectually concealed all others. 
 
 It was, I daresay, half a minute before I regained 
 my self-possession. But for two circumstances, I should 
 have thought I had been awakened by some new and 
 vivid form of nightmare. First, the flap of my tent, 
 
J^eu; /)rabiai) 
 
 241 
 
 which I had shut carefully when I retired, was now 
 unfastened; and, second, I could still perceive, with a 
 sharpness that excluded any theory of hallucination, the 
 smell of hot metal and of burning oil. The conclusion 
 was obvious. I had been wakened by some one flash- 
 ing a bull’s-eye lantern in my face. It had been but 
 a flash, and away. He had seen my face, and then 
 gone. I asked myself the object of so strange a pro- 
 ceeding, and the answer came pat. The man, whoever 
 he was, had thought to recognize me, and he had not. 
 There was yet another question unresolved; and to this, 
 I may say, I feared to give an answer; if he had rec- 
 ognized me, what would he have done? 
 
 ! My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for 
 
 I saw that I had been visited in a mistake; and I 
 became persuaded that some dreadful danger threatened 
 the pavilion. It required some nerve to issue forth into 
 the black and intricate thicket which surrounded and 
 overhung the den; but I groped my way to the links, 
 drenched with rain, beaten upon and deafened by the 
 gusts, and fearing at every step to lay my hand upon 
 some lurking adversary. The darkness was so complete 
 that I might have been surrounded by an army and 
 yet none the wiser, and the uproar of the gale so loud 
 that my hearing was as useless as my sight. 
 
 ^ For the rest of that night, which seemed interminably 
 long, I patroled the vicinity of the pavilion, without 
 seeing a living creature or hearing any noise but the 
 'concert of the wind, the sea, and the rain. A light in 
 jthe upper story filtered through a cranny of the shut- 
 ter, and kept me company till the approach of dawn. 
 
243 
 
 U/or^s of (Robert Couis SteuepsoQ 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 TELLS OF AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN NORTHMOUR, CLARA, 
 
 AND MYSELF 
 
 With the first peep of day, I retired from the open 
 to my old lair among the sand-hills, there to await 
 the coming of my wife. The morning was gray, wild, 
 and melancholy; the wind moderated before sunrise, and 
 then went about, and blew in puffs from the shore; 
 the sea began to go down, but the rain still fell with- 
 out mercy. Over all the wilderness of links there was 
 not a creature to be seen. Yet I felt sure the neigh- 
 borhood was alive with skulking foes. The light had 
 been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon my face 
 as I lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown 
 ashore by the wind from over Graden Floe, were two 
 speaking signals of the peril that environed Clara and 
 the party in the pavilion. 
 
 It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, be- 
 fore I saw the door open, and that dear figure come 
 toward me in the rain. I was waiting for her on the 
 beach before she had crossed the sand-hills. 
 
 “I have had such trouble to come!” she cried. 
 “They did not wish me to go walking in the rain.” 
 
 “Clara,” I said, “you are not frightened!” 
 
 “No,” said she, with a* simplicity that filled my 
 heart with confidence. For my wife was the bravest as 
 
/Irabiaij 
 
 243 
 
 well as the best of women; in my experience, I have 
 not found the two go always together, but with her 
 they did; and she combined the extreme of fortitude 
 with the most endearing and beautiful virtues. 
 
 I told her what had happened; and, though her 
 cheek grew visibly paler, she retained perfect control 
 over her senses. 
 
 “You see now that I am safe,” said I, in conclu- 
 sion. “They do not mean to harm me; for, had they 
 chosen, I was a dead man last night.” 
 
 She laid her hand upon my arm. 
 
 “And I had no presentiment!” she cried. 
 
 Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm 
 about her, and strained her to my side; and, before 
 either of us was aware, her hands were on my shoul- 
 ders and my lips upon her mouth. Yet up to that 
 moment no word of love had passed between us. To 
 this day I remember the touch of her cheek, which 
 was wet and cold with the rain; and many a time 
 since, when she has been washing her face, I have 
 kissed it again for the sake of that morning on the 
 beach. Now that she is taken from me, and I finish 
 my pilgrimage alone, I recall our old lovingkindnesses 
 and the deep honesty and affection which united us, 
 and my present loss seems but a trifle in comparison. 
 
 We may have thus stood for some seconds — for time 
 passes quickly with lovers — before we were startled by 
 a peal of laughter close at hand. It was not natural 
 mirth, but seemed to be affected in order to conceal an 
 angrier feeling. We both turned, though I still kept 
 my left arm about Clara’s waist; nor did she seek to 
 withdraw herself; and there, a few paces off upon the 
 
244 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 beach, stood Northmour, his head lowered, his hands 
 behind his back, his nostrils white with passion. 
 
 “Ah! Cassilis!” he said, as I disclosed my face. 
 “That same,” said I; for I was not at all put about. 
 “And so. Miss Huddlestone, ” he continued slowly 
 but savagely, “this is how you keep your faith to your 
 father and to me? This is the value you set upon your 
 father’s life? And you are so infatuated with this young 
 gentleman that you must brave ruin, and decency, and 
 common human caution — ” 
 
 “Miss Huddlestone—” I was beginning to interrupt 
 him, when he, in his turn, cut in brutally — 
 
 “You hold your tongue,” said he; “I am speaking 
 to that girl.” 
 
 “That girl, as you call her, is my wife,” said I; 
 and my wife only leaned a little nearer, so that I 
 knew she had affirmed my words. 
 
 “Your what?” he cried. “ You lie!” 
 
 “Northmour,” I said, “we all know you have a 
 bad temper, and I am the last man to be irritated by 
 words. For all that, I propose that you speak lower, 
 for I am convinced that we are not alone.” 
 
 He looked round him, and it was plain my remark 
 had in some degree sobered his passion. “What do you 
 mean?” he asked. 
 
 I only said one word: “Italians.” 
 
 He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one 
 to the other. 
 
 “Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know,” said my wife. 
 “What I want to know,” he broke out, “is where 
 the devil Mr. Cassilis comes from, and what the devil 
 Mr. Cassilis is doing here. You say you are married; 
 
fieu/ /Irabiai) 
 
 245 
 
 that I do not believe. If you were, Graden Floe would 
 soon divorce you; four minutes and a half, Cassilis. I 
 keep my private cemetery for my fiiends.” 
 
 “It took somewhat longer,” said I, “for that Italian.” 
 He looked at me for a moment half daunted, and 
 then, almost civilly, asked me to tell my story. “You 
 have too much the advantage of me, Cassilis,” he 
 added. I complied of course; and he listened, with 
 several ejaculations, while I told him how I had come 
 to Graden; that it was I whom he had tried to mur- 
 der on the night of landing; and what I had subse- 
 quently seen and heard of the Italians. 
 
 “Well,” said he, when I had done, “it is here at 
 last; there is no mistake about that. And what, may 
 I ask, do you propose to do?” 
 
 “I propose to stay with you and lend a hand,” 
 said I. 
 
 “You are a brave man,” he returned, with a pecul- 
 iar intonation. 
 
 “I am not afraid,” said I. 
 
 “And so,” he continued, “I am to understand that 
 you two are married? And you stand up to it before 
 my face. Miss Huddlestone?” 
 
 “We are not yet married,” said Clara; “but we 
 shall be as soon as we can.” 
 
 “Bravo!” cried ITorthmour. “And the bargain? D — n 
 it, you’re not a fool, young woman; I may call a spade 
 a spade with you. How about the bargain? You know 
 as well as I do what your father’s life depends upon. 
 I have only to put my hands under my coat-tails and 
 walk away, and his throat would be cut before the 
 evening.” 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I.— i6 
 
246 U/orKs of F^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 “Yes, Mr. Northmoiir,” returned Clara, with great 
 spirit; “but that is what you will never do. You made 
 a bargain that was unworthy of a gentleman; but you 
 are a gentleman for all that, and you will never desert 
 a man whom you have begun to help.” 
 
 “Aha!” said he. “You think I will give my yacht 
 for nothing? You think I will risk my life and liberty 
 for love of the old gentleman; and then, I suppose, be 
 best man at the wedding, to wind up? Well,” he 
 added, with an odd smile, “perhaps you are not alto- 
 gether wrong. But ask Cassilis here. He knows me. 
 Am I a man to trust? Am I safe and scrupulous? 
 Am I kind?” 
 
 “I know you talk a great deal, and sometimes, I 
 think, very foolishly,” replied Clara, “but I know you 
 are a gentleman, and I am not the least afraid.” 
 
 He looked at her with a peculiar approval and ad- 
 miration; then, turning to me, “Do you think I would 
 give her up without a struggle, Frank?” said he. “I 
 tell you plainly, you look out. The next time we com© 
 to blows — ” 
 
 “Will make the third,” I interrupted, smiling. 
 
 “Ay, true; so it will,” he said. “I had forgotten. 
 Well, the third time’s lucky.” 
 
 “The third time, you mean, you will have the crew 
 of the ‘Red EarT to help,” I said. 
 
 “Do you hear him?” he asked, turning to my wife. 
 “I hear two men speaking like cowards,” said she. 
 “I should despise myself either to think or speak like 
 that. And neither of you believe one word that you 
 are saying, which makes it the more wicked and silly.” 
 “She’s a trump!” cried Northmour. “But she’s not 
 
I^feu; /irabiaij 247 
 
 yet Mrs. Oassilis. I say no more. The present is not 
 for me.” 
 
 Then my wife surprised me. 
 
 “I leave you here,” she said suddenly. “My father 
 has been too long alone. But remember this: you are 
 to be friends, for you are both good friends to me.” 
 
 She has since told me her reason for this step. As 
 long as she remained, she declares that we two would 
 have continued to quarrel; and I suppose that she was 
 right, for when she was gone we fell at once into a 
 sort of confidentiality. 
 
 Northmour stared after he as she went away over 
 the sand-hill. 
 
 “She is the only woman in the world!” he ex- 
 claimed with an oath. “Look at her action.” 
 
 I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a 
 little further light. 
 
 “See here, Northmour,” said I; “we are all in a 
 tight place, are we not?” 
 
 “I believe you, my boy,” he answered, looking me 
 in the eyes, and with great emphasis. “We have all 
 hell upon us, that’s the truth. You may believe me 
 or not, but I’m afraid of my life.” 
 
 “Tell me one thing,” said I. “What are they after, 
 these Italians? What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone?” 
 
 “Don’t you know?” he cried. “The black old scamp 
 had carbonaro funds on a deposit — two hundred and 
 eighty thousand; and of course he gambled it away on 
 stocks. There was to have been a revolution in the 
 Tridentino, or Parma ; but the revolution is off, and 
 the whole wasp’s nest is after Huddlestone. We shall 
 all be lucky if we can save our skins.” 
 
5248 U/orl^5 of F^obert C 0 UI 5 SteueQjop 
 
 < 
 
 “The carbonari!” I exclaimed; “God help him indeed!’* 
 “Amen!” said Northmour. “And now, look here: 
 I have said that we are in a fix; and, frankly, I shall 
 be glad of your help. If I can’t save Huddlestone, I 
 want at least to save the girl. Come and stay in the 
 pavilion; and, there’s my hand on it, I shall act as 
 your friend until the old man is either clear or dead. 
 But,” he added, “once that is settled, you become my 
 rival once again, and I warn you — ^mind yourself.” 
 “Done!” said I; and we shook hands. 
 
 “And now let us go directly to the fort,” said 
 Northmour; and he began to lead the way through the 
 rain. 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 TELLS OF MY INTRODUCTION • TO THE TALL MAN 
 
 We were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I 
 was surprised by the completeness and security of the 
 defenses. A barricade of great strength, and yet easy 
 to displace, supported the door against any violence 
 from without; and the shutters of the dining-room, 
 into which I was led directly, and which was feebly 
 illuminated by a lamp, were even more elaborately forti- 
 fied. The panels were strengthened by bars and cross- 
 bars ; and these, in their turn, were kept in position 
 by a system of braces and struts, some abutting on 
 the floor, some on the roof, and others, in fine, against 
 the opposite wall of the apartment. It was at once a 
 solid and well-designed piece of carpentry; and I did 
 not seek to conceal my admiration. 
 
I^cu; /irabiai) - 
 
 249 
 
 “I am the engineer,” said Northmour. “You remem- 
 ber the planks in the garden? Behold them?” 
 
 “I did not know you had so many talents,” said I. 
 
 “Are you armed?” he continued, pointing to an array 
 of guns and pistols, all in admirable order, which stood 
 in line against the wall or were displayed upon the 
 sideboard. 
 
 “Thank you,” I returned; “I have gone armed since 
 our last encounter. But, to tell you the truth, I have 
 had nothing to eat since early yesterday evening.” 
 
 Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I 
 eagerly set myself, and a bottle of good Burgundy, by 
 which, wet as I was, I did not scruple to profit. I 
 have always been an extreme temperance man on prin- 
 ciple; but it is useless to push principle to excess, and 
 on this occasion I believe that I finished three-quarters 
 of the bottle. As I ate, I still continued to admire the 
 preparations for defense. 
 
 “We could stand a siege,” I said at length. 
 
 “Ye — es,” drawled Northmour; “a very little one, 
 per — haps. It is not so much the strength of the pavilion 
 I misdoubt; it is the double danger that kills me. If 
 we get to shooting, wild as the country is, some one is 
 sure to hear it, and then — why then it’s the same thing, 
 only different, as they say: caged by law, or killed by 
 carbonari. There’s the choice. It is a devilish bad thing 
 to have the law against you in this world, and so I 
 tell the old gentleman upstairs. He is quite of my 
 way of thinking.” 
 
 “Speaking of that,” said I, “what kind of person 
 is he?” 
 
 “Oh, he!” cried the other; “he’s a rancid fellow, as 
 
S550 U/orl^5 of Couis Steuepsop 
 
 fax as he goes. I should like to have his neck wrung 
 to-morrow by all the devils in Italy. I am not in this 
 affair for him. You take me? I made a bargain for 
 Missy’s hand, and I mean to have it too.” 
 
 “That, by the way,” said I. “I understand. But 
 how will Mr. Huddlestone take my intrusion?” 
 
 “Leave that to Clara,” returned Northmour. 
 
 I could have struck him in the face for this coarse 
 familiarity ; but I respected the truce, as, I am bound 
 to say, did Northmour, and so long as the danger con- 
 tinued not a cloud arose in our relation. I bear him 
 this testimony with the most unfeigned satisfaction; nor 
 am I wkhout pride when I look back upon my own 
 behavior. For surely no two men were ever left in a 
 position so invidious and irritating. 
 
 As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to in- 
 spect the lower floor. Window by window we tried the 
 different supports, now and then making an inconsider- 
 able change; and the strokes of the hammer sounded 
 with startling loudness through the house. I proposed, 
 I remember, to make loopholes; but he told me they 
 were already made in the windows of the upper story. 
 It was an anxious business this inspection, and left me 
 down-hearted. There were two doors and five windows 
 to protect, and, counting Clara, only four of us to de- 
 fend them against an unknown number of foes. I com- 
 municated my doubts to Northmour, who assured me, 
 
 with unmoved composure, that he entirely shared them. 
 
 “Before morning,” said he, “we shall all be butch- 
 ered and buried in Graden Floe. For me, that is 
 
 written.” 
 
 I could not help shuddering at the mention of the 
 
I^eu; /irabiai? 
 
 251 
 
 quicksands, but reminded Northmour that our enemies 
 had spared me in the wood. 
 
 “Do not flatter yourself,” said he. “Then you were 
 not in the same boat with the old gentleman; now you 
 are. It’s the floe for all of us, mark my words.” 
 
 I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice 
 was heard calling us to come upstairs. Northmour 
 showed me the way, and, when he had reached the 
 landing, knocked at the door of what used to be called 
 My Uncle^s Bedroom, as the founder of the pavilion 
 had designed it especially for himself. 
 
 “Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis,” 
 said a voice from within. 
 
 Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me be- 
 fore him into the apartment. As I came in I could 
 see the daughter slipping out by the side door into the 
 study, which had been prepared as her bedroom. In 
 the bed, which was drawn back against the wall, in- 
 stead of standing, as I had last seen it, boldly across 
 the window, sat Bernard Huddlestone, the defaulting 
 banker. Little as I had seen of him by the shifting 
 light of the lantern on the links, I had no difiiculty in 
 recognizing him for the same. He had a long and 
 sallow countenance, surrounded by a long red beard 
 and side -whiskers. His broken nose and high cheekbones 
 gave him somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his 
 light eyes shone with the excitement of a high fever. 
 He wore a skull-cap of black silk; a huge Bible lay 
 open before him on the bed, with a pair of gold spec- 
 tacles in the place, and a pile of other books lay on 
 the stand by his side. The green curtains lent a cadav- 
 erous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat propped on 
 
252 U/orl^5 of f^obert Coui$ Steuei> 50 i? 
 
 pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched, and 
 his head protruded till it overhung his knees. I believe 
 if he had not died otherwise, he must have fallen a 
 victim to consumption in the course of but a very few 
 weeks. 
 
 He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagree- 
 ably hairy. 
 
 “Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis,” said he. “Another 
 protector — ahem I — another protector. Always welcome as 
 a friend of my daughter’s, Mr. Cassilis. How they 
 have rallied about me, my daughter’s friends! May 
 God in heaven bless and reward them for it!” 
 
 I gave him my hand, of course, because I could 
 not help it; but the sympathy I had been prepared to 
 feel for Clara’s father was immediately soured by his 
 appearance, and the wheedling, unreal tones in which 
 he spoke. 
 
 “Cassilis is a good man,” said Northmour; “worth 
 ten.” 
 
 “So I hear,” cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; “so my 
 girl tells • me. Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me 
 out, you see! I am very low, very low; but I hope 
 equally penitent. We must all come to the throne of 
 grace at last, Mr. Cassilis. For my part, I come late 
 indeed; but with unfeigned humility, I trust.” 
 
 “Fiddle-de-dee!” said Northmour roughly. 
 
 “No, no, dear Northmour!” cried the banker. “You 
 must not say that; you must not try to shake me. 
 You forget, my dear, good boy, you forget I may be 
 called this very night before my Maker.” 
 
 His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt my- 
 self grow indignant with Northmour, whose infidel 
 
]^Teu; /Irabiap 
 
 253 
 
 opinions I well knew, and heartily derided, as he con- 
 tinued to taunt the poor sinner out of his humor of 
 repentance. 
 
 “Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!” said he. “You do 
 yourseK injustice. You are a man of the world inside 
 and out, and were up to all kinds of mischief before I 
 was born. Your conscience is tanned like South Ameri- 
 can leather — only you forgot to tan your liver, and that, 
 if you will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance.” 
 
 “Eogue, rogue! bad boy!” said Mr. Huddlestone, 
 shaking his finger. “I am no precisian, if you come 
 to that; I always hated a precisian; but I never lost 
 hold of something better through it all. I have been a 
 ,bad boy, Mr. Cassilis; I do not seek to deny that; but 
 it was after my wife’s death, and you know, with a 
 widower, it’s a different thing; sinful — I won’t say no; 
 but there is a gradation, we shall hope. And talking 
 of that — Hark!” he broke out suddenly, his hand 
 raised, his fingers spread, his face racked with interest 
 and terror. “Only the rain, bless God!” he added, 
 after a pause, and with indescribable relief. 
 
 For some seconds he lay back among the pillows 
 like a man near to fainting; then he gathered himself 
 together, and, in somewhat tremulous tones, began once 
 more to thank me for the share I was prepared to take 
 in his defense. 
 
 “One question, sir,” said I, when he had paused. 
 “Is it true that you have money with you?” 
 
 He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted 
 with reluctance that he had a little. 
 
 “Well,” I continued, “it is their money they are 
 after, is it not? Why not give it up to them?” 
 
254 U/orl^5 of Coulj Steuepjoij 
 
 “Ah!” replied he, shaking his head, “I have tried 
 that already, Mr. Cassilis; and alas that it should be 
 so! but it is blood they want.” 
 
 “Huddlestone, that’s a little less than fair,” said 
 Northmour. “You should mention that what you offered 
 them was upward of two hundred thousand short. The 
 deficit is worth a reference; it is for what they call a 
 cool sum, Frank. Then, you see, the fellows reason in 
 their clear Italian way; and it seems to them, as indeed 
 it seems to me, that they may just as well have both 
 while they’re about i \ — money and blood together, by 
 George, and no more trouble for the extra pleasure.” 
 “Is it in the pavilion?” I asked. 
 
 “It is; and I wish it were in the bottom ,of the 
 sea instead,” said Northmour; and then suddenly — 
 “What are you making faces at me for?” he cried to 
 Mr. Huddlestone, on whom I had unconsciously turned 
 my back. “Do you think Cassilis would sell you?” 
 
 Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been 
 further from his mind. 
 
 “It is a good thing,” retorted Northmour in his ug- 
 liest manner. “You might end by wearying us. What 
 were you going to say?” he added, turning to me. 
 
 “I was going to propose an occupation for the after- 
 noon,” said I. “Let us carry that money out, piece 
 by piece, and lay it down before the pavilion door. If 
 the carbonari come, why, it’s theirs at any rate.” 
 
 “No, no,” cried Mr. Huddlestone; “it does not, it 
 cannot belong to them! It should be distributed pro 
 rata among all my creditors.” 
 
 “Come now, Huddlestone,” said Northmour, “nonae 
 of that.” 
 
]'/eu; /irabiaij 
 
 255 
 
 “Well, but my daughter,” moaned the wretched 
 man. 
 
 ' “Your daughter will do well enough. Here are two 
 suitors, Cassilis and I, neither of us beggars, between 
 whom she has to choose. And as for yourself, to make 
 an end of arguments, you have no right to a farthing, 
 and, unless I’m much mistaken, you are going to die.” 
 
 It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddle- 
 stone was a man who attracted little sympathy; and, 
 although I saw him wince and shudder, I mentally 
 indorsed the rebuke; nay, I added a contribution of 
 my own. 
 
 “Northmour and I,” I said, “are willing enough to 
 help you to save your life, but not to escape with 
 stolen property.” 
 
 He struggled for a while with himself, as though 
 he were on the point of giving way to anger, but 
 prudence had the best of the controversy. 
 
 “My dear boys,” he said, “do with me or my 
 money what you will. I leave all in your hands. Let 
 me compose myself.” 
 
 And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure. The 
 last that I saw, he had once more taken up his great 
 Bible, and with tremulous hands was adjusting hia 
 spectacles to read. 
 
266 
 
 U/orl^s of I^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 TELLS HOW A WORD WAS CRIED THROUGH THE 
 PAVILION WINDOW 
 
 The recollection of that afternoon will always be 
 graven on my mind. Northmour and I were persuaded 
 that an attack was imminent; and if it had been in 
 our power to alter in any way the order of events, 
 that power would have been used to precipitate rather 
 than delay the critical moment. The worst was to be 
 anticipated; yet we could conceive no extremity so mis- 
 erable as the suspense we were now suffering. I have 
 never been an eager, though always a great, reader; 
 but I never knew books so insipid as those which I 
 took up and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. 
 Even talk became impossible, as the hours went on. 
 One or other was always listening for some sound, or 
 peering from an upstairs window over the links. And 
 yet not a sign indicated the presence of our foes. 
 
 We debated over and over again my proposal with 
 regard to the money; and had we been in complete pos- 
 session of our faculties, I am sure we should have con- 
 demned it as unwise; but we were flustered with alarm, 
 grasped at a straw, and determined, although it was 
 as much as advertising Mr. Huddlestone’s presence in 
 the pavilion, to carry my proposal into effect. 
 
 The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, 
 
)*(eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 267 
 
 and part in circular notes payable to the name of James 
 Gregory. We took it out, counted it, inclosed it once 
 more in a dispatch-box belonging to Northmour, and 
 prepared a letter in Italian which he tied to the handle. 
 It was signed by both of us under oath, and declared 
 that this was all the money which had escaped the 
 failure of the house of Huddlestone. This was, per- 
 haps, the maddest action ever perpetrated by two per- 
 sons professing to be sane. Had the dispatch-box fallen 
 mto other hands than those for which it was intended, 
 we stood criminally convicted on our own written testi- 
 mony; but, as I have said, we were neither of us in 
 a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for ac- 
 tion that drove us to do something, right or wrong, 
 leather than endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as 
 we were both convinced that the hollows of the links 
 were alive with hidden spies upon our movements, we 
 hoped that our appearance with the box might lead to 
 a parley, and, perhaps, a compromise. 
 
 It was nearly three when we issued from the pa- 
 vilion. The rain had taken off; the sun shone quite 
 cheerfully. I have never seen the gulls fly so close 
 about the house or approach so fearlessly to human 
 beings. On the very doorstep one flapped heavily past 
 our heads, and uttered its wild cry in my very ear. 
 
 “There is an omen for you,” said Horthmour, who 
 like all freethinkers was much under the influence of 
 superstition. “They think we are already dead.” 
 
 I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half 
 my heart; for the circumstance had impressed me. 
 
 A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth 
 turf, we set down the dispatch-box ; and Northmour 
 
268 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 waved a white handkerchief over his head. Nothing 
 replied. We raised our voices, and cried aloud in Italian 
 that we were there as embassadors to arrange the 
 quarrel; but the stillness remained unbroken save by 
 the sea-gulls and the surf. I had a weight at my heart 
 when we desisted; and I saw that even Northmour 
 was unusually pale. He looked over his shoulder ner- 
 vously, as though he feared that some one had crept be- 
 tween him and the pavilion door. i 
 
 “By God,” he said in a whisper, “this is too much 
 for me!” 
 
 I replied in the same key: “Suppose there should be 
 none, after all!” 
 
 “Look there,” he returned, nodding with his head, 
 as though he had been afraid to point. 
 
 I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from 
 the northern quarter of the Sea- Wood, beheld a thin 
 column' of smoke rising steadily against the now 
 cloudless sky. 
 
 “Northmour,” I said (we still continued to talk in 
 whispers), “it is not possible to endure this suspense. 
 I prefer death fifty times over. Stay you here to 
 watch the pavilion; I will go forward and make sure, 
 if I have to walk right into their camp.” 
 
 He looked once again all round him with puckered 
 eyes, and then nodded assentingly to my proposal. 
 
 My heart beat like a sledge-hammer as I set out 
 walking rapidly in the direction of the smoke; and, 
 though up to that moment I had felt chill and shiver- 
 ing, I was suddenly conscious of a glow of heat over 
 all my body. The ground in this direction was very 
 uneven; a hundred men might have lain hidden in as 
 
fieu; /irabiaij 
 
 259 
 
 many square yards about my path. But I had not 
 practiced the business in vain, chose such routes as cut 
 at the very root of concealment, and, by keeping along 
 the most convenient ridges, commanded several hollows 
 at a time. It was not long before I was rewarded for 
 my caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound some- 
 what more elevated than the surrounding hummocks, I 
 saw, not thirty yards away, a man bent almost double, 
 and running as fast as his attitude permitted, along 
 the bottom of a guUy. I had dislodged one of the 
 spies from his ambush. As soon as I sighted him, I 
 
 called loudly both in English and Italian; and he, see- 
 ing concealment was no longer possible, straightened 
 himself out, leaped from the gully, and made off as 
 straight as an arrow for the borders of the wood. 
 
 It was none of my business to pursue; I had learned 
 what I wanted — that we were beleaguered and watched 
 in the pavilion; and I returned at once, and walking 
 as nearly as possible in my old footsteps, to where 
 Northmour awaited me beside the dispatch-box. He 
 was even paler than when I had left him, and his 
 voice shook a little. 
 
 “Could you see what he was Hke?” he asked. 
 
 “He kept his back turned,’* I replied. 
 
 “Let us get into the house, Frank. I don’t think 
 I’m a coward, but I can stand no more of this,” he 
 whispered. 
 
 All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion as we 
 turned to re-enter it; even the gulls had flown in a 
 wider circuit, and were seen flickering along the beach 
 and sand-hills; and this loneliness terrified me more than 
 a regiment under arms. It was not until the door was 
 
260 U^ori^ of i^obert Coui$ Steueijsop 
 
 barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration and re- 
 lieve the weight that lay upon my bosom. Northmour 
 and I exchanged a steady glance; and I suppose each 
 made his own reflections on the white and startled aspect 
 of the other. 
 
 “You were right,” I said. “All is over. Shake 
 bands, old man, for the last time.” 
 
 “Yes,” replied he, “I will shake hands; for, as sure as 
 I am here, I bear no malice. But, remember, if, by some 
 impossible accident, we should give the slip to these black- 
 guards, I’ll take the upper hand of you by fair or foul.” 
 “Oh,” said I, “you weary me!” 
 
 He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to the^ 
 foot of the stairs, where he paused. 
 
 “You do not understand,” said he. “I am not a^ 
 swindler, and I guard myself; that is all. It may 
 weary you or not, Mr. Cassilis, I do not care a rush; 
 1 speak for my own satisfaction, and not for yom*' 
 amusement. You had better go upstairs and court the 
 girl; for my part, I stay here.” 
 
 “And I stay with you,” I returned. “Do you think 
 I would steal a march, even with your permission?” 
 “Frank,” he said, smiling, “it’s a pity you are an 
 ass, for you have the ma^ngs of a man. I think I 
 must be fey to-day; you cannot irritate me even when 
 you try. Do you know,” he continued softly, “I think 
 we are the two most miserable men in England, you 
 and I? we have got on to thirty without wife or child, 
 or so much as a shop to look after — poor, pitiful, lost 
 devils, both! And now we clash about a girl! As if 
 there were not several millions in the United Kingdom! 
 Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses this throw, be 
 
r<eu; /\rabiai> 
 
 261 
 
 it you or me, he has my pity! It were better for 
 him — how does the Bible say? — that a millstone were 
 hanged about his neck and he were cast into the depth 
 of the sea. Let us take a drink,” he concluded sud- 
 denly, but without any levity of tone. 
 
 I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat 
 down on the table in the dining-room, and held up the 
 glass of sherry to his eye. 
 
 “If you beat me, Frank,” he said, “I shall take to 
 drink. What will you do, if it goes the other way?” 
 
 “God knows,” I returned. 
 
 “Well,” said he, “here is a toast in the meantime: 
 ‘Italia irredenta!’ ” 
 
 The remainder of the day was passed in the same 
 dreadful tedium and suspense. I laid the table for din- 
 ner, while Northmour and Clara prepared the meal to 
 gether in the kitchen. I could hear their talk as I 
 went to and fro, and was surprised to find it ran all 
 the time upon myself. iN’orthmour again bracketed us 
 together, and rallied Clara on a choice of husbands; 
 but he continued to speak of me with some feeling, and 
 uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he included him- 
 self in the condemnation. This awakened a sense of 
 gratitude in my heart, which combined with the im- 
 mediateness of our peril to fill my eyes with tears. 
 After all, I thought — and perhaps the thought was 
 laughably vain — we were here three very noble human 
 beings to perish in defense of a thieving banker. 
 
 Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from 
 
 an upstairs window. The day was beginning to decline; 
 
 the links were utterly deserted; the dispatch-box still lay 
 
 untouched where we had left it hours before. 
 
 Stevenson. Yol. I. — 17 
 
262 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis SteueijsoQ 
 
 Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing-gown, took 
 one end of the table, Clara the other; while Northmour 
 and I faced each other from the sides. The lamp was 
 brightly trimmed; the wine was good; the viands, al- 
 though mostly cold, excellent of their sort. We seemed 
 to have agreed tacitly; all reference to the impending 
 catastrophe was carefully avoided; and, considering our 
 tragic circumstances, we made a merrier party than 
 could have been expected. From time to time, it is 
 true, Northmour or I would rise from the table and 
 make a round of the defenses; and, on each of these 
 occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of 
 his tragic predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, 
 and bore for an instant on his countenance the stamp 
 of terror. But he hastened to empty his glass, wiped 
 his forehead with his handkerchief, and joined again in 
 the conversation. 
 
 I was astonished at the wit and information he dis- 
 played. Mr. Huddlestone’s was certainly no ordinary 
 character; he had read and observed for himself; hia 
 gifts were sound; and, though I could never have 
 learned to love the man, I began to understand his suc- 
 cess in business, and the great respect in which he had 
 been held before his failure. He had, above all, the 
 talent of society; and though I never heard him speak 
 but on this one and most unfavorable occasion, I set 
 him down among the most brilliant conversationalists I 
 ever met. 
 
 He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no 
 feeling of shame, the maneuvers of a scoundrelly com- 
 mission merchant whom he had known and studied in 
 his youth, and we were all listening with an odd mix* 
 
j^eu; /irabiap 
 
 263 
 
 tore of mirth and embarrassment, when our little party 
 was brought abruptly to an end in the most startling 
 manner. 
 
 A noise like that of a wet finger on the window- 
 pane interrupted Mr. Huddlestone’s tale; and in an in- 
 stant we were all four as white as paper, and sat 
 tongue-tied and motionless around the table. 
 
 “A snail,” I said at last; for I had heard that 
 these animals make a noise somewhat similar in char- 
 acter. 
 
 “Snail be d — d!” said Korthmour. “Hush!” 
 
 The same sound was repeated twice at regular inter- 
 vals; and then a formidable voice shouted through the 
 shutters the Italian word “Traditore!” 
 
 Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eye- 
 lids quivered; next moment he fell insensible below the 
 table. Horthmour and I had each run to the armory 
 and seized a gun. Clara was on her feet with her 
 hand at her throat. 
 
 So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of 
 attack was certainly come; but second passed after sec- 
 ond, and all but the surf remained silent in the neigh- 
 borhood of the pavilion. 
 
 “Quick,” said Northmour; “upstairs with him before 
 they come.” 
 
864 
 
 U/orK 5 of F^obert Couij Steueij50i> 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 TELLiS THE LAST OP THE TALL MAN 
 
 Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and between 
 the three of us, we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled 
 upstairs and laid upon the bed in My Uncle’s Room. 
 During the whole process, which was rough enough, he 
 gave no sign of consciousness, and he remained, as we 
 had thrown him, without changing the position of a 
 finger. His daughter opened his shirt and began to wet 
 his head and bosom; while Northmour and I ran to 
 the window. The weather continued clear; the moon, 
 which was now about full, had risen and shed a very 
 clear light upon the links; yet, strain our eyes as we 
 might, we could distinguish nothing moving. A few 
 dark spots, more or less, on the uneven expanse were 
 not to be identified; they might be crouching men, they 
 might be shadows; it was impossible to be sure. 
 
 “Thank God,” said Northmour, “Aggie is not com- 
 ing to night.” 
 
 Aggie was the name of the old nurse; he had not 
 thought of her till now; but that he should think of 
 her at all, was a trait that surprised me in the man. 
 
 We were again reduced to waiting. Uorthmour went 
 to the fireplace and spread his hands before the red 
 embers, as if he were cold. I followed him mechani- 
 cally with my eyes, and in so doing turned my back 
 
)^eu7 /Irabiai? 
 
 265 
 
 upon the window. At that moment a very faint report 
 was audible from without, and a ball shivered a pane 
 of glass, and buried itself in the shutter two inches 
 from my head. I heard Clara scream; and though I 
 whipped instantly out of range and into a corner, she 
 was there, so to speak, before me, beseeching to know 
 
 if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot 
 
 at every day and all day long, with such marks of 
 solicitude for a reward ; and I continued to reassure 
 her, with the tenderest caresses and in complete forget- 
 fulness of our situation, till the voice of Northmour 
 recalled me to myself. 
 
 “An air-gun,” he said. “They wish to make no 
 noise.” 
 
 I put Clara aside, and looked at him. He was 
 standing with his back to the fire and his hands clasped 
 behind him; and I knew by the black look on his face 
 
 that passion was boiling within. I had seen just such 
 
 a look before he attacked me, that March night, in 
 the adjoining chamber; and, though I could make every 
 allowance for his anger, I confess 1 trembled for the 
 consequences. He gazed straight before him; but he 
 could see us with the tail of his eye, and his temper 
 kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular battle 
 awaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine strife 
 within the walls began to daunt me. 
 
 Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expres- 
 sion and prepared against the worst, I saw a change, 
 a flash, a look of relief, upon his face. He took up 
 the lamp which stood beside him on the table, and 
 turned to us with an air of some excitement. 
 
 “There is one point that we must know,” said he. 
 
266 U/or^5 of f^obert C0U15 Steueijsoi) 
 
 “Are they going to butcher the lot of us, or only 
 Huddleston e? Did they take you for him, or fire at 
 you for your own beaux yeux?” 
 
 “They took me for him, for certain,” I replied. “I 
 am near as tall, and my head is fair.” 
 
 “I am going to make sure,” returned Horthmour; 
 and he stepped up to the window, holding the lamp 
 above his head, and stood there, quietly affronting death, 
 for half a minute. 
 
 Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from 
 the place of danger; but I had the pardonable selfish- 
 ness to hold her back by force. 
 
 “Yes,” said Northmour, turning coolly from the win- 
 dow; “it’s only Huddlestone they want.” 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Northmour!” cried Clara; but found no 
 more to add; the temerity she had just witnessed 
 seeming beyond the reach of words. 
 
 He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head, 
 with a fire of triumph in his eyes; and I understood 
 at once that he had thus hazarded his life, merely to 
 attract Clara’s notice, and depose me from my position 
 as the hero of the hour. He snapped his fingers. 
 
 “The fire is only beginning,” said he. “When they 
 warm up to their work, they won’t be so particular.” 
 A voice was now heard hailing us from the en- 
 trance. From the window we could see the figure of 
 a man in the moonlight; he stood motionless, his face 
 uplifted to ours, and a rag of something white on his 
 extended arm; and as we looked right down upon him, 
 though he was a good many yards distant on the links, 
 we could see the moonlight glitter on his eyes. 
 
 He opened his lips again, and spoke for some min- 
 
I'feu; /^rabiap 
 
 267 
 
 utes on end, in a key so loud that he might have been 
 heard in every corner of the pavilion, and as far away 
 as the borders of the wood. It was the same voice 
 that had already shouted “Traditore!” through the 
 shutters of the dining-room; this time it made a com- 
 plete and clear statement. If the traitor “Oddlestone” 
 were given up, all others should be spared ; if not, no 
 one should escape to tell the tale. 
 
 “Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?” 
 asked Northmour, turning to the bed. 
 
 Up to that moment the banker had given no sign 
 of life, and I, at least, had supposed him to be still 
 lying in a faint; but he replied at once, and in such 
 tones as I have never heard elsewhere, save from a 
 delirious patient, adjured and besought us not to desert 
 him. It was the most hideous and abject performance 
 that my imagination can conceive. 
 
 “Enough,” cried Northmour; and then he threw 
 open the window, leaned out into the night, and in a 
 tone of exultation, and with a total forgetfulness of 
 what was due to the presence of a lad}’-, poured out 
 upon the embassador a string of the most abominable 
 raillery both in English and Italian, and bade him be- 
 gone where he had come from. I believe that nothing 
 so delighted Northmour at that moment as the thought 
 that we must all infallibly perish before the night was 
 out. 
 
 Meantime the Italian put his flag of truce into his 
 pocket, and disappeared, at a leisurely pace, among the 
 sand-hills. 
 
 “They make honorable war,” said Northmour. “They 
 are all gentlemen and soldiers. For the credit of the 
 
268 U/orK5 of Coui5 Steuepjoij 
 
 thing, I wish we could change sides — you and I, Frank, 
 and you too, missy, my darling — and leave that being 
 on the bed to some one else. Tut! Don’t look shocked! 
 We are all going post to what they call eternity, and 
 may as well be aboveboard while there’s time. As far 
 as I’m concerned, if I could first strangle Huddlestone 
 and then get Clara in my arms, I could die with some 
 pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by God, I’ll have 
 a kiss!” 
 
 Before I could do anything to interfere, he had 
 rudely embraced and repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. 
 Next moment I had pulled him away with fury, and 
 flung him heavily against the wall. He laughed loud 
 and long, and I feared his wits had given way under 
 the strain; for even in the best of days he had been 
 a sparing and a quiet laugher. 
 
 “Now, Frank,” said he, when his mirth was some- 
 what appeased, “it’s your turn. Here’s my hand. Good- 
 by; farewell!” Then, seeing me stand rigid and indig- 
 nant, and holding Clara to my side — “Man!” he broke 
 out, “are you angry? Did you think we were going to 
 die with all the airs and graces of society? I took a 
 kiss; I’m glad I had it; and now you can take an- 
 other if you like, and square accounts.” 
 
 I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which 
 I did not seek to dissemble. 
 
 “As you please,” said he. “You’ve been a prig in 
 life; a prig you’ll die.” 
 
 And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over 
 his knee, and amused himself with snapping the lock; 
 but I could see that his ebullition of light spirits (the 
 only one I ever knew him to display) had already 
 
JMeu; /irabiaij 269 
 
 come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowl- 
 ing humor. 
 
 All this time our assailants might have been enter- 
 ing the house, and we been none the wiser; we had 
 in truth almost forgotten the danger that so imminently 
 overhung our days. But just then Mr. Huddlestone ut- 
 tered a cry, and leaped from the bed. 
 
 I asked him what was wrong. 
 
 “Fire!” he cried. “They have set the house on 
 fire!” 
 
 Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he 
 and I ran through the door of communication with the 
 study. The room was illuminated by a red and angry 
 light. Almost at the moment of our entrance, a tower 
 of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a 
 tingling report, a pane fell inward on the carpet. They 
 had set Are to the lean-to outhouse, where Northmour 
 used to nurse his negatives. 
 
 “Hot work,” said Northmour. “Let us try in your 
 old room.” 
 
 We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, 
 and looked forth. Along the whole back wall of the 
 pavilion piles of fuel had been arranged and kindled; 
 and it is probable they had been drenched with mineral 
 oil, for, in spite of the morning’s rain, they all burned 
 bravely. The Are had taken a firm hold already on the 
 outhouse, which blazed higher and higher every mo- 
 ment; the back door was in the center of a red-hot 
 bonfire; the eaves we could see, as we looked upward, 
 were already smoldering, for the roof overhung, and 
 was supported by considerable beams of wood. At the 
 same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke 
 
270 U/orK;8 of f^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 began to fill the house. There was not a human being 
 to be seen to right or left. 
 
 “Ah, well!” said Northmour, “here’s the end, thank 
 God.” 
 
 And we returned to My Uncle’s Rnom. Mr. Hud- 
 dlestone was putting on his boots, still violently trem- 
 bling, but with an air of determination such as I had 
 not hitherto observed. Clara stood close by him, with 
 her cloak in both hands ready to throw about her 
 shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if she. 
 were half hopeful, half doubtful of her father. ' 
 
 “Well, boys and girl,” said Northmour, “how about 
 a sally? The oven is heating; it is not good to stay 
 here and be baked; and, for my part, I want to come 
 to my hands with them, and be done.” 
 
 “There is nothing else left,” I replied. 
 
 And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with 
 a very different intonation, added, “Nothing.” 
 
 As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and 
 the roaring of the fire filled our ears ; and we had 
 scarce reached the passage before the stairs window fell 
 in, a branch of flame shot brandishing through the 
 aperture, and the interior of the pavilion became lighted 
 up with that dreadful and fluctuating glare. At the 
 same moment we heard the fall of something heavy and 
 inelastic in the upper story. The whole pavilion, it was 
 plain, had gone alight like a box of matches, and now not 
 only flamed sky-high to land and sea, but threatened with 
 every moment to crumble and fall in about our ears. 
 
 Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddle- 
 stone, who had already refused a firearm, put us be- 
 hind him with a manner of command. 
 
f»(eu; /irabiaij - 
 
 271 
 
 “Let Clara open the door,” said he. “So, if they fire a 
 volley, she will be protected. In the mean time stand be- 
 hind me. I am the scapegoat; my sins have found me out.” 
 
 I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, 
 with my pistol ready, pattering off prayers in a tremu- 
 lous, rapid whisper; and I confess, horrid as the thought 
 may seem, I despised him for thinking of supplications 
 in a moment so critical and thrilling. In the mean- 
 time, Clara, who was dead white but still possessed her 
 faculties, had displaced the barricade from the front 
 door. Another moment, and she had pulled it open. 
 Firelight and moonlight illuminated the links with con- 
 fused and changeful luster, and far away against the 
 sky we could see a long trail of glowing smoke. 
 
 Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a 
 strength greater than his own, struck Northmour and 
 myself a back-hander in the chest; and while we were 
 thus for the moment incapacitated from action, lifting 
 his arms above his head like one about to dive, he ran 
 straight forward out of the pavilion. 
 
 “Here am I!” he cried — “Huddlestone! Kill me, 
 
 and spare the others!” 
 
 His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hid- 
 den enemies; for Northmour and I had time to recover, 
 to seize Clara between us, one by each arm, and to 
 rush forth to his assistance, ere anything further had 
 taken place. But scarce had we passed the threshold 
 when there came near a dozen reports and flashes from 
 every direction among the hollows of the links. Mr. 
 Huddlestone staggered, uttered a weird and freezing 
 cry, threw up his arms over his head, and fell back- 
 ward on the turf. 
 
272 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “Traditore! Traditore!” cried the invisible avengers. 
 
 And just then, a part of the roof of the pavilion 
 fell in, so rapid was the progress pf the fire. A loud, 
 vague, and horrible noise accompanied the collapse, and 
 a vast volume of flame went soaring up to heaven. It 
 must have been visible at that moment from twenty- 
 miles out at sea, from the shore at Graden Wester, 
 and far inland from the peak of Graystiel, the most 
 eastern summit of the Caulder Hills. Bernard Huddle- 
 stone, although God knows what were his obsequies, 
 had a fine pyre at the moment of his death. 
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 TELLS HOW NORTHMOUR CARRIED OUT HIS THREAT 
 
 I SHOULD have the greatest difficulty to tell you 
 what followed next after this tragic circumstance. It is 
 all to me, as I look back upon it, mixed, strenuous, 
 and ineffectual, like the struggles of a sleeper in a 
 nightmare. Clara, I remember, uttered a broken sigh 
 and would have fallen forward to earth, had not Horth- 
 mour and I supported her insensible body. I do not 
 think we were attacked; I do not remember even to 
 have seen an assailant ; and I believe we deserted Mr. 
 Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember run- 
 ning like a man in a panic, now carrying Clara alto- 
 gether in my own arms, now sharing her weight with 
 Northmour, now scuffling confusedly for the possession 
 of that dear burden. Why we should have made for 
 my camp in the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it, 
 
J'fevu /irabiaij 
 
 273 
 
 are points lost forever to my recollection. The first 
 moment at which I became definitely sure, Clara had 
 been suffered to fall against the outside of my little 
 tent, Northmour and I were tumbling together on the 
 ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was striking 
 for my head with the butt of his revolver. He had al- 
 ready twice wounded me on the scalp; and it is to the 
 consequent loss of blood that I am tempted to attribute 
 the sudden clearness of my mind. 
 
 I caught him by the wrist. 
 
 “Horthmour,” I renuember saying, “you can kill me 
 afterward. Let us first attend to Clara.” 
 
 He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had 
 the words passed my lips, when he had leaped to his 
 feet and ran toward the tent; and the next moment, 
 he was straining Clara to his heart and covering her 
 unconscious hands and face with his caresses. 
 
 “Shame!” I cried. “Shame to you, Horthmour!” 
 And, giddy though I still was, I struck him re- 
 peatedly upon the head and shoulders. 
 
 He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the 
 broken moonlight. 
 
 “I had you under, and I let you go,” said he; 
 ■‘and now you strike me! Coward!” 
 
 “You are the coward,” I retorted. “Did she wish 
 your kisses while she was still sensible of what she 
 wanted? Hot she! And now she may be dying; and 
 you waste this precious time, and abuse her helpless- 
 ness. Stand aside, and let me help her.” 
 
 He confronted me for a moment, white and menac"” 
 ing; then suddenly he stepped aside. 
 
 “Help her then,” said he. 
 
274 
 
 U/orl^5 of Robert Coui5 Steuei)5op 
 
 I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, 
 as well as I was able, her dress and corset; but while 
 I was thus engaged, a grasp descended on my shoulder. 
 
 “Keep your hands off her,” said Northmour fiercely. 
 “Do you think I have no blood in my veins?” 
 
 “Northmour,” I cried, “if you will neither help her 
 yourself, nor let me do so, do you know that I shall 
 have to kill you?” 
 
 “That is better!” he cried. “Let her die also, 
 where’s the harm? Step aside from that girl! and 
 stand up to fight.” 
 
 “You will observe,” said I, half rising, “that I 
 have not kissed her yet.” 
 
 “I dare you to,” he cried. 
 
 I do not know what possessed me; it was one of 
 the things I am most ashamed of in my life, though, 
 as my wife used to say, I knew that my kisses would 
 be always welcome were she dead or living; down I 
 fell again upon my knees, parted the hair from her 
 forehead, and, with the dearest respect, laid my lips for 
 a moment on that cold brow. It was such a caress as 
 a father might have given; it was such a one as was 
 not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a woman 
 already dead. 
 
 “And now,” said I, “I am at your service, Mr. 
 Northmour.” * 
 
 But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his 
 back upon me. 
 
 “Do you hear?” I asked. c 
 
 “Yes,” said he, “I do. If you wish to fight, I am 
 ready. If not, go on and save Clara. All is one to 
 
 me. 
 
flew /lrabiai7 
 
 275 
 
 I did not wait to be twice bidden; but, stooping 
 again over Clara, continued my efforts to revive her. 
 She still lay white and lifeless; I began to fear that 
 her sweet spirit had indeed fled beyond recall, and 
 horror and a sense of utter desolation seized upon my 
 heart. I called her by name with the most endearing 
 inflections; I chafed and beat her hands; and now I 
 laid her head low, now supported it against my knee; 
 but all seemed to be in vain, and the lids still lay 
 heavy on her eyes. 
 
 “Northmour,” I said, “there is my hat. For God’s 
 sake bring some water from the spring.” 
 
 Almost in a moment he was by my side with the 
 water. 
 
 “I have brought it in my own,” he said. “You do 
 not grudge me the privilege?” 
 
 “Northmour,” I was beginning to say, as I laved 
 her head and breast; but he interrupted me savagely. 
 
 “Oh, you hush up!” he said. “The best thing you 
 can do is to say nothing.” 
 
 I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being 
 swallowed up in concern for my dear love and her con- 
 dition; so I continued in silence to do my best toward 
 her recovery, and, when the hat was empty, returned 
 it to him, with one word — “More.” He had, perhaps, 
 gone several times upon this errand, when Clara re 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 “Now,” said he, “since she is better, you can spare 
 me, can you not? I wish you a good-night, Mr. Cas- 
 silis.” 
 
 And with that he was gone among the thicket. I 
 made a Are, for I had now no fear of the Italians, 
 
276 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 who had even spared all the little possessions left in 
 my encampment; and, broken as she was by the ex- 
 citement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening, I 
 managed, in one way or another — by persuasion, en- 
 couragement, warmth, and such simple remedies as I 
 could lay my hand on — to bring her back to some com- 
 posure of mind and strength of body. 
 
 Day had already come, when a sharp “Hist!” sounded 
 from the thicket. I started from the ground; but the 
 voice of ITorthmour was heard adding, in the most 
 tranquil tones: “Como here, Cassilis, and alone; I want 
 to show you something.” 
 
 I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her 
 tacit permission, left her alone, and clambered out of 
 the den. At some distance off I saw Northmour lean- 
 ing against an elder; and, as soon as he perceived 
 me, he began walking seaward. I had almost over- 
 taken him as he reached the outskirts of the wood. 
 
 “Look,” said he, pausing. 
 
 A couple of steps more brought me out of the foli- 
 age. The light of the morning lay cold and clear over 
 that well-known scene. The pavilion was but a black- 
 ened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one of the gables 
 had fallen out ; and, far and near, the face of the 
 links w^s cicatrized with little patches of burned furze. 
 Thick smoke still went straight upward in the windless 
 air of the morning, and a great pile of ardent cinders 
 filled the bare walls of the house, like coals in an open 
 grate. Close by the islet a schooner yacht lay-to, and 
 a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for the shore. 
 
 “The ‘Red Earl!’ ” I cried. “The ‘Red Earl’ twelve 
 hours too late!” 
 
I'feur /irabiap 277 
 
 “Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?” 
 
 asked Northmour. 
 
 I obeyed him, and I think I must have become 
 
 deadly pale. My revolver had been taken from me. 
 
 “You see I have you in my power,” he continued. 
 
 “I disarmed you last night while you were nursing 
 
 Clara; but this morning — here — take your pistol. No 
 thanks!” he cried, holding up his hand. “I do not 
 like them; that is the only way you can annoy me 
 now. ’ ’ 
 
 He began to walk forward across the links to meet 
 the boat, and I followed a step or two behind. In 
 front of the pavilion I paused to see where Mr. Huddle- 
 stone had fallen; but there was no sign of him, nor so 
 much as a trace of blood. 
 
 “Graden Floe,” said Northmour. 
 
 He continued to advance till we had come to the 
 head of the beach. 
 
 “No further, please,” said he. “Would you like to 
 take her to Graden House?” 
 
 “Thank you,” replied I; “I shall try to get her to 
 the minister’s at Graden Wester.” 
 
 The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and 
 a sailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand. 
 
 “Wait a minute, lads!” cried Northmour; and then 
 lower and to my private ear: “You had better say 
 nothing of all this to her,” he added. 
 
 “On the contrary!” I broke out, “she shall know 
 everything that I can tell.” 
 
 “You do not understand,” he returned, with an air 
 of great dignity. “It will be nothing to her; she expects 
 
 it of me. Good-by!” he added, with a nod. 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I — 18 
 
278 U/or ^5 of Hol^erfc Coui^ Steuepjoi? 
 
 ( 
 
 ! I offered him my hand. 
 
 “Excuse me,” said he. “It’s small, I know; but I 
 can’t push things quite so far as that. I don’t wish 
 any sentimental business, to sit by your hearth a white- 
 haired wanderer, and all that. Quite the contrary: I 
 hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either 
 one of you.” 
 
 “Well, God bless you, Northmour!” I said heartily. 
 
 “Oh, yes,” he returned. 
 
 He walked down the beach; and the man who was 
 ashore gave him an arm on board, and then shoved 
 off and leaped into the bows himself. Horthmour took 
 the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oarL 
 between the thole-pins sounded crisp and measured in 
 the morning air. 
 
 They were not yet halfway to the “Red Earl,” and 
 I was still watching their progress, when the sun rose 
 out of the sea. 
 
 One word more, and my story is done. Years after, 
 Northmour was killed fighting under the colors of Gari- 
 baldi for the liberation of the Tyrol. 
 
fleu; /irabiap 
 
 m 
 
 A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 
 
 A STORY OF FRANCIS VILLON 
 
 • ^ 9 m • 
 
 It was late in November 1456. The snow fell over 
 Paris with rigorous, relentless persistence; sometimes the 
 wind made a sally and scattered it in flying vortices; 
 sometimes there was a lull, and flake after flake de- 
 scended out of the black night air, silent, circuitous, in- 
 terminable. To poor people, looking up under moist 
 eyebrows, it seemed a wonder where it all came from. 
 Master Francis Villon had propounded an alternative 
 that afternoon, at a tavern window: was it only Pagan 
 Jupiter plucking geese upon Olympus? or were the 
 holy angels moulting? He was only a poor Master of 
 Arts, he went on; and as the question somewhat touched 
 upon divinity, he durst not venture to conclude. A silly 
 old priest from Montargis, who was among the com- 
 pany, treated the young rascal to a bottle of wine in 
 honor of the jest and the grimaces with which it was 
 accompanied, and swore on his own white beard that 
 he had been just such another irreverent dog when he 
 was Villon’s age. 
 
 The air was raw and pointed, but not far below 
 freezing ; and the flakes were large, damp, and adhe- 
 sive. The whole city was sheeted up. -An army might 
 
280 U/orK5 of l^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 have marched from end to end and not a footfall given 
 the alarm. If there were any belated birds in heaven, 
 they saw the island like a large white patch, and the 
 bridges like slim white spars, on the black ground of 
 the river. High up overhead the snow settled among 
 the tracery of the cathedral towers. Many a niche was 
 drifted full ; many a statue wore a long white bonnet 
 on its grotesque or sainted head. The gargoyles had 
 been transformed into great false noses, drooping toward 
 the point. The crockets were like upright pillows 
 swollen on one side. In the intervals of the wind, 
 there was a dull sound of dripping about the precincts 
 of the church. 
 
 The cemetery of St. John had taken its own share 
 of the snow. All the graves were decently covered; 
 tall white housetops stood around in brave array; 
 worthy burghers were long ago in bed, benightcapped 
 like their domiciles; there was no light in all the 
 neighborhood but a little peep from a lamp that hung 
 swinging in the church choir, and tossed the shadows to 
 and fro in time to its oscillations. The clock was hard 
 on ten when the patrol went by with halberds and a 
 lantern, beating their hands ; and they saw nothing 
 suspicious about the cemetery of St. John. 
 
 Yet there was a small house, backed up against 
 the cemetery wall, which was still awake, and awake 
 to evil purpose, in that snoring district. There was 
 not much to betray it from without; only a stream of 
 warm vapor from the chimney-top, a patch where the 
 snow melted on the roof, and a few half-obliterated foot- 
 prints at the door. But within, behind the shuttered 
 windows, Master Francis ViUon the poet, and some of 
 
f/eu; /Irabiap 
 
 281 
 
 the thievish crew with whom he consorted, were keep- 
 ing the night alive and passing round the bottle. 
 
 A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and 
 ruddy glow from the arched chimney. Before this 
 straddled Dom Nicolas, the Picardy monk, with his 
 skirts picked up and his fat legs bared to the comfort- 
 able warmth. His dilated shadow cut the room in half; 
 and the firelight only escaped on either side of his 
 broad person, and in a little pool between his outspread 
 feet. His face had the beery, bruised appearance of 
 the continual drinker’s; it was covered with a network 
 of congested veins, purple in ordinary circumstances, but 
 now pale violet, for even with his back to the fire the 
 cold pinched him on the other side. His cowl had half 
 fallen back, and made a strange excrescence on either 
 side of his bull neck. So he straddled, grumbling, and 
 cut the room in half with the shadow of his portly 
 frame. 
 
 On the right, Yillon and Guy Tabary were huddled 
 together over a scrap of parchment; Villon making a 
 ballade which he was to call the “Ballade of Roast 
 Fish,” and Tabary spluttering admiration at his shoulder. 
 The poet was a rag of a man, dark, little, and lean, 
 with hollow cheeks and thin black locks. He carried 
 his four-and-twenty years with feverish animation. Greed 
 had made folds about his eyes, evil smiles had puckered 
 his mouth. The wolf and pig struggled together in his 
 face. It was an eloquent, sharp, ugly, earthly coun- 
 tenance. His hands were small and prehensile, with 
 fingers knotted like a cord; and they were continually 
 flickering in front of him in violent and expressive pan- 
 tomime. As for Tabary, a broad, complacent, admiring 
 
282 U/orK$ of P^oberfc C0U15 Steuei?5oi> 
 
 imbecility breathed from his squash nose and slobbering 
 lips: he had become a thief, just as he might have 
 become the most decent of burgesses, by the imperious 
 chance that rules the lives of human geese and human 
 donkeys. 
 
 At the monk’s other hand, Montigny and Thevenin 
 Pensete played a game of chance. About the first there 
 clung some flavor of good birth and training, as about 
 a fallen angel ; something long, lithe, and courtly in 
 the person; something aquiline and darkling in the face. 
 Thevenin, poor soul, was in great feather: he had done 
 a good stroke of knavery that afternoon in the Fau- 
 bourg St. Jacques, and all night he had been gaining 
 from Montigny. A flat smile illuminated his face; his 
 bald head shone rosily in a garland of red curls; his 
 little protuberant stomach shook with silent chucklings 
 as he swept in his gains. 
 
 “Doubles or quits?” said Thevenin. 
 
 Montigny nodded grimly. 
 
 “Some may prefer to dine in state wrote Villon, 
 “On. bread and cheese on silver plate. Or — or — help 
 me out, Guido!” 
 
 Tabary giggled. 
 
 “Or parsley on a golden dish,” scribbled the poet. 
 
 The wind was freshening without; it drove the snow 
 before it, and sometimes raised its voioe in a victorious 
 whoop, and made sepulchral grumblings in the chim- 
 ney. The cold was growing sharper as the night went 
 on. Villon, protruding his lips, imitated the gust with 
 something between a whistle and a groan. It was* an 
 eerie, uncomfortable talent of the poet’s, much detested 
 by the Picardy monk. 
 
fievu /irabiaij 
 
 283 
 
 “Can’t you hear it rattle in the gibbet?” said Villon. 
 “They are all dancing the devil’s jig on nothing, up 
 there. You may dance, my gallants, you’ll be none 
 the warmer! Whew! what a gust! Down went some- 
 body just now! A medlar the fewer on the three-legged 
 medlar-tree !— I say, Dom Mcolas, it’ll be cold to-night 
 on the St. Denis Road?” he asked. 
 
 Dom Nicolas winked both his big eyes, and seemed 
 to choke upon his Adam’s apple. Montfaucon, the great 
 grisly Paris gibbet, stood hard by the St. Denis Road, 
 and the pleasantry touched him on the raw. As for 
 Tabary, he laughed immoderately over the medlars; he 
 had never heard anything more light-hearted; and he 
 held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched him a fillip 
 on the nose, which turned his mirth into an attack 
 of coughing. 
 
 “Oh, stop that row,” said Villon, “and think of 
 rhymes to ‘fish.’ ” 
 
 “Doubles or quits,” said Montigny doggedly. 
 
 “With all my heart,” quoth Thevenin. 
 
 “Is there any more in that bottle?” asked the monk. 
 
 “Open another,” said Villon. “How do you ever 
 hope to fill that big hogshead, your body, with little 
 things like bottles? And how do you expect to get to 
 heaven? How many angels, do you fancy, can be spared 
 to carry up a single monk from Picardy? Or do you 
 think yourself another Elias — and they’ll send the coach 
 for you?” 
 
 ^‘Hominihus impossibile,’^ replied the monk, as he 
 filled his glass. 
 
 Tabary was in ecstasies. 
 
 Villon filliped his nose again. 
 
284 U/orl^5 of Couis Steuei)5op 
 
 “Laugh at my jokes if you like,” he said. 
 
 “It was very good,” objected Tabary. 
 
 Villon made a face at him. “Think of rhymes to 
 ‘fish,’ ” he said. “What have you to do with Latin? 
 You’ll wish you knew none of it at the great assizes, 
 when the devil calls for Guido Tabary, clericus — the 
 devil with the hump-back and red-hot finger-nails. Talk- 
 ing of the devil,” he added in a whisper, “look at 
 Montigny!” 
 
 All three peered covertly at the gamester. He did 
 not seem to be enjoying his luck. His mouth was a 
 little to a side; one nostril nearly shut and the other 
 much inflated. The black dog was on his back as peo- 
 ple say, in terrifying nursery metaphor; and he breathed 
 hard under the grewsome burden. 
 
 “He looks as if he could knife him,” whispered 
 Tabary, with round eyes. 
 
 The monk shuddered, and turned his face and spread 
 his open hands to the red embers. It was the cold 
 that thus affected Dom Nicolas, and not any excess of 
 moral sensibility. 
 
 “Come now,” said Villon — “about this ballade. How 
 does it run so far?” And beating time with his hand, 
 he read it aloud to Tabary. 
 
 They were interrupted at the fourth rhyme by a 
 brief and fatal movement among the gamesters. The 
 round was completed, and Thevenin was just opening 
 his mouth to claim another victory, when Montigny 
 leaped up, swift as an adder, and stabbed him to the 
 heart. The blow took effect before he had time to utter 
 a cry, before he had time to move. A tremor or two 
 convulsed his frame ; his hands opened and shut, his 
 
fifeu; /irabiarj 
 
 285 
 
 heels rattled on the floor; then his head rolled back- 
 ward over one shoulder with the eyes wide open; and 
 Thevenin Pensete’s spirit had returned to Him who 
 made it. 
 
 Every one sprang to his feet; but the business was 
 over in two twos. The four living fellows looked at 
 each other in rather a ghastly fashion; the dead man 
 contemplating a corner of the roof with a singular and 
 ugly leer. 
 
 “My God!” said Tabary; and he began to pray in 
 Latin. 
 
 Villon broke out into hysterical laughter. He came a 
 step forward and ducked a ridiculous bow at Thevenin, 
 and laughed still louder. Then he sat down suddenly, 
 all of a heap, upon a stool, and continued laughing 
 bitterly as though he would shake himself- to pieces. 
 
 Montigny recovered his composure first. 
 
 “Let’s see what he has about him,” he remarked; 
 and he picked the dead man’s pockets with a practiced 
 hand, and divided the money into four equal portions on 
 the table. “There’s for you,” he said. 
 
 The monk received his share with a deep sigh, and 
 a single stealthy glance at the dead Thevenin, who was 
 beginning to sink into himself and topple sidewise ofl. 
 the chair. 
 
 “We’re all in %>r it,” cried Villon, swallowing his 
 mirth. “It’s a hanging job for every man jack of us 
 that’s here — not to speak of those who aren’t.” He 
 made a shocking gesture in the air with his raised 
 right hand, and put out his tongue and threw his head 
 on one side, so as to counterfeit the appearance of one 
 who has been hanged. Then he pocketed his share of 
 
386 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 the spoil and executed a shuffle with his feet as if to 
 restore the circulation. 
 
 Tabary was the last to help himself ; he made a 
 dash at the money, and retired to the other end of the 
 apartment. 
 
 Montigny stuck Thevenin upright in the chair, and 
 drew out the dagger, which was followed by a jet of 
 blood. 
 
 “You fellows had better be moving,” he said, as he 
 wiped the blade on his victim’s doublet. 
 
 “I think we had,” returned Villon with a gulp. 
 “Damn his fat head!” he broke out. “It sticks in my 
 throat like phlegm. What right has a man to have 
 red hair when he is dead?” And he fell all of a heap 
 again upon the stool, and fairly covered his face with 
 his hands. 
 
 Montigny and Dom Nicolas laughed aloud, even 
 Tabary feebly chiming in. 
 
 “Cry baby,” said the monk. 
 
 “I always said he was a woman,” added Montigny 
 with a sneer. “Sit up, can’t you?” he went on, giv- 
 ing another shake to the murdered body. “Tread out 
 that fire, Nick!” 
 
 But Nick was better employed; he was quietly tak- 
 ing Villon’s purse, as the poet sat, limp and trembling, 
 on the stool where he had been making a ballade not 
 three minutes before. Montigny and Tabary dumbly de- 
 manded a share of the booty, which the monk silently 
 promised as he passed the little bag into the bosom of 
 his gown. In many ways an artistic nature unfits a 
 man for practical existence. 
 
 No sooner had the theft been accomplished than 
 
fleu; /irabiap 
 
 287 
 
 Villon shook himself, jumped to his feet, and began 
 helping to scatter and extinguish the embers. Mean- 
 while Montigny opened the door and cautiously peered 
 into the street. The coast was clear; there was no 
 meddlesome patrol in sight. Still it was judged wiser 
 to slip out severally; and as Villon was himself in 
 a hurry to escape from the neighborhood of the dead 
 Thevenin, and the rest were in a still greater hurry to 
 get rid of him before he should discover the loss of 
 his money, he was the first by general consent to issue 
 forth into the street. 
 
 The wind had triumphed and swept all the clouds 
 from heaven. Only a few vapors, as thin as moonlight, 
 fleeted rapidly across the stars. It was bitter cold; and 
 by a common optical effect, things seemed almost more 
 definite than in the broadest daylight. The sleeping 
 city was absolutely still; a company of white hoods, a 
 field full of little Alps, below the twinkling stars. Vil- 
 lon cursed his fortune. Would it were still snowing! 
 Now, wherever he went, he left an indelible trail behind 
 him on the glittering streets; wherever he went he was 
 still tethered to the house by the cemetery of St. John; 
 wherever he went he must weave, with his own plod- 
 ding feet, the rope that bound him to the crime and 
 would bind him to the gallows. The leer of the dead 
 man came back to him with a new significance. He 
 snapped his fingers as if to pluck up his own spirits, 
 and choosing a street at random, stepped boldly forward 
 in the snow. 
 
 Two things preoccupied him as he went; the aspect 
 of the gallows at Montfaucon in this bright windy 
 phase of the night’s existence, for one; and for another, 
 
288 U/orl^s of I^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 the look of the dead man with his bald head and gar- 
 land of red curls. Both struck cold upon his heart, and 
 he kept quickening his pace as if he could escape from 
 unpleasant thoughts by mere fleetness of foot. Some- 
 times he looked back over his shoulder with a sudden 
 nervous jerk; but he was the only moving thing in the 
 white streets, except when the wind swooped round a 
 corner and threw up the snow, which was beginning to 
 freeze, in spouts of glittering dust. 
 
 Suddenly he saw, a long way before him, a black 
 clump and a couple of lanterns. The clump was in 
 motion, and the lanterns swung as though carried by 
 men walking. It was a patrol. And though it was 
 merely crossing his line of march, he judged it wiser 
 to get out of eyeshot as speedily as he could. He was 
 not in the humor to be challenged, and he was con- 
 scious of making a very conspicuous mark upon the 
 snow. Just on his left hand there stood a great hotel, 
 with some turrets and a large porch before the door; it 
 was half-ruinous, he remembered, and had long stood 
 empty; and so he made three steps of it and jumped 
 into the shelter of the porch. It was pretty dark inside, 
 after the glimmer of the snowy streets, and he was 
 groping forward with outspread hands, when he stumbled 
 over some substance which offered an indescribable mixt- 
 ure of resistances, hard and soft. Arm and loose. His 
 heart gave a leap, and he sprang two steps back and 
 stared dreadfully at the obstacle. Then he gave a lit- 
 tle laugh of relief. It was only a woman, and she 
 dead. He knelt beside her to make sure upon this lat- 
 ter point. She was freezing cold, and rigid like a stick. 
 A little ragged finery fluttered in the wind about her 
 
fleu; /Irabiaij 
 
 289 
 
 hair, and her cheeks had been heavily rouged that same 
 afternoon. Her pockets were quite empty ; but in her 
 stocking, underneath the garter, Villon found two of 
 the small coins that went by the name of whites. It 
 was little enough? but it was always something; and 
 the poet was moved with a deep sense of pathos that 
 she should have died before she had spent her money. 
 That seemed to him a dark and pitiable mystery; and 
 he looked from the coins in his hand to the dead wo- 
 man, and back again to the coins, shaking his head 
 over the riddle of man’s life. Henry V. of England, 
 dying at Vincennes just after he had conquered France, 
 and this poor jade cut off by a cold draught in a 
 great man’s doorway, before she had time to spend 
 her couple of whites — ^it seemed a cruel way to carry 
 on the world. Two whites would have taken such a 
 little while to squander; and yet it would have been 
 one more good taste in the mouth, one more smack of 
 the lips, before the devil got the soul, and the body 
 was left to birds and vermin. He would like to use 
 all his tallow before the light was blown out and the 
 lantern broken. 
 
 While these thoughts were passing through his mind, 
 he was feeling, half mechanically, for his purse. Sud- 
 denly his heart stopped beating; a feeling of cold scales 
 passed up the back of his legs, and a cold blow seemed 
 to fall upon his scalp. He stood petrified for a mo- 
 ment; then he felt again with one feverish movement; 
 and then his loss burst upon him, and he was covered 
 
 i 
 
 at once with perspiration. To spendthrifts money is so 
 living and actual — it is such a thin veil between them 
 and their pleasures! There is only one limit to their 
 
290 U/orl^5 of I^obert C 0 U 15 Steueijsop 
 
 fortune — that of time ; and a spendthrift with only a 
 few crowns is the Emperor of Rome until they are 
 spent. For such a person to lose his money is to 
 suffer the most shocking reverse, and fall from heaven 
 to hell, from all to nothing, in a breath. And all the 
 more if he has put his head in the halter for it; if he 
 may be hanged to-morrow for that same purse, so 
 dearly earned, so foolishly departed ! 
 
 Villon stood and cursed; he threw the two whites 
 into the street; he shook his fist at heaven; he stamped, 
 and was not horrified to find himself trampling the poor 
 corpse. Then he began rapidly to retrace his steps to- 
 ward the house beside the cemetery. He had forgotten 
 all fear of the patrol, which was long gone by at any 
 rate, and had no idea but that of his lost purse. It 
 was in vain that he looked right and left upon the 
 snow: nothing was to be seen. He had not dropped it 
 in the streets. Had it fallen in the house? He would 
 have liked dearly to go in and see; but the idea of 
 the grisly occupant unmanned him. And he saw be- 
 sides, as he drew near, that their efforts to put out 
 the fire had been unsuccessful; on the contrary, it had 
 broken into a blaze, and a changeful light played in 
 the chinks of door and window, and revived his terror 
 for the authorities and Paris gibbet. ^ 
 
 He returned to the hotel with the porch, and groped 
 about upon the snow for the money he had thrown 
 away in his childish passion. But he could only find 
 one white; the other had probably struck sidewise and 
 sunk deeply in. With a single white in his pocket, all 
 his projects for a rousing night in some wild tavern 
 vanished utterly away. And it was not only pleasure 
 
fileu; /Irabiaij 
 
 291 
 
 that fled laughing from his grasp; positive discomfort, 
 positive pain, attacked him as he stood ruefully before 
 the porch. His perspiration had dried upon him; and 
 though the wind had now fallen, a binding frost was 
 setting in stronger with every hour, and he felt be- 
 numbed and sick at heart. What was to be done? 
 Late as was the hour, improbable as was success, he 
 would try the house of his adopted father, the chaplain 
 of St. Benoit. 
 
 He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. 
 There was no answer. He knocked again and again, 
 taking heart with every stroke; and at last steps were 
 heard approaching from within. A barred wicket fell 
 open in the iron-studded door, and emitted a gush of 
 yellow light. 
 
 “Hold up your face to the wicket,” said the chaplain 
 from within. 
 
 “It’s only me,” whimpered "Villon. 
 
 “Oh, it’s only you, is it?” returned the chaplain; 
 and he cursed him with foul unpriestly oaths for dis- 
 turbing him at such an hour, and bade him be off to 
 hell, where he came from. 
 
 “My hands are blue to the wrist,” pleaded Villon; 
 “my feet are dead and full of twinges; my nose aches 
 with the sharp air; the cold lies at my heart. I may 
 be dead before morning. Only this once, father, and 
 before God I will never ask again!” 
 
 f 
 
 “You should have come earlier,” said the ecclesiastic 
 coolly. “Young men require a lesson now and then.’^ 
 He shut the wicket and retired deliberately into the in- 
 terior of the house. 
 
 Villon was beside himself; he beat upon the door 
 
292 U/or^8 of F^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 with his hands and feet, and shouted hoarsely after the 
 chaplain. 
 
 “Wormy old fox!” he cried. “If I had my hand 
 under your twist, I would send you flying headlong 
 into the bottomless pit.” 
 
 A door shut in the interior, faintly audible to the 
 poet down long passages. He passed his hand over his 
 mouth with an oath. And then the humor of the situa- 
 tion struck him, and he laughed and looked lightly up 
 to heaven, where the stars seemed to be winking over 
 his discomfiture. 
 
 What was to be done? It looked very like a night 
 in the frosty streets. The idea of the dead woman 
 popped into his imagination, and gave him a hearty 
 fright; what had happened to her in the early night 
 might very well happen to him before morning. And 
 he so young! and with such immense possibilities of 
 disorderly amusement ' before him! He felt quite pa- 
 thetic over the notion of his own fate, as if it had 
 been some one else’s, and made a little imaginative 
 vignette of the scene in the morning when they should 
 find his body. 
 
 He passed all his chances under review, turning the 
 white between his thumb and forefinger. Unfortunately 
 he was on bad terms with some old friends who would 
 once have taken pity on him in such a plight. He had 
 lampooned them in verses, he had beaten and cheated 
 them; and yet now, when he was in so close a pinch, 
 he thought there was at least one who might perhaps 
 relent. It was a chance. It was worth trying at least, 
 and he would go and see. 
 
 On the way, two little accidents happened to bini 
 
ffeu; /Irabiaij 
 
 293 
 
 which colored his musings in a very different manner. 
 For, first, he fell in with the track of a patrol, and 
 walked in it for some hundred yards, although it lay 
 out of his direction. And this spirited him up; at least 
 he had confused his trail; for he was still possessed 
 with the idea of people tracking him all about Paris 
 over the snow, and collaring him next morning before 
 he was awake. The other matter affected him very dif- 
 ferently. He passed a street corner, where, not so long 
 before, a woman and her child had been devoured by 
 wolves. This was just the kind of weather, he reflected, 
 when wolves might take it into their heads to enter 
 Paris again; and a lone man in these deserted streets 
 would run the chance of something worse than a mere 
 scare. He stopped and looked upon the place with an 
 unpleasant interest — it was a center where several lanes 
 intersected each other; and he looked down them all, 
 one after another, and held his breath to listen, lest 
 he should detect some galloping black things on the 
 snow or hear the sound of howling between him and 
 the river. He remembered his mother telling him the 
 story and pointing out the spot, while he was yet a 
 child. His mother! If he only knew where ahe lived, 
 he might make sure at least of shelter. He determined 
 he would inquire upon the morrow; nay, he would go 
 and see her too, poor old girl! So thinking, he arrived 
 at his destination — his last hope for the night. 
 
 The house was quite dark, like its neighbors; and 
 
 yet, after a few taps, he heard a movement overhead, 
 
 a door opening, and a cautious voice asking who was 
 
 there. The poet named himself in a loud whisper, and 
 
 waited, not without some trepidation, the result. Nor 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 19 
 
394 U/orKs of I^obert C0U15 Steueijjoij 
 
 had he to wait long. A window was suddenly opened, 
 and a pailful of slops splashed down upon the doorstep. 
 Villon had not been unprepared for something of the 
 sort, and had put himself as much in shelter as the 
 nature of the porch admitted; but for all that, he was 
 deplorably drenched below the waist. His hose began 
 to freeze almost at once. , Death from cold and expos- 
 ure stared him in the face; he remembered he was of 
 phthisical tendency, and began coughing tentatively. But 
 the gravity of the danger steadied his nerves. He stopped 
 a few hundred yatds from the door where he had been 
 so rudely used, and reflected with his Anger to his 
 nose. He could only see one way of getting a lodging, 
 and that was to take it. He had noticed a house not 
 far away, which looked as if it might be easily broken 
 into, .and thither he betook himself promptly, entertaining 
 himself on the way with the idea of a room still hot, with 
 ' a table still loaded with the remains of supper, where he 
 might pass the rest of the black hours, and whence he 
 should issue, on the morrow, with an armful of valuable 
 plate. He even considered on what viands and what 
 wines he should prefer; and as he was calling the roll 
 of his favorite dainties, roast fish presented itself to his 
 mind with an odd mixture of amusement and horror. 
 
 “I shall never finish that ballade,” he thought to 
 himself; and then, with another shudder at the recol- 
 lection, “Oh, damn his fat head!” he repeated fer- 
 vently, and spat upon the snow. 
 
 The house in question looked dark at first sight; but 
 as Villon made a preliminary inspection in search of 
 the handiest point of attack, a little twinkle of light 
 caught his eye from behind a curtained window. 
 
 “The devil!” he thought. “People awake! Some 
 student or some saint, confound the crew! Can’t they 
 get drunk and lie in bed snoring like their neighbors! 
 What’s the good of curfew, and poor devils of bell- 
 ringers jumping at a rope’s end in bell-towers? What’s 
 
r^eu; /Irabiap 
 
 295 
 
 the use of day, if people sit up all night? The gripes to 
 them!” He grinned as he saw where his logic was lead- 
 ing him. “Every man to his business, after all,” added 
 he, “and if they’re awake, by the Lord, I may come by 
 a supper honestly for this once, and cheat the devil.” 
 
 He went boldly to the door and knocked with an as- 
 sured hand. On both previous occasions, he had knocked 
 timidly and with some dread of attracting notice ; but 
 now when he had just discarded the thought of a 
 burglarious entry, knocking at a door seemed a mighty 
 simple and innocent proceeding. The sound of his blows 
 echoed through the house with thin, phantasmal rever- 
 berations, as though it were quite empty; but these 
 had scarcely died away before a measured tread drew 
 near, a couple of bolts were withdrawn, and one wing 
 was opened broadly, as though no guile or fear of 
 guile were known to those within. A tall figure of a 
 man, muscular and spare, but a little bent, confronted 
 Villon. The head was massive in bulk, but finely 
 sculptured; the nose blunt at the bottom, but refining 
 upward to where it joined a pair of strong and honest 
 eyebrows; the mouth and eyes surrounded with delicate 
 markings, and the whole face based upon a thick white 
 beard, boldly and squarely trimmed. Seen as it was 
 by the light of a dickering hand- lamp, it looked per- 
 haps nobler than it had a right to do; but it was a 
 fine face, honorable rather than intelligent, strong, sim- 
 ple, and righteous. 
 
 “You knock late, sir,” said the old man in reso- 
 nant, courteous tones. 
 
 Villon cringed, and brought up many servile words 
 of apology; at a crisis of this sort, the beggar was up- 
 permost in him, and the man of genius hid his head 
 with confusion. 
 
 “You are cold,” repeated the old man, “and hun- 
 gry? Well, step in.” And he ordered him into the 
 house with a noble enough gesture. 
 
296 U/orl^j of F^obert Couij Steueijsoi? 
 
 “Some great seigneur,” thought Villon, as his host, 
 setting down the lamp on the flagged pavement of th« 
 entry, shot the bolts once more into their places. 
 
 “You will pardon me if I go in front,” he said, 
 when this was done; and he preceded the poet upstairs 
 into a large apartment, warmed with a pan of char- 
 coal and hghted by a great lamp hanging from the 
 roof. It was very bare of furniture: only some gold 
 plate on a sideboard; some folios; and a stand of 
 armor between the windows. Some smart tapestry hung 
 upon the walls, representing the crucifixion of our Lord 
 in one piece, and in another a scene of shepherds and 
 shepherdesses by a running stream. Over the chimney 
 was a shield of arms. 
 
 “Will 3^ou seat yourself,” said the old man, “and 
 forgive me if I leave you? I am alone in my house 
 to-night, and if you are to eat I must forage for you 
 myself.” 
 
 No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped 
 from the chair on which he had just seated himself, 
 and began examining the room, with the stealth and 
 passion of a cat. He weighed the gold flagons in his 
 hand, opened all the folios, and investigated the arms 
 upon the shield, and the stuff with which the seats 
 were lined. He raised the window curtains, and saw 
 that the windows were set with rich stained glass in 
 figures, so far as he could see, of martial import. Then 
 he stood in the middle of the room, drew a long breath, 
 and retaining it with puffed cheeks, looked round and 
 round him, turning on his heels, as if to impress every 
 feature of the apartment on his memory. 
 
 “Seven pieces of plate,” he said. “If there had 
 been ten, I would have risked it. A fine house, and a 
 fine old master, so help me all the saints!” 
 
 And just then, hearing the old man’s tread returning 
 along the corridor, he stole back to his chair, and began 
 humbly toasting his wet legs before the charcoal pan. 
 
I'feu; /irabiaij 
 
 297 
 
 His entertainer had a plate of meat in one hand 
 and a jug of wine in the other. He set down the plate 
 upon the table, motioning Villon to draw in his chair, 
 and going to the sideboard, brought back two goblets, 
 which he filled. 
 
 “I drink to your better fortune,” he said, gravely 
 touching Villon’s cup with his own. 
 
 “To our better acquaintance,” said the poet, growing 
 bold. A mere man of the people would have been awed 
 by the courtesy of the old seigneur, but Villon was 
 hardened in that matter; he had made mirth for great 
 lords before now, and found them as black rascals as 
 himself. And so he devoted himself to the viands with 
 a ravenous gusto, while the old man, leaning backward, 
 watched him with steady, curious eyes. 
 
 “You have blood on your shoulder, my man,” he said. 
 
 Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon 
 him as he left the house. He cursed Montigny in his 
 heart. 
 
 “It was none of my shedding,” he stammered. 
 
 “I had not supposed so,” returned his host quietly. 
 “A brawl?” 
 
 “Well, something of that sort,” Villon admitted with 
 a quaver. 
 
 “Perhaps a fellow murdered?” 
 
 “Oh, no, not murdered,” said the poet, more and 
 more confused. “It was all fair play — murdered by 
 
 accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me dead!” 
 he added fervently. 
 
 “One rogue the fewer, I dare say,” observed the 
 master of the house. 
 
 “You may dare to say that,” agreed Villon, infinitely 
 relieved. “As big a rogue as there is between here and 
 Jerusalem. He turned up his toes like a lamb. But 
 
 it was a nasty thing to look at. I dare say you’ve 
 
 seen dead men in your time, my lord?” he added^ 
 
 glancing at the armor. 
 
298 U/orKs of Couis Steuepjoij 
 
 “Many,” said the old man. “I have followed the 
 wars, as you ima^ne.” 
 
 Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had 
 just taken up again. 
 
 “Were any of them bald?” he asked. 
 
 “Oh yes, and with hair as white as mine.” 
 
 “I don’t think I should mind the white so much,” 
 said Villon. “His was red.” And he had a return of 
 his shuddering and tendency to laughter, which he 
 drowned with a great “^draught of wine. “I’m a little 
 put out when I think of it,” he went on. “I knew 
 him — damn him! And then the cold gives a man fan- 
 cies — or the fancies give a man cold, I don’t know ‘ 
 which.” 
 
 “Have you any money?” asked the old man. 
 
 “I have one white,” returned the poet, laughing. 
 “I got it out of a dead jade’s stocking in a porch. 
 She was as dead as Csesar, poor wench, and as cold 
 as a church, with bits of ribbon sticking in her hair. 
 This is a hard world in winter for wolves and wenches 
 and poor rogues like me.” 
 
 “I,” said the old man, “am Enguerrand de la 
 Peuillee, seigneur de Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. Who 
 and what may you be?” 
 
 Villon rose and made a suitable reverence. “I am 
 called Francis Villon,” he said, “a poor Master of Arts 
 of this university. I know some Latin and a deal of 
 vice. I can make chansons, ballades, lais, virelais, and 
 roundels, and I am very fond of wine. I was born in 
 a garret, and I shall not improbably die upon the 
 gallows. I may add, my lord, that from this night 
 forward I am your lordship’s very obsequious servant to 
 command.” 
 
 “No servant of mine,” said the knight; “my guest 
 for this evening, and no more.” 
 
 “A very grateful guest,” said Villon politely; and 
 he drank in dumb show toj^ his entertainer. 
 
f/eu; /)rabiai} 
 
 299 
 
 “You are shrewd,” began the old man, tapping his 
 forehead, “very shrewd; you have learning; you are a 
 clerk; and yet you take a small piece of money off a 
 dead woman in the street. Is it not a kind of theft?” 
 
 “It is a kind of theft much practiced in the wars, 
 my lord.” 
 
 “The wars are the field of honor,” returned the old 
 man proudly. “There a man plays his life upon the 
 
 cast; he fights in the name of his lord the king, his 
 
 Lord God, and all their lordships the holy saints and 
 angels.” 
 
 “Put it,” said Villon, “that I were really a thief, 
 should I not play my life also, and against heavier 
 odds?” 
 
 “For gain, but not for honor.” 
 
 “Gain?” repeated Villon with a shrug. “Gain! The 
 poor fellow wants supper, and takes it. So does the 
 
 soldier in a campaign. Why, what are all these requi- 
 sitions we hear so much about? If they are not gain 
 to those who take them, they are loss enough to the 
 
 others. The men-at-arms drink by a good fire, while 
 the burgher bites his nails to buy them wine and wood. 
 I have seen a good many plowmen swinging on trees 
 about the country; ay, I have seen thirty on one elm, 
 and a very poor figure they made; and when I asked 
 some one how all these came to be hanged, I was told 
 it was because they could not scrape together enough 
 crowns to satisfy the men-at-arms. ’ ’ 
 
 “These things are a necessity of war, which the 
 low-born must endure with constancy. It is true that 
 some captains drive overhard; there are spirits in every 
 rank not easily moved by pity; and indeed many fol- 
 low arms who are no better than brigands.” 
 
 “You see,” said the poet, “you cannot separate the 
 soldier from the brigand; and what is a thief but an 
 isolated brigand with circumspect manners? I steal a 
 couple of mutton chops, without so much as disturbing 
 
300 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 people’s sleep; the farmer grumbles a bit, but sups none 
 ' the less wholesomely on what remains. You come up 
 blowing gloriously on a trumpet, take away the whole 
 sheep, and beat the farmer pitifully into the bargain. 
 I have no trumpet; I am only Tom, Dick, or Harry; 
 I am a rogue and a dog, and hanging’s too good for 
 me — with all my heart; but just you ask the farmer 
 which of us he prefers, just find out which of us he 
 lies awake to curse on cold nights.” 
 
 “Look at us two,” said his lordship. “I am old, 
 strong, and honored. If I were turned from my house 
 to-morrow, hundreds would be proud to shelter me. 
 Poor people would go out and pass the night in the 
 streets with their children, if I merely hinted that I 
 wished to be alone. And I find you up, wandering 
 homeless, and picking farthings off dead women by the 
 wayside! I fear no man and nothing; I have seen you 
 tremble and lose countenance at a word. I wait God’s 
 summons contentedly in my own house, or, if it please 
 the king to call me out again, upon the field of battle. 
 You look for the gallows; a rough, swift death, without 
 hope or honor. Is there no difference between these 
 two?” 
 
 “As far as to the moon,” Villon acquiesced. “But if 
 I had been born lord of Brisetout, and you had been 
 the poor scholar Francis, would the difference have 
 been any the less? Should not I have been warming 
 my knees at this charcoal pan, and would not you 
 have been groping for farthings in the snow? Should 
 not I have been the soldier, and you the thief?” 
 
 “A thief!” cried the old man. “I a thief! If you 
 understood your words, you would repent them.” 
 
 Villon turned out his hands with a gesture of inimi- 
 table impudence. “If your lordship had done me the 
 honor to follow my argument!” he said. 
 
 “I do you too much honor in submitting to your 
 ^presence,” said the knight. “Learn to curb your tongue 
 
ffew /irabiap 
 
 301 
 
 wiien you speak with old and honorable men, or some 
 one hastier than I may reprove you in a sharper 
 fashion.” And he rose and paced the lower end of the 
 apartment, struggling with anger and antipathy. Villor 
 surreptitiously refilled his cup, and settled himself more 
 comfortably in the chair, crossing his knees and leaning 
 his head upon one hand and the elbow against the 
 back of the chair. He was now replete and warm; and 
 he was in nowise frightened for his host, having gauged 
 him as justly as was possible between two such differ- 
 ent characters. The night was far spent, and in a 
 very, comfortable fashion after all; and he felt morally 
 certain of a safe departure on the morrow. 
 
 “Tell me one thing,” said the old man, pausing in 
 his walk. “Are you really a thief?” 
 
 “I claim the sacred rights of hospitality,” returned 
 the poet. “My lord, I am.” 
 
 “You are very young,” the knight continued. 
 
 “I should never have been so old,” replied Villon, 
 showing his fingers, “if I had not helped myself with 
 these ten talents. They have been my nursing mothers 
 and my nursing fathers.” 
 
 “You may still repent and change.” 
 
 “I repent daily,” said the poet. “There are few 
 people more given to repentance than poor Francis. As 
 for change, let somebody change my circumstances. A 
 man must continue to eat, if it were only that he may 
 continue to repent.” 
 
 “The change must begin in the heart,” returned 
 the old man solemnly. 
 
 “My dear lord,” answered Villon, “do you really 
 fancy that I steal for pleasure? I hate stealing, like 
 any other piece of work or of danger. My teeth chat- 
 ter when I see a gallows. But I must eat, I must 
 drink, I must mix in society of some sort. What the 
 devil! Man is not a solitary animal — Cui Deus foeminam 
 tradit. Make me king’s pantler — make me abbot of St. 
 
302 U/or^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 Denis; make me bailly of the Patatrac; and then I 
 shall be changed indeed. But as long as you leave me 
 the poor scholar Francis Villon, without a farthing, why, 
 of course, I remain the same.” 
 
 “The grace of God is all-powerful.” 
 
 “I should be a heretic to question it,” said Francis. 
 “It has made you lord of Brisetout and bailly of the 
 Patatrac; it has given me nothing but the quick wits 
 under my hat and these ten toes upon my hands. May 
 I help myself to wine? I thank you respectfully. By 
 God’s grace, you have a very superior vintage.” 
 
 The lord of Brisetout walked to and fro with his 
 hands behind his back. Perhaps he was not yet quite 
 settled in his mind about the parallel between thieves 
 and soldiers; perhaps Villon had interested him by some 
 cross-thread of sympathy; perhaps his wits were simply 
 muddled by so much unfamiliar reasoning; but what- 
 ever the cause, he somehow yearned to convert the 
 young man to a better way of thinking, and could not 
 make up his mind to drive him forth again into the 
 street. 
 
 “There is something more than I can understand in 
 this,” he said at length. “Your mouth is full of sub- 
 tleties, and the devil has led you very far astray; but 
 the devil is only a very weak spirit before God’s truth, 
 and all his subtleties vanish at a word of true honor, 
 like darkness at morning. Listen to me once more. I 
 learned long ago that a gentleman should live chival- 
 rously and lovingly to God, and the king, and his 
 lady ; and though I have seen many strange things 
 done, I have still striven to command my ways upon 
 that rule. It is not only written in all noble histories, 
 but in every man’s heart, if he will take care to read. 
 You speak of food and wine, and I know very well 
 that hunger is a difficult trial to endure; but you do 
 not speak of other wants; you say nothing of honor, 
 of faith to God and other men, of courtesy, of love 
 
j^cu/ /irabiaij 
 
 303 
 
 without reproach. It may be that I am hot very wise— 
 and yet I think I am — but you seem to me like one 
 who has lost his way and made a great error in life. 
 You are attending to the little wants, and you have 
 totally forgotten the great and only real ones, like a 
 man who should be doctoring the toothache on the 
 Judgment Day. For such things as honor and love 
 and faith are not only nobler than food and drink, but 
 indeed I think that we desire them more, and suffer 
 more sharply for their absence. I speak to you as I 
 think you will most easily understand me. Are you 
 not, while careful to fill your belly, disregarding another 
 appetite in your heart, which spoils the pleasure of 
 your life and keeps you continually wretched?” 
 
 Villon was sensibly nettled under all this sermonizing. 
 “You think I have no sense of honor!” he cried. “I 
 am poor enough, God knows! It’s hard to see rich 
 people with their gloves, and you blowing in your 
 hands. An empty belly is a bitter thing, although you 
 speak so lightly of it. If you had had as many as I, per- 
 haps you would change your tune. Any way I’m a thief 
 — make the most of that— but I’m not a devil from hell, 
 God strike me dead. I would have you to know I’ve 
 an honor of my own, as good as yours, though I don’t 
 prate about it all day long, as if it was a God’s mir- 
 acle to have any. It seems quite natural to me ; I 
 
 keep it in its box till it’s wanted. Why now, look 
 
 you here, how long have I been in this room with 
 
 you? Did you not tell me you were alone in the 
 
 house? Look at your gold plate! You’re strong, if 
 you like, but you’re old and unarmed, and I have my 
 knife. What did I want but a jerk of the elbow and 
 here would have been you with the cold steel in your 
 bowels, and there would have been me, linking in the 
 streets, with an armful of gold cups! Did you suppose 
 I hadn’t wit enough to see that? And I scorned the 
 action. There are your damned goblets, as safe as in 
 
304 
 
 U/orl^5 of Hofc»ert Couij Steuepjoi? 
 
 a church ; there are you, with your heart ticking as 
 good as new; and here am I, ready to go out again as 
 poor as I came in, with my one white that you threw 
 in my teeth! And you think I have no sense of honor — • 
 God strike me dead!” 
 
 The old man stretched out his right arm. “I will 
 tell you what you are,” he said. “You are a rogue, 
 tny man, an impudent and a black-hearted rogue and 
 vagabond. I have passed an hour with you. Oh! be- 
 lieve me, I feel myself ~ disgraced ! And you have 
 eaten and drunk at my table. But now I am sick at 
 your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird 
 should be off to his roost. Will you go before, or 
 after?” 
 
 “Which you please,” returned the poet, rising. “I 
 believe you to be strictly honorable.” He thoughtfully 
 emptied his cup. “I wish I could add you were in- 
 telligent,” he went on, knocking on his head with his 
 knuckles. “Age, age! the brains stiff and rheumatic.” 
 
 The old man preceded him from a point of self- 
 respect; Villon followed, whistling, with his thumbs in 
 his girdle. 
 
 “God pity you,” said the lord of Brisetout at the 
 door. 
 
 “Good-by, papa,” returned Villon with a yawn. 
 “Many thanks for the cold mutton.” 
 
 The door closed behind him. The dawn was breaking 
 over the white roofs. A chill, uncomfortable morning 
 ushered in the day. Villon stood and heartily stretched 
 himself in the middle of the road. 
 
 “A very dull old gentleman,” he thought. “I wonder 
 what his goblets may be worth.” 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAET TWO 
 
 NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS 
 
 PAOB 
 
 The Sire de Maletroit’s Door 5 
 
 Providence and the Guitar 33 
 
 THE MERRY MEN, AND OTHER TALES AND 
 
 FABLES 
 
 The Merry Men: 
 
 I. Eilean Aros 73 
 
 II. What the Wreck had brought to Aros 81 
 
 III. Land and Sea in Sandag Bay 97 
 
 IV. The Gale 110 
 
 V. A Man out of the Sea 123 
 
 Markheim 139 
 
 Thrawn Janet 162 
 
 Olalla 176 
 
 The Treasure of Franchard: 
 
 I. By the Dying Mountebank 234 
 
 II. Morning Talk 239 
 
 ITT . The Adoption 247 
 
 IV. The Education of a Philosopher 256 
 
 V. Treasure Trove 267 
 
 VI. A Criminal Investigation, in Two Parts 283 
 
 VII. The Fall of the House of Desprez 296 
 
 Vni. The Wages of Philosophy 807 
 
 8 
 
NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS 
 
 THE SIRE DE MALETROIT’S DOOR 
 
 Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two-and-twenty, but 
 he counted himself a grown man, and a very accom- 
 plished cavalier into the bargain. Lads were early 
 formed in that rough, warfaring epoch; and when one 
 has been in a pitched battle and a dozen raids, has 
 killed one’s man in an honorable fashion, and knows a 
 thing or two of strategy and mankind, a certain swagger 
 in the gait is surely to be pardoned. He had put up 
 his horse with due care, and supped with due delibera- 
 tion; and then, in a very agreeable frame of mind, 
 went out to pay a visit in the gray of the evening. 
 It was not a very wise proceeding on the young man’s 
 part. He would have done better to remain beside the 
 fire or go decently to bed. For the town was full of 
 the troops of Burgundy and England under a mixed 
 command; and though Denis was there on safe-conduct, 
 his safe-conduct was like to serve him little on a chance 
 encounter. 
 
 It was September, 1429; the weather had fallen sharp; 
 a flighty piping wind, laden with showers, beat about 
 the township; and the dead leaves ran riot along the 
 streets. Here and there a window was already lighted 
 
 (5) 
 
6 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 up; and the noise of men-at-arms making merry over 
 supper within, came forth in fits and was swallowed up 
 and carried away by the wind. The night fell swiftly; 
 the fiag of England, fiuttering on the spire-top, grew 
 ever fainter and fainter against the fiying clouds — a 
 black speck like a swallow in the tumultuous, leaden 
 chaos of the sky. As the night fell the wind rose, 
 and began to hoot under archways and roar amid the 
 treetops in the valley below the town. 
 
 Denis de Beaulieu walked fast and was soon knock-, 
 ing at his friend’s door; but though he promised him-^ 
 self to stay only a little while and make an early r 
 return, his welcome was so pleasant, and he found so'' 
 much to delay him, that it was already long past mid- 
 night before he said good-by upon the threshold. The 
 wind had fallen again in the meanwhile; the night was 
 as '■black as the grave; not a star, nor a glimmer of 
 moonshine, slipped through the canopy of cloud. Denis 
 was ill-acquainted with the intricate lanes of Chateau 
 Landon ; even by daylight he had found some trouble 
 in picking his way; and in this absolute darkness he 
 soon lost it altogether. He was certain of one thing 
 only — to keep mounting the hill; for his friend’s house 
 lay at the lower end, or tail, of Chateau Landon, while 
 the inn was up at the head, under the great church 
 spire. With this clew to go upon, he stumbled and 
 groped forward, now breathing more freely in open 
 places where there was a good slice of sky overhead, 
 now feeling along the wall in stifling closes. It is an, 
 eerie and mysterious position to be thus submerged in 
 opaque blackness in an almost unknown town. The 
 silence is terrifying in its possibilities. The touch of 
 
f/eu; /IrabiaQ 
 
 »V 
 
 cold window bars to the exploring hand startles the 
 man like the touch of a toad; the inequalities of the 
 pavement shake his heart into his mouth; a piece of 
 denser darkness threatens an ambuscade or a chasm in 
 the pathway; and where the air is brighter, the houses 
 put on strange and bewildering appearances, as if to 
 lead him further from his way. For Denis, who had 
 to regain his inn without attracting notice, .there was 
 real danger as well as mere discomfort in the walk; 
 and he went warily and boldly at once, and at every 
 corner paused to make an observation. 
 
 He had been for some time threading a lane so 
 narrow that he could touch a wall with either hand, 
 when it began to open out and go sharply downward. 
 Plainly dhis lay no longer in the direction of his inn; 
 but the hope of a little more light tempted him for- 
 ward to reconnoiter. The lane ended in a terrace with 
 a bartizan wall, which gave an outlook between high 
 houses, as out of an embrasure, into the valley lying 
 dark and formless several hundred feet below. Denis 
 looked down, and could discern a few treetops waving 
 and a single speck of brightness where the river ran 
 across a weir. The weather was clearing up, and the 
 sky had lightened, so as to show the outline of the 
 heavier clouds and the dark margin of the hills. By 
 the uncertain glimmer, the house on his left hand 
 should be a place of some pretensions; it was sur- 
 mounted by several pinnacles and turret-tops; the round 
 stern of a chapel, with a fringe of flying buttresses, 
 projected boldly from the main block; and the door was 
 sheltered under a deep porch carved with figures and over- 
 hung by two long gargoyles. The windows of the chapel 
 StKVENSOK. VOL. I. — 20 
 
a U/orl^S of l^obert Coui^ SteueQjoij 
 
 gleamed through their intricate tracery with a light as 
 of many tapers, and threw out the buttresses and the 
 peaked roof in a more intense blackness against the sky. 
 It was plainly the hotel of some great family of the 
 neighborhood; and as it reminded Denis of a towm 
 house of his own at Bourges, he stood for some time 
 gazing up at it and mentally gauging the skill of the 
 architects and the consideration of the two families. 
 
 There seemed to be no issue to the terrace but the 
 lane by^ which he had reached it ; he could only retrace 
 his steps, but he had gained some notion of his where- 
 about, and hoped by this means to hit the main thor- 
 oughfare and speedily regain the inn. He was reckoning 
 without that chapter of accidents which was to make 
 this night memorable above all others in his career; for 
 he had not gone back above a hundred yards before 
 he saw a light coming to meet him, and heard loud 
 voices speaking together in the echoing narrows of the 
 lane. It was a party of men-at-arms going the night 
 round with torches. Denis assured himself that they 
 had all been making free with the wine-bowl, and 
 were in no mood to be particular about safe-conducts 
 or the niceties of chivalrous war. It was as like as 
 not that they would kill him like a dog and leave him 
 where he fell. The situation was inspiriting but nerv- 
 ous. Their own torches would conceal him from sight, 
 he reflected; and he hoped that they would drown the 
 noise of his footsteps with their own empty voices. If 
 he were but fleet and silent, he might evade their 
 notice altogether. 
 
 Unfortunately, as he turned to beat a retreat, his 
 foot rolled upon a pebble; he fell against the wall with 
 
fifeu; /^irabiap 
 
 9 
 
 an ejaculation, and his sword rang loudly on the stones. 
 Two or three voices demanded who went there — some 
 in French, some in English; but Denis made no reply, 
 and ran the faster down the lane. Once upon the ter- 
 race, he paused to look back. They still kept calling 
 after him, and just then began to double the pace in 
 pursuit, with a considerable clank of armor, and great 
 tossing of the torchlight to and fro in the narrow jaws 
 of the passage. 
 
 Denis cast a look around and darted into the porch. 
 There he might escape observation, or — if that were too 
 much to expect — was in a capital posture whether for 
 parley or defense. So thinking, he drew his sword and 
 tried to set his back against the door. To his surprise, 
 it yielded behind his weight; and though he turned in 
 a moment, continued to swing back on oiled and noise- 
 less hinges, until it stood wide open on a black inte- 
 rior. When things fall out opportunely for the person 
 concerned, he is not apt to be critical about the how 
 or why, his own immediate personal convenience seem- 
 ing a sufficient reason for the strangest oddities and 
 revolutions in our sublunary things; and so Denis, with- 
 out a moment’s hesitation, stepped within and partly 
 closed the door behind him to conceal his place of ref- 
 uge. Nothing was further from his thoughts than to 
 close it altogether ; but for some inexplicable reason — 
 perhaps by a spring or a weight — the ponderous mass 
 of oak whipped itself out of his fingers and clanked 
 to, with a formidable rumble and a noise like the fall- 
 ing of an automatic bar. 
 
 The round, at that very moment, debouched upon the 
 terrace and proceeded to summon him with shouts and 
 
10 U/or^5 of P^obert Couis Steueijsor? 
 
 curses. He heard them ferreting in the dark corners; 
 the stock of a lance even rattled along the outer sur- 
 face of the door behind which he stood; but these gen- 
 tlemen were in too high a humor to be long delayed, 
 and soon made olf down a corkscrew pathway which 
 had escaped Denis’s observation, and passed out of sight 
 and hearing along the battlements of the town. 
 
 Denis breathed ^ain. He gave them a few min- 
 utes’ grace for fear of accidents, and then groped about 
 for some means of opening the door and slipping forth 
 again. The inner surface was quite smooth, not a 
 handle, not a molding, not a projection of any sort. 
 He got his finger-nails round the edges and pulled, but 
 the mass was immovable. He shook it, it was as firm 
 as a rock. Denis de BeauHeu frowned and gave vent 
 to a little noiseless whistle. What ailed the door? he 
 wondered. Why was it open? How came it to shut so 
 easily and so effectually after him? There was some- 
 thing obscure and underhand about all this that was 
 little to the young man’s fancy. It looked like a snare; 
 and yet who could suppose a snare in such a quiet by- 
 street and in a house of so prosperous and even noble 
 an exterior? And yet — snare or no snare, intentionally 
 or unintentionally — here he was, prettily trapped; and 
 for the life of him he could see no way out of it 
 again. The darkness began to weigh upon him. He 
 gave ear; all was silent without, but within and close 
 by he seemed to catch a faint sighing, a faint sobbing 
 rustle, a little stealthy creak — as though many persons 
 were at his side, holding themselves quite still, and 
 governing even their respiration with the extreme of 
 slyness. The idea went to his vitals with a shock, and 
 
fifeu; /Irabiap 
 
 11 
 
 he faced about suddenly as if to defend his life. Then, 
 for the first time, he became aware of a light about 
 the level of his eyes and at some distance in the inte- 
 rior of the house — a vertical thread of light, widening 
 toward the bottom, such as might escape between two 
 wings of arras over a doorway. To see anything was 
 a relief to Denis; it was like a piece of solid ground 
 to a man laboring in a morass; his mind seized upon 
 it with avidity; and he stood staring at it and trying 
 to piece together some logical conception of his sur- 
 roundings. Plainly there was a flight of steps ascend- 
 ing from his own level to that of this illuminated door- 
 way; and indeed he thought he could make out anotlier 
 thread of light, as fine as a needle and as faint as 
 phosphorescence, which might very well be reflected 
 along the polished wood of a handrail. Since he had 
 begun to suspect that he was not alone, his heart had 
 continued to beat with smothering violence, and an in- 
 tolerable desire for action of any sort had possessed 
 itself of his spirit. He was in deadly peril, he believed. 
 "What could be more natural than to mount the stair- 
 case, lift the curtain, and confront his difficulty at once? 
 At least he would be dealing with something tangible; 
 at least he would be no longer in the dark. He stepped 
 slowly forward with outstretched hands, until his foot 
 struck the bottom step ; then he rapidly scaled the 
 stairs, stood for a moment to compose his expression, 
 lifted the arras and went in. 
 
 He found himself in a large apartment of polished 
 stone. There were three doors; one on each of three 
 sides; all similarly curtained with tapestry. The fourth 
 side was occupied by two large windows and a great 
 
12 U/orl^s of Robert Couij Steueijjoi? 
 
 stone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of the Male- 
 troits. Denis recognized the bearings, and was gratified 
 to find himself in such good hands. The room was 
 strongly illuminated ; but it contained little ^furniture 
 except a heavy table and a chair or two, the hearth 
 was innocent of fire, and the pavement was but 
 sparsely strewn with rushes clearly many days old. 
 
 On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly 
 facing Denis as he entered, sat a little old gentleman 
 in a fur tippet. He sat with his legs crossed and his 
 hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by his 
 elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had 
 a strongly masculine cast ; not properly human, but 
 such as we see in the bull, the goat, or the domestic 
 boar; something equivocal and wheedling, something 
 greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was in- 
 ordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a tooth- 
 ache; and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the 
 small, strong eyes were quaintly and almost comically 
 evil in expression. Beautiful white hair hung straight 
 all round his head, like a saint’s, and fell in a single 
 curl upon the tippet. His beard and mustache were the 
 pink of venerable sweetness. Age, probably in conse- 
 quence of inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon 
 his hands; and the Maletroit hand was famous. It 
 would be difficult to imagine anything at once so fleshy 
 and so delicate in design; the taper, sensual fingers 
 were like those of one of Leonardo’s women; the fork 
 of the thumb made a dimpled protubearance when 
 closed; the nails were perfectly shaped, and of a dead, 
 surprising whiteness. It rendered his aspect tenfold more 
 redoubtable, that a man with hands like these should 
 
fleu; /irabiap 
 
 13 
 
 them devoutly folded in his lap like a virgin 
 martyr — that a man with so intense and startling an 
 expression of face should sit patiently on his seat and 
 contemplate people with an unwinking stare, like a god, 
 or a god’s statue. His quiescence seemed ironical and 
 treacherous, it fitted so poorly with his looks. 
 
 Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit. 
 
 Denis and he looked silently at each other for a 
 second or two. 
 
 “Pray step in,” said the Sire de Maletroit. “I have 
 been expecting you all the evening.” 
 
 He had not risen, but he accompanied his words 
 with a smile and a slight but courteous inclination of 
 the head. Partly from the smile, partly from the 
 strange musical murmur with which the Sire prefaced 
 his observation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust 
 go through his marrow. And what with disgust and 
 honest confusion of mind, he could scarcely get words 
 together in reply. ^ 
 
 “I fear,” he said, “that this is a double accident. 
 I am not the person you suppose me. It seems you 
 were looking for a visit; but for my part, nothing was 
 further from my thoughts — nothing could be more con- 
 trary to my wishes— than this intrusion.” 
 
 “Well, well,” replied the old gentleman indulgently, 
 “here you are, which is the main point. Seat yourself, 
 my friend, and put yourself entirely at your ease. We 
 shall arrange our little affairs presently.” 
 
 Denis perceived that the matter was still complicated 
 with some misconception, and he hastened to continue 
 his explanations. 
 
 “Your door . ...” he began. 
 
14 U/orK5 of Coui5 Steueijsoij 
 
 “About my door?” asked the other, raising his 
 peaked eyebrows. .“A little piece of ingenuity.” And 
 he shrugged his shoulders. “A hospitable fancy! By 
 your own account, you were not desirous of making 
 my acquaintance. We old people look for such reluct- 
 ance now and then; and when it touches our honor, 
 we cast about until we find some way of overcoming 
 it. You arrive uninvited, but believe me, very welcome.” 
 
 “You persist in error, sir,” said Denis. “There can 
 be no question between you and me. I am a stranger 
 in this countryside. My name is Denis, damoiseau de 
 Beaulieu. If you see me in your house, it is only — ” 
 
 “My young friend,” interrupted the other, “you will 
 permit me to have my own ideas on that subject. They 
 probably differ from yours at the present moment,” he 
 added with a leer, “but time will show which of us 
 is in the right.” 
 
 Denis was convinced he had to do with a lunatic. 
 He .seated himself with a shrug, content to wait the 
 upshot; and a pause ensued, during which he thought 
 he could distinguish a hurried gabbling as of prayer 
 from behind the arras immediately opposite him. Some- 
 times there seemed to be but one person engaged, some- 
 times two; and the vehemence of the voice, low as it 
 was, seemed to indicate either great haste or an agony 
 of spirit. It occurred to him that this piece of tapestry 
 covered the entrance to the chapel he had noticed from 
 without. 
 
 The old gentleman meanwhile surveyed Denis from 
 head to foot with a smile, and from time to time 
 emitted little noises like a bird or a mouse, which 
 seemed to indicate a high degree of satisfaction. This 
 
fieu; /irabiaij 
 
 15 
 
 state of matters became rapidly insupportable; and 
 Denis, to put an end to it, remarked politely that the 
 wind had gone down. 
 
 The old gentleman fell into a fit of silent laughter, 
 so prolonged and violent that he became quite red in 
 the face. Denis got upon his feet at once, and put on 
 his hat with a flourish. 
 
 “Sir,” he said, “if you are in your wits, you have 
 affronted me grossly. If you are out of them, I flat- 
 ter myself I can find better employment for my brains 
 than to talk with lunatics. My conscience is clear; you 
 have made a fool of me from the first moment; you 
 have refused to hear my explanations; and now there 
 is no power under God will make me stay here any 
 longer; and if I cannot make my way out in a more 
 decent fashion, I will hack your door in pieces with 
 my sword.” 
 
 The Sire de Maletroit raised his right hand and 
 wagged it at Denis with the fore and little fingers ex- 
 tended. 
 
 “My dear nephew,” he said, “sit down.” 
 
 “Nephew!” retorted Denis, “you lie in your throat;” 
 and he snapped his fingers in his face. 
 
 “Sit down, you rogue!” cried the old gentleman, in 
 a sudden, harsh voice, like the barking of a dog. “Do 
 you fancy,” he went on, “that when I had made my 
 little contrivance for the door I had stopped short with 
 that? If you prefer to be bound hand and foot till 
 your bones ache, rise and try to go away. If you 
 choose to remain a free young buck, agreeably convers- 
 ing with an old gentleman — why, sit where you are in 
 peace, and God be with you.” 
 
16 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 “Do you mean I am a prisoner?” demanded Denis. 
 
 “I state the facts,” replied the other. “I would 
 rather leave the conclusion to yourself.” 
 
 Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to 
 keep pretty calm; but within, he was now boiling with 
 anger, now chilled with apprehension. He no longer 
 felt convinced that he was dealing with a madman. 
 And if the" old gentleman was sane, what, in God’s 
 name, had he to look for? What absurd or tragical 
 adventure had befallen him? What countenance was he 
 to assume? 
 
 While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras 
 that overhung the chapel door was raised, and a tall 
 priest in his robes came forth and, giving a long, keen 
 stare at Denis, said something in an undertone to Sire 
 de Maletroit. 
 
 “She is in a better frame of spirit?” asked the 
 latter. 
 
 “She is more resigned, messire,” replied the priest. 
 
 “How the Lord help her, she is hard to please!” 
 sneered the old gentleman. “A likely stripling — not ill- 
 born — and of her own choosing, too? Why, what more 
 would the jade have?” 
 
 “The situation is not usual for a young damsel,’^ 
 said the other, “and somewhat trying to her blushes.” 
 
 “She should have thought of that before she began 
 the dance? It was none of my choosing, God knows 
 that : but since she is in it, by our lady, she shall 
 carry it to the end.” And then addressing Denis, 
 “Monsieur de Beaulieu,” he asked, “may I present you 
 to my niece? She has been waiting your arrival, I may 
 say, with even greater impatience than myself.” 
 
yieu; /Irabiap 
 
 17 
 
 Denis had resigned himself with a good grace — all 
 he desired was to know the worst of it as speedily as 
 possible; so he rose at once, and bowed in acquiescence. 
 The Sire de Maletroit followed his example and limped, 
 with the assistance of the chaplain’s arm, toward the 
 chapel door. The priest pulled aside the arras, and all 
 three entered. The building had considerable architect- 
 ural pretensions. A light groining sprang from six stout 
 columns, and hung down in two rich pendents from 
 the center of the vault. The place terminated behind 
 the altar in a round end, embossed and honeycombed 
 with a superfluity of ornament in relief, and pierced 
 by many little windows shaped like stars, trefoils, or - 
 wheels. These windows were imperfectly glazed, so that 
 the night air circulated freely in the chapel. The ta- 
 pers, of which there must have been half a hundred 
 burning on the altar, were unmercifully blown about; 
 and the light went through many different phases of 
 brilliancy and semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of 
 the altar knelt a young girl richly attired as a bride. 
 
 A chill settled over Denis as he observed her costume; 
 he fought with desperate energy against the conclusion 
 that was being thrust upon his mind; it could not— it 
 should not — be as he feared. 
 
 “Blanche,” said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, 
 “I have brought a friend to see you, my little girl; 
 turn round and give him your pretty hand. It is good 
 to be devout; but it is necessary to be polite, my niece.” 
 
 The girl rose to her feet and turned toward the new 
 comers. She moved all of a piece; and shame and ex- 
 haustion were expressed in every line of her fresh young 
 body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes 
 
18 U/orl^s of I^obert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In 
 the course of her advance, her eyes fell upon Denis de 
 Beaulieu’s feet — feet of which he was justly vain, be it 
 remarked, and wore in the most elegant accouterment 
 even while traveling. She paused — started, as if his 
 yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning — and 
 glanced suddenly up into the wearer’s countenance. Their 
 eyes met; shame gave place to horror and terror in her 
 looks; the blood left her lips; with a piercing scream 
 she covered her face with her hands and sank upon the 
 chapel floor. 
 
 “That is not the man!” she cried. “My uncle, that 
 is not the man!” 
 
 The Sire de Maletroit chirped agreeably. “Of course 
 not,” he said, “I expected as much. It was so un- 
 fortunate you could not remember his name.” 
 
 “Indeed,” she cried, “indeed, I have never seen this 
 person till this moment — I have never so much as set 
 eyes upon him — I never wish to see him again. Sir,” 
 she said, turning to Denis, “if you are a gentleman, 
 you will bear me out. Have I ever seen you — have 
 you ever seen me — before this accursed hour?” 
 
 “To speak for myself, I have never had that pleas- 
 ure,” answered the young man. “This is the first time, 
 messire, that I have met with your engaging niece.” 
 The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “I am distressed to hear it,” he said. “But it is 
 never too late to begin. I had little more acquaintance 
 with my own late lady ere I married her ; which 
 proves,” he added with a grimace, “that these im- 
 promptu marriages may often produce an excellent un- 
 derstanding in the long run. As the bridegroom is to 
 
fleu7 /irabiaij 
 
 19 
 
 have a voice in the matter, I will give him two hours 
 to make up for lost time before we proceed with the 
 ceremony.” And he turned toward the door, followed 
 by the clergyman. 
 
 The girl was on her feet in a moment. “My uncle, 
 you cannot be in earnest,” she said. “I declare before 
 God I will stab myself rather than be forced on that 
 young man. The heart rises at it; God forbids such 
 marriages; you dishonor your white hair. Oh, my 
 uncle, pity me! There is not a woman in all the world 
 but would prefer death to such a nuptial. Is it pos- 
 sible,” she added, faltering — “is it possible that you do 
 not believe me— that you still think this” — and she 
 pointed at Denis with a tremor of anger and contempt 
 — “that you still think this to be the man?” 
 
 “Frankly,” said the old gentleman, pausing on the 
 threshold, “I do. But let me explain to you once for 
 all, Blanche de Maletroit, my way of thinking about 
 this affair. When you took it into your head to dis- 
 honor my family and the name that I have borne, in 
 peace and war, for more than threescore years, you for- 
 feited, not only the right to question my designs, but 
 that of looking me in the face. If your father had 
 been alive, he would have spat on you and turned you 
 out of doors. His was the hand of iron. You may 
 bless your God you have only to deal with the hand 
 of velvet, mademoiselle. It was my duty to get you 
 married without delay. Out of pure goodwill, I have 
 tried to find your own gallant for you. And I believe 
 I have succeeded. But before God and all the holy 
 angels, Blanche de Maletroit, if I have not, I care not 
 one jack-straw. So let me recommend you to be polite 
 
20 U/orl^5 of Hol^ort Couij Steuepjop 
 
 • 
 
 to our young friend; for upon my word, your next 
 groom may be less appetizing.” 
 
 And with that he went out, with the chaplain at 
 his heels; and the arras fell behind the pair. 
 
 The girl turned upon Denis with flashing eyes. 
 
 “And what, sir,” she demanded, “may be the mean- 
 ing of all this?” 
 
 “God knows,” returned Denis gloomily. “I am a 
 prisoner in this house, which seems full of mad peo- 
 ple. More I know not; and nothing do I understand.” 
 “And pray how came you here?” she asked. 
 
 He told her as briefly as he could. “For the rest,” 
 he added, “perhaps you will follow my example, and 
 tell me the answer to all these riddles, and what, in 
 God’s name, is like to be the end of it.” 
 
 She stood silent for a little, and he could see her 
 lips tremble and her tearless eyes burn with a feverish 
 luster. Then she pressed her forehead in both hands. 
 
 “Alas, how my head aches!” she said wearily — “to 
 say nothing of my poor heart! But it is due to you 
 to know my story, unmaidenly as it must seem. I am 
 called Blanche de Maletroit; I have been without father 
 or mother for — oh! for as long as I can recollect, and 
 indeed I have been most unhappy all my life. Three 
 months ago a young captain began to stand near me 
 every day in church. I could see that I pleased him; 
 I am much to blame, but I was so glad that any one 
 should love me; and when he passed me a letter, I 
 took it home with me and read it with great pleasure. 
 Since that time he has written many. He was so anx- 
 ious to speak with me, poor fellow! and kept asking 
 me to leave the door open some evening that we might 
 
I'/eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 21 
 
 have two words upon the stair. For he knew how 
 much my uncle trusted me.” She gave something like 
 a sob at that, and it was a moment before she could 
 go on. “My uncle is a hard man, but he is very 
 shrewd,” she said at last. “He has performed many 
 feats in war, and was a great person at court, and 
 much trusted by Queen Isabeau in old days. How he 
 came to suspect me I cannot tell; but it is hard to 
 keep anything from his knowledge ; and this morning, 
 as we came from mass, he took my hand in his, forced 
 it open, and read my little billet, walking by my side 
 all the while. When he had finished, he gave it back 
 to me with great politeness. It contained another re- 
 quest to have the door left open; and this has been 
 the ruin of us all. My uncle kept lUe strictly in my 
 room until evening, and then ordered me to dress my- 
 self as you see me — a hard mockery for a young girl, 
 do you not think so? I suppose, when he could not 
 prevail with me to tell him the young captain’s name, 
 he must have laid a trap for him': into which, alas! 
 you have fallen in the anger of God. I looked for 
 much confusion; for how could I tell whether he was 
 willing to take me for his wife on these sharp terms? 
 He might have been trifling with me from the first; 
 or I might have made myself too cheap in his eyes. 
 But truly I had not looked for such a shameful pun- 
 ishment as this! I could not think that God would let 
 a girl be so disgraced before a young man. And now 
 I have told you all; and I can scarcely hope that you 
 will not despise me.” 
 
 Denis made her a respectful inclination. 
 
 “Madam,” he said, “you have honored me by your 
 
22 U/ort^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 confidence. It remains for me to prove that I am not 
 unworthy of the honor. Is Messire de Maletroit at 
 hand?” 
 
 “I believe he is writing in the salle without,” she 
 answered. 
 
 “May I lead you thither, madam?” asked Denis, 
 offering his hand'* with his most courtly bearing. 
 
 She accepted it; and the pair passed out of the 
 chapel, Blanche in a very drooping and shamefast con- 
 dition, but Denis strutting and ruffling in the conscious- 
 ness of a mission, and the boyish certainty of accom- 
 plishing it with honor. 
 
 The Sire de Maletroit rose to meet them with an 
 ironical obeisance. 
 
 “Sir,” said Denis, with the grandest possible air, 
 “I believe I am to have some say in the matter of 
 this marriage ; and let me tell you at once, I will be 
 no party to forcing the inclination of this young lady. 
 Had it been freely offered to me, I should have been 
 proud to accept her hand, for I perceive she is as good 
 as she is beautiful ; but as things are, I have now the 
 honor, messire, of refusing.” 
 
 Blanche looked at him with gratitude in her eyes; 
 but the old gentleman only smiled and smiled, until his 
 smile grew positively sickening to Denis. 
 
 “I am afraid,” he said, “Monsieur de Beaulieu, that 
 you do not perfectly understand the choice I have to 
 offer you. Follow me, I beseech you, to this window.” 
 And he led the way to one of the large windows 
 which stood open on the night. “You observe,” he 
 went on, “there is an iron ring in the upper masonry, 
 and, reeved through that, a very efficacious rope. Now, 
 
fi/eu; /irabiap 
 
 23 
 
 mark my words: if you should find your disinclination 
 to my niece’s person insurmountable, I shall have you 
 hanged out of this window before sunrise. I shall only 
 proceed to such an extremity with the greatest regret, 
 you may believe me. For it is not at all your death 
 that I desire, but my niece’s establishment in life. 
 At the same time, it must come to that if you prove 
 obstinate. Your family. Monsieur de Beaulieu, is very 
 well in its way; but if you sprang from Charlemagne, 
 you should not refuse the hand of a Maletroit with im- 
 punity — not if she had been as common as the Paris 
 road— not if she were as hideous as the gargoyle over 
 my door. Neither my niece nor you nor my own pri- 
 vate feelings, move me at all in this matter. The 
 
 honor of my house has been compromised; I believe 
 you to be the guilty person; at least you are now in 
 the secret; and you can hardly wonder if I request 
 you to wipe out the stain. If you will not, your blood 
 be on your own head! It will be no great satisfaction 
 to me to have your interesting relics kicking their 
 heels in the breeze below my windows; but half a loaf 
 is better than no bread, and if I cannot cure the dis- 
 honor, I shall at least stop the scandal.” 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 “I believe there are other ways of settling such 
 imbroglios among gentlemen,” said Denis. “You wear 
 a sword, and I hear you have used it with distinction.” 
 
 The Sire de Maletroit made a signal to the chap- 
 lain, who crossed the room with long silent strides and 
 raised the arras over the third of the three doors. It was 
 only a moment before he let it fall again; but Denis had 
 time to see a dusky passage full of armed men. 
 
 STEYBa^SON. VOL. I. — 31 
 
24 : U/orK5 of Robert Coui5 Steucijjop 
 
 “When I was a little younger, I should have been 
 delighted to honor you, Monsieur de Beaulieu,” said Sire 
 Alain; “but I am now too old. Faithful retainers, are 
 the sinews of age, and I must employ the strength I 
 have. This is dhe of the hardest things to swallow as 
 a man grows up in years; but with a little patience, 
 even this becomes habitual. You and the lady seem to 
 prefer the salle for what remains of your two hours; 
 and as I have no desire to cross your preference, I 
 shall resign it to your use with all the pleasure in the 
 world. No haste!” he added, holding up his hand, as 
 he saw a dangerous look come into Denis de Beaulieu’s 
 face. “If your mind revolts against hanging, it will 
 be time enough two hours hence to throw yourself out 
 of the window or upon the pikes of my retainers. Two 
 hours of life are always two hours. A great many 
 things may turn up in even as little a while as ^at. 
 And, besides, if I understand her appearance, my niece 
 has still something to say to you. You will not disfigure 
 your last hours by a want of politeness to a lady?” 
 
 Denis looked at Blanche, and she made him an 
 imploring gesture. 
 
 It is likely that the old gentleman was hugely 
 pleased at this symptom of an understanding; for he 
 smiled on both, and added sweetly: “If you will give 
 me your word of honor. Monsieur de Beaulieu, to 
 await my return at the end of the two hours before 
 attempting anything desperate, I shall withdraw my 
 retainers, and let you speak in greater privacy with 
 mademoiselle.” 
 
 Denis again glanced at the girl, who seemed to 
 beseech him to agree. 
 
I'feu; /Irabiap 
 
 25 
 
 “I give you my word of honor,” he said. 
 
 Messire de Maletroit bowed, and proceeded to limp 
 about the apartment, clearing his throat the while with 
 that odd musical chirp which had already grown so 
 irritating in the ears of Denis de Beaulieu. He first 
 possessed himself of some papers which lay upon the 
 table; then he went to the mouth of the passage and 
 appeared to give an order to the men behind the arras; 
 and lastly he hobbled out through the door by which 
 Denis had come in, turning upon the threshold to ad- 
 dress a last smiling bow to the young couple, and fol- 
 lowed by the chaplain with a hand-lamp. 
 
 No sooner were they alone than Blanche advanced 
 toward Denis with her hands extended. Her face was 
 flushed and excited, and her eyes shone with tears. 
 
 “You shall not die!” she cried, “you shall marry 
 me after all.” 
 
 “You seem to think, madam,” replied Denis, “that 
 I stand much in fear of death.” 
 
 “Oh, no, no,” she said, “I see you are no poltroon. 
 It is for my own sake — I could not bear to have you 
 slain for such a scruple.” 
 
 “I am afraid,” returned Denis, “that you underrate 
 the diflBculty, madam. What you may be too generous 
 to refuse, I may be too proud to accept. In a moment 
 of noble feeling toward me, you forgot what you 
 perhaps owe to others.” 
 
 He had the decency to keep his eyes upon the floor 
 as he said this, and after he had finished, so as not 
 to spy upon her confusion. She stood silent for a mo- 
 ment, then walked suddenly away, and falling on her 
 uncle’s chair, fairly burst out sobbing. Denis was in 
 
26 U/or^5 of F^obert Coui5 Steueijjoij 
 
 the acme of embarrassment. He looked round, as if to 
 seek for inspiration, and seeing a stool, plumped down 
 upon it for something to do. There he sat, playing with 
 the guard of his rapier, and wishing himself dead a 
 thousand times over, and buried in the nastiest kitchen- 
 heap in France. His eyes wandered rormd the apart- 
 ment, but found nothing to arrest them. There were 
 such , wide spaces between the furniture, the light 
 fell so baldly and cheerlessly over all, the dark out- 
 side air looked in so coldly through the windows, 
 that he thought he had never seen a church so vast, 
 nor a tomb so melancholy. The regular sobs of 
 Blanche de Maletroit measured out the time like the 
 ticking of a clock. He read the device upon the shield 
 over and over again, until his eyes became obscured; 
 he stared into shadowy corners until he imagined they 
 were swarming with horrible animals; and every now 
 and again he awoke with a start, to remember that his 
 last two hours were running, and death was on the 
 march. 
 
 Oftener and oftener, as the time went on, did his 
 glance settle on the girl herself. Her face was bowed 
 forward and covered with her hands, and she was 
 shaken at intervals by the convulsive hiccup of grief. 
 Even thus she was not an unpleasant object to dwell 
 upon, so plump and yet so fine, with a warm brown 
 skin, and the most beautiful hair, Denis thought, in the 
 whole world of womankind. Her hands were like her 
 uncle’s; but they were more in place at the end of her 
 young arms, and looked infinitely soft and caressing. 
 He remembered how her blue eyes had shone upon 
 him, full of anger, pity, and innocence. And the more 
 
fleu/ /irabiap 
 
 27 
 
 lie dwelt on her perfections, the uglier death looked, 
 and the more deeply was he smitten with penitence at 
 her continued tears. Now he felt that no man could 
 have the courage to leave a world which contained so 
 beautiful a creature ; and now he would have given 
 forty minutes of his last hour to have unsaid his cruel 
 speech. 
 
 Suddenly a hoarse and ragged peal of cockcrow rose 
 to their ears from the dark valley below the windows. 
 And this shattering noise in the silence of all around 
 was like a light in a dark place, and shook them both 
 out of their reflections. 
 
 “Alas, can I do nothing to help you?” she said, 
 looking up. 
 
 “Madam,” replied Denis, with a fine irrelevancy, “if 
 I have said anything to wound you, believe me, it was 
 for your own sake and not for mine.” 
 
 She thanked him with a tearful look. 
 
 “I feel your position cruelly,” he went on. “The 
 world has been bitter hard on you. Your uncle is a 
 disgrace to mankind. Believe me, madam, there is no 
 young gentleman in all France but would be glad of 
 my opportunity, to die in doing you a momentary 
 service.” 
 
 “I know already that you can be very brave and 
 generous,” she answered. “What I want to know is 
 whether I can serve you — now or afterward,” she 
 added, with a quaver. 
 
 “Most certainly,” he answered with a smile. “Let 
 me sit beside you as if I were a friend, instead of a 
 foolish intruder; try to forget how awkwardly we are 
 placed to one another; make my last moments go 
 

 28 U/orKs of Hot^ert C0U15 Steueijjoij 
 
 pleasantly ; and you will do me the chief servie J 
 possible.” 
 
 “You are very gallant,” she added, with a yet 
 deeper sadness .... “very gallant .... and 
 it somehow pains me. But draw nearer, if you please; 
 and if you find anything to say to me, you will at 
 least make certain of a very friendly listener. Ah! 
 Monsieur de Beaulieu,” she broke forth — “ah! Monsieur 
 de Beaulieu, how can I look you in the face?” And 
 she fell to weeping again with a renewed effusion. 
 
 “Madam,” said Denis, taking her hand in both of 
 his, “reflect on the little time I have before me, and 
 the great bitterness into which I am cast by the sight 
 of your distress. Spare me, in my last moments, the 
 spectacle of what I cannot cure even with the sacrifice 
 of my life. ’ ’ 
 
 “I am very selfish,” answered Blanche. “I will be 
 braver. Monsieur de Beaulieu, for your sake. But think 
 if I can do you no kindness in the future — if you 
 have no friends to whom I could carry your adieus. 
 Charge me as heavily as you can; every burden will 
 lighten, by so little, the invaluable gratitude I owe you 
 Put it in my power to do something more for you than 
 weep.” 
 
 “My mother is married again, and has a young 
 family to care for. My brother Guichard will inherit 
 my fiefs; and if I am not in error, that will content 
 him amply for my death. Life is a little vapor that 
 passe th away, as we are told by those in holy orders. 
 When a man is in a fair way and sees all life open 
 in front of him, he seems to himself to make a very 
 important figure in the world. His horse whinnies to 
 
f/eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 39 
 
 him; the trumpets blow and the girls look out of win- 
 dow as he rides into town before his company; he re- 
 ceives many assurances of trust and regard — sometimes 
 by express in a letter — sometimes face to face, with 
 persons of great consequence falling on his neck. It is 
 not wonderful if his head is turned for a time. But 
 once he is dead, were he as brave as Hercules or as 
 wise as Solomon, he is soon forgotten. It is not ten 
 years since my father fell, with many other knights 
 around him, in a very fierce encounter, and I do not 
 think that any one of them, nor so much as the name 
 of the fight, is now remembered. No, no, madam, the 
 nearer you come to it, you see that death is a dark 
 and dusty corner, where a man gets into his tomb and 
 has the door shut after him till the judgment day. I 
 have few friends just now, and once I am dead I 
 shall have none.” 
 
 “Ah, Monsieur de Beaulieu!” she exclaimed, “you 
 forget Blanche de Maletroit.” 
 
 “You have a sweet nature, madam, and you are pleased 
 to estimate a little service far beyond its worth.” 
 
 “It is not that,” she answered. “You mistake me 
 if you think I am so easily touched by my own con- 
 cerns. I say so, because you are the noblest man I 
 have ever met; because I recognize in you a spirit 
 that would have made even a common person famous 
 in the land.” 
 
 “And yet here I die in a mousetrap — with no more 
 noise about it than my own squeaking,” answered he. 
 
 A look of pain crossed her face, and she was silent 
 for a little while. Then a light came into her eyes 
 and with a smile she spoke again. 
 
30 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 “I cannot have my champion think meanly of him- 
 self. Any one who gives his life for another will be 
 met in paradise by all the heralds and angels of the 
 Lord God. And you have no such cause to hang 
 your head. For . . . . Pray, do you think me beau- 
 tiful?” she askedy with a deep flush. 
 
 “Indeed, madam, I do,^’ he said. 
 
 “I am glad of that,” she answered heartily. “Do 
 you think there are many ^ men in Prance who have 
 been asked in marriage by a beautiful maiden — with 
 her own lips — and who have refused her to her face? I 
 know you men would half despise such a triumph; but 
 believe me, we women know more of what is precious 
 in love. There is nothing that should set a person 
 higher in his own esteem; and we women would prize 
 nothing more dearly.” 
 
 “You are very good,” he said; “but you cannot 
 make me forget that I was asked in pity and not 
 
 for love.” 
 
 “I am not so sure of that,” she replied, holding 
 
 down her head. “Hear me to an end, Monsieur de 
 
 Beaulieu. I know how you must despise me; I feel 
 you are right to do so; I am too poor a creature to 
 occupy one thought of your mind, although, alas! you 
 must die for me this morning. But when I asked you 
 to marry me, indeed, and indeed, it was because I re- 
 spected and admired you, and loved you with my whole 
 soul, from the very moment that you took my part 
 against my uncle. If j’-ou had seen yourself, and how 
 noble you looked, you would pity rather than despise 
 
 me. And now,” she went on, hurriedly checking him 
 with her hand, “although I have laid aside all reserve 
 
 4 
 
f<feu; /Hrabiai) 
 
 31 
 
 and told you so much, remember that I know your 
 sentiments toward me already. I would not, believe 
 me, being nobly born, weary you with importunities 
 into consent. I too have a pride of my own: and I 
 declare before the holy mother of God, if you should 
 now go back from your word already given, I would 
 no more marry you than I would marry my uncle’s 
 groom.” 
 
 Denis smiled a little bitterly. 
 
 “It is a small love,” he said, “that shies at a lit- 
 tle pride.” 
 
 She made no answer, although she probably had her 
 own thoughts. 
 
 .“Come hither to the window,” he said with a sigh. 
 “Here is the dawn.” 
 
 And indeed the dawn was already beginning. The 
 hollow of the sky was full of essential daylight, color- 
 less and clean; and the valley underneath was flooded 
 with a gray reflection. A few thin vapors clung in the 
 coves of the forest or lay along the winding course of 
 the river. The scene disengaged a surprising effect of 
 stillness, which was hardly interrupted when the cocks 
 began once more to crow among the steadings. Perhaps 
 the same fellow who had made so horrid a clangor in 
 the darkness not half an hour before, now sent up the 
 merriest cheer to greet the coming day. A little wind 
 went bustling and eddying among the treetops under- 
 neath the windows. And still the daylight kept flood- 
 ing insensibly out of the east, which was soon to grow 
 incandescent and cast up that red-hot cannon-ball, the 
 rising sun. 
 
 Denis looked out over all this with a bit of a shiver. 
 
 I 
 
32 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 He had taken her hand, and retained it in his almost 
 unconsciously. 
 
 “Has the day begun already?” she said; and then, 
 illogically enough: “the night has been so long! Alas! 
 what shall we say to my uncle when he returns?” 
 
 “What you will,” said Denis, and he pressed her 
 fingers in his. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 “Blanche,” he said, with a swift uncertain passionate 
 utterance, “you have seen whether I fear death. You 
 must know well enough that I would as gladly leap 
 out of that window into the empty air as lay a finger 
 on you without your free and full consent. But if you 
 care for me at all do not let me lose my life in a 
 misapprehension ; for I love you better than the whole 
 world; and though I will die for you blithely, it would 
 be like all the joys of Paradise to live on and spend 
 my life in your service.” 
 
 As he stopped speaking, a bell began to ring loudly 
 in the interior of the house; and a clatter of armor in 
 the corridor showed that the retainers were returning to 
 their post, and the two hours were at an end. 
 
 “After all that you have heard?” she whispered, 
 leaning toward him with her lips and eyes. 
 
 “I have heard nothing,” he replied. 
 
 “The captain’s name was Plorimond de Champ- 
 divers,” she said in his ear. 
 
 “I did not hear it,” he answered, taking her supple 
 body in his arms and covering her wet face with kisses. 
 
 A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed 
 by a beautiful chuckle, and the voice of Messire de 
 Maletroit wished his new nephew a good-morning. 
 
J'feu; /irabiaij 
 
 33 
 
 PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Monsieur Leon Berthelini had a great care ot 
 his appearance, and sedulously suited his deportment to 
 the costume of the hour. He affected something Spanish 
 in his air, and something of the bandit, with a flavor 
 of Rembrandt at home. In person he was decidedly 
 small and inclined to be stout; his face was the pict- 
 ure of good-humor; his dark eyes, which were very 
 expressive, told of a kind heart, a brisk merry nature, 
 and the most indefatigable spirits. If he had worn the 
 clothes of the period you would have set him down for 
 a hitherto undiscovered hybrid between the barber, the 
 innkeeper, and the affable dispensing chemist. But in 
 the outrageous bravery of velvet jacket and flapped hat, 
 with trousers that were more accurately described as 
 fleshings, a white handkerchief cavalierly knotted at his 
 neck, a shock of Olympian curls upon his brow, and 
 his feet shod through all weathers in the slenderest of 
 Moliere shoes — you had but to look at him and you 
 knew you were in the presence of a Great Creature. 
 When he wore an overcoat he scorned to pass the 
 sleeves; a single button held it round his shoulders; it 
 was tossed backward after the manner of a cloak, and 
 carried with the gait and presence of an Almaviva. I 
 
, 34 U/orI^5 of Robert Couij Steuei? 50 ij 
 
 am of opinion that M. Berthelini was nearing forty. But 
 he had a boy’s heart, gloried in his finery, and walked 
 through life like a child in a perpetual dramatic per- 
 formance. If he were not Almaviva after all, it was 
 not for lack of making believe. And he enjoyed the 
 artist’s compensation. If he were not really Almaviva, 
 he was sometimes just as happy as though he were. 
 
 I have seen him, at moments when he has fancied 
 himself alone with his Maker, adopt so gay and chiv- 
 alrous a bearing, and represent his own part with so 
 much warmth and conscience, that the illusion became 
 catching, and I believed implicitly in the Great Creat- 
 ure’s pose. 
 
 But, alas! life cannot be entirely conducted on these 
 principles; man cannot live by Alma vi very alone; 
 and the Great Creature, having failed upon several 
 theaters, was obliged to step down every evening from 
 his heights, and sing from half a dozen to a dozen 
 comic songs, twang a guitar, keep a country audience 
 in good humor, and preside finally over the mysteries 
 of a tombola. 
 
 Madame Berthelini, who was art and part with him 
 in these undignified labors, had perhaps a higher posi- 
 tion in the scale of beings, and enjoyed a natural dig- 
 nity of her own. But her heart was not any more 
 rightly placed, for that would have been impossible; 
 and she had acquired a little air of melancholy, attrac- 
 tive enough in its way, but not good to see like the 
 wholesome, sky-scraping, boyish spirits of her lord. 
 
 He, indeed, swam like a kite on a fair wind high 
 above earthly troubles. Detonations of temper were not 
 infrequent in the zones he traveled; but sulky fogs and 
 
/irabiaij 
 
 35 
 
 tearful depressions were there alike unknown. A well- 
 delivered blow upon a table, or a noble attitude, imi- 
 tated from Melingne or Frederic, relieved his irritation 
 like a vengeance. Though the heaven had fallen, if he 
 had plaj^ed his part with propriety, Berthelini had been 
 content! And the man’s atmosphere, if not his example, 
 i*eacted on his wife; for the couple doted on each other, 
 and although you would have thought they walked in 
 different worlds, yet continued to walk hand in hand. 
 
 It chanced one day that Monsieur and Madame 
 Berthelini descended with two boxes and a guitar in a 
 fat case at the station of the little town of Castel-le- 
 Gachis, and the omnibus carried them with their effects 
 to the Hotel of the Black Head. This was a dismal, 
 conventual building in a narrow street, capable of stand- 
 ing siege when once the gates were shut, and smelling 
 strangely in the interior of straw and chocolate and old 
 feminine apparel. Berthelini paused upon the threshold 
 with a painful premonition. In some former state, it 
 seemed to him, he had visited a hostlery that smelled 
 not otherwise, and been ill received. 
 
 The landlord, a tragic person in a large felt hat, 
 rose from a business table under the key-rack, and 
 came forward, removing his hat with both hands as 
 he did so. 
 
 “Sir, I salute you. May I inquire what is your 
 charge for artists?” inquired Berthelini, with a courtesy 
 at once splendid and insinuating. 
 
 “For artists?” said the landlord. His countenance 
 fell and the smile of welcome disappeared. “Oh, art- 
 ists!” he added brutally; “four francs a day.” And 
 he turned his back upon these inconsiderable customers. 
 
36 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi) 
 
 A commercial traveler is received, he also, upon a 
 reduction — yet is he welcome, yet can he command the 
 fatted calf; but an artist, had he the manners of an 
 Almaviva, were he dressed like Solomon in all his glory, 
 is received like a dog and served like a timid lady 
 traveling alone. 
 
 Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his profession, 
 Berthelini was unpleasantly affected by the landlord’s 
 manner. 
 
 “Elvira,” said he to his wife, “mark my words: 
 Castel-le-Gachis is a tragic folly.” 
 
 “Wait till we see what we take,” replied Elvira, 
 r “We shall take nothing,” returned Berthelini; “we 
 shall feed upon insults. I have an eye, Elvira; I have 
 a spirit of divination; and this place is accursed. The 
 landlord has been discourteous, the Commissary will be 
 brutal, the audience will be sordid and uproarious, and 
 you will take a cold upon your throat. We have been 
 besotted enough to come; the die is cast — it will be a 
 second Sedan.” 
 
 Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, not 
 only from patriotism (for they were French, and an- 
 swered after the flesh to the somewhat homely name 
 of Duval), but because it had been the scene of their 
 most sad reverses. In that place they had lain three 
 weeks in pawn for their hotel bill, and had it not been 
 for a surprising stroke of fortune they might have been 
 lying there in pawn until this day. To mention the 
 name of Sedan was for the Berthelinis to dip the brush 
 in earthquake and eclipse. Count Almaviva slouched 
 his hat with a gesture expressive of despair, and even 
 Elvira felt as if ill-fortune had been personally invoked* 
 
f/eu; /irabiai? )Vi<}l7ts 
 
 37 
 
 “Let us ask for breakfast,” said she, with a wo- 
 man’s tact. 
 
 The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis was a 
 large red Commissary, pimpled, and subject to a strong 
 cutaneous transpiration. I have repeated the name of 
 his office because he was so very much more a Com- 
 missary than a man. The spirit of his dignity had en- 
 tered into him. He carried his corporation as if it were 
 something official. Whenever he insulted a common citi- 
 zen it seemed to him as if he were adroitly flattering 
 the Government by a side wind; in default of dignity 
 he was brutal from an overweening sense of duty. His 
 office was a den, whence passers-by could hear rudQ 
 accents laying down, not the law, but the good pleas- 
 ure of the Commissary. 
 
 Six several times in the course of the day did M. 
 Berthelini hurry thither in quest of the requisite per- 
 mission for his evening’s entertainment; six several 
 times he found the official was abroad. Leon Berthe- 
 lini began to grow quite a familiar flgure in the streets 
 of Castel-le-Gachis ; he became a local celebrity, and 
 was pointed out as “the man who was looking for the 
 Commissary.” Idle children attached themselves to his 
 footsteps, and trotted after him back and forward be- 
 tween the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he 
 liked ; he might roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he 
 might cock his hat at a dozen different jaunty inclina- 
 tions — the part of Almaviva was, under the circum- 
 stances, difficult to play. 
 
 Ao he passed the market-place upon the seventh ex- 
 cursicn the Commissary was pointed out to him, where 
 he stDod, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hands 
 
38 - ‘ 
 
 U/or^5 of I^obert Couij Steuep50Q 
 
 behind his back, to superintend the sale and measure- 
 ment of butter. Berthelini threaded his way through 
 the market stalls and baskets, and accosted the digni- 
 tary with a bow which was a triumph of the histrionic 
 art. 
 
 “I have the honor,” he asked, “of meeting M. le 
 Gommissaire?’ ’ 
 
 The Commissary was affected by the nobility of his 
 address. He excelled Leon in the depth if not in the 
 airy grace of his salutation. 
 
 “The honor,” said he, “is mine!” 
 
 “I am,” continued the strolling-player, “I am, sir, 
 an artist, and I have permitted myself to interrupt you 
 on an affair of business. To night I give a trifling 
 musical entertainment at the Cafe of the Triumphs of 
 the Plow — permit me to offer you this little programme 
 — and I have come to ask you for the necessary 
 authorization.” 
 
 At the word “artist,” the Commissary had replaced 
 his hat with the air of a person who, having conde- 
 scended too far, should suddenly remember the duties 
 of his rank. 
 
 “Go, go,” said he, “I am busy — I am measuring 
 butter.” 
 
 “Heathen Jew!” thought Leon. “Permit me, sir,” 
 he resumed, aloud. “I have gone six times already — ” 
 
 “Put up your bills if you choose,” interrupted the 
 Commissary. “In an hour or so I will examine your 
 papers at the office. But now go; I am busy.” 
 
 “Measuring butter!” thought Berthelini. “Oh, France, 
 and it is for this that we made ’93!” 
 
 The preparations were soon made; the bills posted, 
 
flfcu; /Irabiaij 
 
 39 
 
 programmes laid on the dinner-table of every hotel in 
 the town, and a stage erected at one end of the Cafe 
 of the Triumphs of the Plow; but when Leon returned 
 to the office, the Commissary was once more abroad. 
 
 “He is like Madame Benoiton,” thought Leon, “Fichu 
 Commissaire !” 
 
 And just then he met the man face to face. 
 
 “Here, sir,” said he, “are my papers. Will you be 
 pleased to verify?” 
 
 But the Commissary was now intent upon dinner. 
 
 “Ho use,” he replied, “no use; I am busy; I am 
 quite satisfied. Grive your entertainment.” 
 
 And he hurried on. 
 
 “Fichu Commissaire!” thought Leon. 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 The audience was pretty large; and the proprietor 
 of the cafe made a good thing of it in beer. But the 
 Berthelinis exerted themselves in vain. 
 
 Leon was radiant in velveteen ; he had a rakish 
 way of smoking a cigarette between his songs that was 
 worth money in itself; he underlined his comic points, 
 so that the dullest numskull in Castel-le-Gachis had a 
 notion when to laugh; and he handled his guitar in 
 a manner worthy of himself. Indeed his play with that 
 instrument was as good as a whole romantic drama; it 
 was so dashing, so florid, and so cavalier. 
 
 Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic and 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 27 
 
40 - U/orK5 of Hot>oi"fc Couis Stev/epsoi? 
 
 y 
 
 romantic songs with more than usual expression; her 
 voice had charm and plangency; and as Leon looked 
 at her, in her low-bodied maroon dress, with her arms 
 bare to the shoulder, and a red flower set provocatively 
 in her corset, he repeated to himself for the many hun- 
 dredth time that she was one of the loveliest creatures 
 in the world of women. 
 
 Alas! when she went round with the tambourine^ 
 the golden youth of Castel-le-Gachis turned from her 
 coldly. Here and there a single halfpenny was forth- 
 coming; the net result of a collection never exceeded 
 half a franc; and the Maire himself, after seven differ- 
 ent applications, had contributed exactly twopence. A 
 certain chill began to settle upon the artists themselves; 
 it seemed as if they were singing to slugs; Apollo him- 
 self might have lost heart with such an audience. The 
 Berthelinis struggled against the impression; they put 
 their back into their work, they sang loud and louder, 
 the guitar twanged like a living thing; and at last 
 Leon arose in his might, and burst with inimitable 
 conviction into his great song, “Y a des honnetes gens 
 partout!” Never had he given more proof of his artis- 
 tic mastery; it was his intimate, indefeasible conviction 
 that Castel-le-Gachis formed an exception to the law 
 he was now lyrically proclaiming, and was peopled ex- 
 clusively by thieves and bullies; and yet, as I say, he 
 flung it down like a challenge, he trolled it forth like 
 an article of faith; and his face so beamed the while 
 that you would have thought he must make converts 
 of the benches. 
 
 He was at the top of his register, with his head 
 thrown back and his mouth open, when the door was » 
 
f/eiu /Irabiap 
 
 41 
 
 thrown violently open, and a pair of new comers 
 marched noisily into the cafe. It was the Commissary, 
 followed by the Garde Champetre. 
 
 The undaunted Berthelini still continued to proclaim, 
 “Y a des honnetes gens partout!” But now the senti- 
 ment produced an audible titter among the audience. 
 Berthelini wondered why; he did not know the ante- 
 cedents of the Garde Champetre ; he had never heard 
 of a little story about postage stamps. But the public 
 knew all about the postage stamps and enjoyed the 
 coincidence hugely. 
 
 The Commissary planted himself upon a vacant chair 
 with somewhat the air of Cromwell visiting the Eump, 
 and spoke in occasional whispers to the Garde Cham- 
 petre, who remained respectfully standing at his back. 
 The eyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, who 
 persisted in his statement. 
 
 “Y a des honnetes gens partout,” he was just 
 chanting for the twentieth time ; when up got the 
 Commissary upon his feet and waved brutally to the 
 singer with his cane. 
 
 “Is it me you want?” inquired Leon, stopping in 
 his song. 
 
 “It is you,” replied the potentate. 
 
 “Fichu Commissaire!” thought Leon, and he de- 
 scended from the stage and made his way to the 
 functionary. 
 
 “How does it happen, sir,” said the Commissary, 
 swelling in person, “that I find you mountebanking in 
 a public cafe without my permission?” 
 
 “Without?” cried the indignant Leon. “Permit me 
 to remind you — ” 
 
4:3 U/orl^5 of I^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 “Come, come, sir!” said the Commissary, “I desire 
 no explanations.” 
 
 “I care nothing about what you desire,” returned 
 the singer. “I choose to give them, and I will not be 
 gagged. I am an artist, sir, a distinction that you can- 
 not comprehend. I received your permission and stand 
 here upon the strength of it; interfere with me who 
 dare.” 
 
 “You have not got my signature, I tell you,” cried 
 the Commissary. “Show me my signature! Where is 
 my signature?” 
 
 That was just the question; where was his signature? 
 Leon recognized that he was in a hole; but his spirit 
 rose with the occasion, and he blustered nobly, tossing 
 back his curls. The Commissary played up to him in 
 the character of tyrant; and as the one leaned further 
 forward, the other leaned further back — majesty con- 
 fronting fury. The audience had transferred their atten- 
 tion to this new performance, and listened with that 
 silent gravity common to all Frenchmen in the neigh- 
 borhood of the Police. Elvira had sat down; she was 
 used to these distractions, and it was rather melancholy 
 than fear that now oppressed her. 
 
 “Another word,” cried the Commissary, “and f 
 arrest you.” 
 
 “Arrest me?” shouted Leon. “I defy you!” 
 
 “I am the Commissary of Police,” said the official. 
 
 Leon commanded his feelings, and replied, with great 
 delicacy of innuendo; “So it would appear.” 
 
 The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gachis; it did 
 not raise a smile; and as for the Commissary, he sim- 
 ply bade the singer follow him to his office, and 
 
fleu; /irabiap 
 
 43 
 
 directed his proud footsteps toward the door. There was 
 nothing for it but to obey. Leon did so with a proper 
 pantomime of indifference, but it was a leek to eat, 
 and there was no denying it. 
 
 The Maire had slipped out and was already waiting 
 at the Commissary’s door. Wow the Maire, in France, 
 is the refuge of the oppressed. He stands between his 
 people and the boisterous rigors of the Police. He can 
 sometimes understand what is said to him; he is not 
 always puffed up beyond measure by his dignity. ’Tis 
 a thing worth the knowledge of travelers. When all 
 seems over, and a man has made up his mind to in- 
 justice, he has still, like the heroes of romance, a little 
 bugle at his belt whereon to blow; and the Maire, a 
 comfortable deus ex machina, may still descend to de- 
 liver him from the minions of the law. The Maire of 
 Castel-le-Gachis, although inaccessible to the charms of 
 music as retailed by the Berthelinis, had no hesitation 
 whatever as to the rights of the matter. He instantly 
 fell foul of the Commissary in very high terms, and 
 the Commissary, pricked by this humiliation, accepted 
 battle on the point of fact. The argument lasted some 
 little while with varying success, until at length victory 
 inclined so plainly to the Commissary’s side that the 
 Maire was fain to re-assert himself by an exercise of 
 authority. He had been out-argued, but he was still 
 the Maire. And so, turning from his interlocutor, he 
 briefly but kindly recommended Leon to get back 
 instanter to his concert. 
 
 “It is already growing late,” he added. 
 
 Leon did not wait to be told twice. He returned to 
 the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plow with all expe- 
 
44 U/orK5 of Robert Couis Steueij 5 op 
 
 dition. Alas! the audience had melted away during his 
 absence; Elvira was sitting in a very disconsolate atti- 
 tude on the guitar-box; she had watched the company 
 dispersing by twos and threes, and the prolonged spec- 
 tacle had somewhat overwjielmed her spirits. Each man, 
 she reflected, retired with a certain proportion of her 
 earnings in his pocket, and she saw to-night’s board 
 and to-morrow’s railway expenses, and finally even to- 
 morrow’s dinner, walk one after another out of the cafe 
 door and disappear into the night. 
 
 “What was it?” she asked, languidly. 
 
 But Leon did not answer. He was looking round 
 him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a score of listeners 
 remained, and these of the least promising sort. The 
 minute hand of the clock was already climbing upward 
 toward eleven. 
 
 “It’s a lost battle,” said he, and then, taking up 
 the money-box, he turned it out. “Three francs seventy- 
 five!” he cried, “as against four of board and six of 
 railway fares; and no time for the tombola! Elvira, 
 this is Waterloo.” And he sat down and passed both 
 hands desperately among his curls. “O Fichu Commis- 
 saire!” he cried, “Fichu Commissaire!” 
 
 “Let us get the things together and be off,” returned 
 Elvira. “We might try another song, but there is not 
 six halfpence in the room.” 
 
 “Six , halfpence?” cried Leon, “six hundred thousand 
 devils! There is not a human creature in the town — 
 nothing but pigs and dogs and commissaires ! Pray 
 
 Heaven, we get safe to bed.” 
 
 “Don’t imagine things!” exclaimed Elvira, with a 
 shudder. 
 
I'(eu7 /irabiarj 
 
 45 
 
 And with that they set to work on their preparations. 
 The tobacco- jar, the cigarette-holder, the three papers 
 of shirt-studs, which were to have been the prizes of 
 the tombola had the tombola come off, were made into 
 a bundle with the music; the guitar was stowed into 
 the fat guitar-case; and Elvira having thrown a thin 
 shawl about her neck and shoulders, the pair issued 
 from the cafe and set off for the Black Head. 
 
 As they crossed the market-place the church bell rang 
 out eleven. It was a dark, mild night, and there was 
 no one in the streets. 
 
 “It is all very fine,” said Leon: “but I have a 
 presentiment. The night is not yet done.” 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 The “Black Head” presented not a single chink of 
 light upon the street, and the carriage gate was closed. 
 
 “This is unprecedented,” observed Leon. “An inn 
 closed by five minutes after eleven! And there were 
 several commercial travelers in the cafe up to a late 
 hour. Elvira, my heart misgives me. Let us ring the 
 bell.” 
 
 The bell had a potent note; and being swung under 
 the arch it filled the house from top to bottom with 
 surly, clanging reverberations. The sound accentuated 
 the conventual appearance of the building; a wintry sen- 
 timent, a thought of prayer and mortification, took hold 
 upon Elvira’s mind; and, as for Leon, he seemed to 
 be reading the stage directions for a lugubrious fifth act. 
 
46 
 
 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “This is your fault,” said Elvira; “this is what 
 comes of fancying things!” 
 
 Again Leon pulled the bell-rope; again the solemn 
 tocsin awoke the echoes of the inn; and ere they had 
 died away, a light glimmered in the carriage entrance, 
 and a powerful voice was heard upraised and tremulous 
 with wrath. 
 
 “What’s all this?” cried the tragic host through the 
 spars of the gate. “Hard upon twelve, and you come 
 clamoring like Prussians at the door of a respectable 
 hotel? Oh!” he cried, “I know you now! Common 
 singers! People in trouble with the police! And you 
 present yourselves at midnight like lords and ladies? 
 Be off with vou!” 
 
 “You will permit me to remind you,” replied Leon, 
 in thrilling tones, “that I am a guest in your house, 
 that I am properly inscribed, and that I have deposited 
 baggage to the value of four hundred francs.” 
 
 “You cannot get in at this hour,” returned the 
 man. “This is no thieves’ tavern, for mohocks and 
 night rakes and organ-grinders.” 
 
 “Brute!” cried Elvira, for the organ-grinders touched 
 her home. 
 
 “Then I demand my baggage,” said Leon, with 
 unabated dignity. 
 
 “I know nothing of your baggage,” replied the landlord. 
 
 “You detain my baggage? You dare to detain my 
 baggage?” cried the singer. 
 
 “Who are you?” returned the landlord. “It is dark 
 — I cannot recognize you.” 
 
 “Very well, then — you detain my baggage,” con- 
 cluded Leon. “You shall smart for this. I will weary 
 
I'feu; /Irabiaij 
 
 47 
 
 out your life with persecutions; I will drag you from 
 court to court; if there is justice to be had in France, 
 it shall be rendered between you and me. And I will 
 make you a by-word — I will put you in a song— a 
 scurrilous song — an indecent song — a popular song — which 
 the boys shall sing to you in the street, and come and 
 howl through these spars at midnight!” 
 
 He had gone on raising his voice at every phrase, 
 for all the while the landlord was very placidly retiring; 
 and now, when the last glimmer of light had vanished 
 from the arch, and tbe last footstep died away in the 
 interior, Leon turned to his wife with a heroic coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 “Elvira,” said he, “I have now a duty in life. I 
 shall destroy that man as Eugene Sue destroyed the 
 concierge. Let us come at once to the Gendarmerie 
 and begin our vengeance.” 
 
 He picked up the guitar-case, which had been propped 
 against the wall, and they set forth through the silent 
 and ill-lighted town with burning hearts. 
 
 The Gendarmerie was concealed beside the telegraph 
 office at the bottom of a vast court, which was partly 
 laid out in gardens; and here all the shepherds of the 
 public lay locked in grateful sleep. It took a deal of 
 knocking to waken one; and he, when he came at last 
 to the door, could find no other remark but that “it 
 was none of his business.” Leon reasoned with him^ 
 threatened him, besought him: “Here,” he said, “was 
 Madam Berthelini in evening dress — a delicate woman — 
 in an interesting condition” — the last was thrown in, I 
 fancy, for effect; and to all this the man-at-arms made 
 the same answer: 
 
48 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuei)6op 
 
 “It is none of my business,” said he. 
 
 “Very well,” said Leon, “then we shall go to the 
 Commissary.” Thither they went; the office was closed 
 and dark; but the house was close by, and Leon was 
 soon swinging the bell like a madman. The Commis- 
 sary’s wife appeared at a window. She was a thread- 
 paper creature, and informed them that the Commissary 
 had not yet come home. 
 
 “Is he at the Maire’s?” demanded Leon. 
 
 She thought that was not unlikely. 
 
 “Where is the Maire’s house?” he asked. 
 
 And she gave him some rather vague information 
 on that point. 
 
 “Stay you here, Elvira,” said Leon, “lest I should 
 miss him by the way. If, when I return, I find you 
 here no longer, I shall follow at once to the Black 
 Head.” 
 
 And he set out to find the Maire’s. It took him 
 some ten minutes wandering among blind lanes, and 
 when he arrived it was already half an hour past mid- 
 night. A long white garden wall overhung by some 
 thick chestnuts, a door with a letter-box, and an iron 
 bell-pull, that was all that could be seen of the Maire’s 
 domicile. Leon took the bell-pull in both hands, and 
 danced furiously upon the sidewalk. The bell itself was 
 just upon the other side of the wall, it responded to 
 his activity, and scattered an alarming clangor far and 
 wide into the night. 
 
 A window was thrown open in a house across the 
 street, and a voice inquired the cause of this imtimely 
 uproar. 
 
 “I wish the Maire,” said Leon. 
 
J»(eu; /Irabiaij 
 
 49 
 
 “He has been in bed this hour,” returned the voice. 
 
 “He must get up again,” retorted Leon, and he was 
 for tackling the bell-pull once more. 
 
 “You will never make him hear,” responded the 
 voice. “The garden is of great extent, the house is at 
 the further end, and both the Maire and his housekeeper 
 are deaf.” 
 
 “Aha!” said Leon, pausing. “The Maire is deaf, is 
 he? That explains.” And he thought of the evening’s 
 concert with a momentary feeling of relief. “Ah!” he 
 continued, “and so the Maire is deaf, and the garden 
 vast, and the house at the far end?” 
 
 “And you might ring all night,” added the voice, 
 “and be none the better for it. You would only keep 
 me awake.” 
 
 “Thank you, neighbor,” replied the singer. “You 
 shall sleep.” 
 
 And he made off again at his best pace for the 
 Commissary’s. Elvira was still walking to and fro 
 before the door. 
 
 “He has not come?” asked Leon. 
 
 “Not he,” she replied. 
 
 “Good,” returned Leon. “I am sure our man’s 
 inside. Let me see the guitar case. I shall lay this 
 siege in form, Elvira; I am angry; I am indignant; I 
 am truculently inclined; but I thank my Maker I have 
 still a sense of fun. The unjust judge shall be impor- 
 tuned in a serenade, Elvira. Set him up — and set him 
 up.” 
 
 He had the case opened by this time, struck a few 
 chords, and fell into an attitude which was irresistibly 
 Spanish. 
 
60 U/orl^5 of F^obert C 0 U 15 Steuerjjoij 
 
 “Now,” he continued, “feel your voice. Are you 
 ready? Follow me!” 
 
 The guitar twanged, and the two voices upraised, in 
 harmony and with a startling loudness, the chorus of 
 a song of old Beranger’s: 
 
 “ Commissairel Commissaire! 
 
 Colin bat sa menagere.” 
 
 The stones of Castel-le-Gachis thrilled at this auda- 
 cious innovation. Hitherto had the night been sacred to 
 repose and nightcaps; and now what was this? Window 
 after window was opened; matches scratched, and can- 
 dles began to flicker; swollen sleepy faces peered forth 
 into the starlight. There were the two flgures before 
 the Commissary’s house, each bolt upright, with head 
 thrown back and eyes interrogating the starry heavens; 
 the guitar wailed, shouted, and reverberated like half an 
 orchestra; and the voices, with a crisp and spirited 
 delivery, hurled the appropriate burden at the Commis- 
 sary’s window. All the echoes repeated the function- 
 ary’s name. It was more like an entr’acte in a farce 
 of Moliere’s than a passage of real life in Castel-le- 
 Gachis. 
 
 The Commissary, if he was not the first was not 
 the last of the neighbors to yield to the influence of 
 music, and furiously throw open the window of his 
 bedroom. He was beside himself with rage. He leaned 
 far over the window-sill, raving and gesticulating; the 
 tassel of his white nightcap danced like a thing of life: 
 he opened his mouth to dimensions hitherto unprece- 
 dented, and yet his voice, instead of escaping from it 
 in a roar, came forth shrill and choked and tottering. 
 
J'/eu; /irabiaij 
 
 61 
 
 A little more serenading, and it was clear he would be 
 better acquainted with the apoplexy. 
 
 I scorn to reproduce his language; he touched upon 
 too many serious topics by the way for a quiet story- 
 teller. Although he was known for a man who was 
 prompt with his tongue, and had a power of strong 
 expression at command, he excelled himself so remark- 
 ably this night that one maiden lady, who had got out 
 of bed like the rest to hear the serenade, was obliged 
 to shut her window at the second clause. Even what 
 she had heard disquieted her conscience; and next day 
 she said she scarcely reckoned as a maiden lady any 
 longer. 
 
 Leon tried to explain his predicament, but he re- 
 ceived nothing but threats of arrest by way of answer. 
 “If I come down to you!” cried the Commissary. 
 “Ay,” said Leon, “do!” 
 
 “I will not!” cried the Commissary. 
 
 “You dare not!” answered Leon. 
 
 At that the Commissary closed his window. 
 
 “All is over,” said the singer. “The serenade was per- 
 haps ill-judged. These boors have no sense of humor.” 
 “Let us get away from here,” said Elvira, with a 
 shiver. “All these people looking — it is so rude and so 
 brutal.” And then giving way once more to passion — 
 “Brutes!” she cried aloud to the candle-lighted specta- 
 tors — ‘ ‘ brutes ! brutes ! brutes ! ” 
 
 “Sauve qui peut,” said Leon. “You have done it now!” 
 And taking the guitar in one hand and the case in 
 the other, he led the way with something too precipi- 
 tate to be merely called precipitation from the scene of 
 this absurd adventure. 
 
52 
 
 U/orl^s of r^obcrt Couis Steuepsoi) 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 To the west of Castel-le-Gacliis four rows of vener- 
 able lime trees formed, in this starry night, a twilighted 
 avenue with two side aisles of pitch darkness. Here 
 and there stone benches were disposed between the 
 trunks. There was not a breath of wind ; a heavy 
 atmosphere of perfume hung about the alleys; and every 
 leaf stood stock-still upon its twig. Hither, after vainly 
 knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came at 
 length to pass the night. After an amiable contention, 
 Leon insisted on giving his coat to Elvira, and they 
 sat down together on the first bench in silence. Leon 
 made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, looking 
 up into the trees and, beyond them, at the constella- 
 tions, of which he tried vainly to recall the names. 
 The silence was broken by the church bell; it rang the 
 four quarters on a light and tinkling measure ; then 
 followed a single deep stroke that died slowly away with 
 a thrill; and stillness resumed its empire. 
 
 “One,” said Leon. “Four hours till daylight. It is 
 warm; it is starry; I have matches and tobacco. Do 
 not let us exaggerate, Elvira — the experience is posi- 
 tively charming. I feel a glow within me; I am born 
 again. This is the poetry of life. Think of Cooper’s 
 novels, my dear.” 
 
 “Leon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk such 
 wicked, infamous nonsense? To pass all night out of 
 doors — ^it is like a nightmare! We shall die.” 
 
fleu; /irabiaij 
 
 53 
 
 *‘You suffer yourself to be led away,” be replied 
 soothingly. “It is not unpleasant here; only you brood. 
 Come now, let us repeat a scene. Shall we try Alceste 
 and Celirnene? No? Or a passage from the ‘Two Or- 
 phans’? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will 
 play up to you as I never have played before; I feel 
 art moving in my bones.” 
 
 “Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will drive 
 me mad! Will nothing solemnize you — not even this 
 hideous situation?” 
 
 “Oh, hideous!” objected Leon. “Hideous is not the 
 word. Why, where would you be? ‘Dites, la jeune 
 belle, ou voulez-vous aller?’ ” he caroled. “Well, now,” 
 he went on, opening the guitar-case, “there’s another 
 idea for you — sing. Sing ‘Dites, la jeune belle’! It 
 will compose your spirits, Elvira. I am sure.” 
 
 And without waiting an answer he began to strum 
 a symphony. The first chords awoke a young man who 
 was lying asleep upon a neighboring bench. 
 
 “Hullo!” cried the young man, “who are you?” 
 “Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed the artist. 
 “Speak or die!” 
 
 Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to 
 much the same purpose from a French tragedy. 
 
 The young man drew near in the twilight. He was 
 a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat 
 puffy face, dressed in a gray tweed suit, with a deer- 
 stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came 
 forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm. 
 
 “Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a 
 strong English accent. “I’m not sorry for company.” 
 Leon explained their misadventure ; and the other 
 
54 
 
 U/orl^5 of l^obert C0U15 Steue^soi) 
 
 told them that he was a Cambridge undergraduate on 
 a walking tour, that he had run short of money, could 
 no longer pay for his night’s lodging, had already been 
 camping out for two nights, and feared he should re- 
 quire to continue the same maneuver for at least two 
 nights more. 
 
 “Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded. 
 
 “You hear that, Elvira,” said Leon. “Madame Ber- 
 thelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected by this 
 trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic 
 and far from uncomfortable; or at least,” he added, 
 shifting on the stone bench, “not quite so uncomfortable 
 as might have been expected. But pray be seated.” 
 “Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting down, 
 “it’s rather nice than otherwise when once you’re used 
 to it; only it’s devilish difficult to get washed. I like 
 the fresh air and these stars and things.” 
 
 “Aha!” said Leon, “Monsieur is an artist.” 
 
 “An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. 
 “Not if I know it!” 
 
 “Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this 
 moment about the orbs of heaven — ” 
 
 “Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow 
 may admire the stars and be anything he likes.” 
 
 “You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr.^ — I beg 
 your pardon; may I, without indiscretion, inquire your 
 name?” asked Leon. 
 
 “My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman. 
 
 “I thank you,” returned Leon. “Mine is Berthelini — 
 Leon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theaters of Montrouge, 
 Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I 
 have created with applause more than one important 
 
I'/eu; /irabiaij 
 
 55 
 
 role. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howl- 
 ing Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same 
 name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is her- 
 self an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better 
 artist than her husband. She also is a creator; she 
 created nearly twenty successful songs at one of the 
 principal Parisian music halls. But, to continue, I was 
 saying you had an artist's nature. Monsieur Stubbs, and 
 you must permit me to be a judge in such a question. 
 I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me beseech 
 you to follow the career of an artist.” 
 
 “Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m 
 going to be a banker.” 
 
 “No,” said Leon, “do not say so. Not that. A man 
 with such a nature as yours should not derogate so 
 far. What are a few privations here and there, so long 
 as you are working for a high and noble goal?” 
 
 “This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but the wo- 
 man’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if 
 you come to that.” What he said was different. “I 
 thought you said you were an actor?” 
 
 “I certainly did so,” replied Leon. “I am one, or, 
 alas! I was.” 
 
 “And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” 
 continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I could 
 never so much as learn the stuff; my memory’s like 
 a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a 
 cat.” 
 
 “The stage is not the only course,” said Leon. “Be 
 a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow 
 your heart, in short, and do some thorough work be- 
 fore you die.” 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. 1—23 
 
56 U/orl^5 of Robert Couij Steueijsoi? 
 
 “And do you call all these things artf' inquired Stubhs. 
 
 “Why, certainly I” returned Leon. “Are they not 
 all branches?” 
 
 “Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I 
 thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.” 
 
 The singer stared at him in some surprise. 
 
 “It is the difference of language,” he said at last. 
 “This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for 
 it? If I could speak English you would follow me 
 more readily.” 
 
 “Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” 
 replied the other. “You seem to have thought a devil 
 of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire 
 the stars, and like to have them shining — ^it’s so cheery 
 — ^but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do 
 with art! It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intel- 
 lectual; I have no end of trouble to scrape through my 
 exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad sort at 
 bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked dis- 
 tressed even in the dim starshine, “and I rather like 
 the play, and music, and guitars, and things.” 
 
 Leon had a perception that the understanding was 
 incomplete. He changed the subject. 
 
 “And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How 
 romantic! How courageous! And how are you pleased 
 with my land? How does the scenery affect you among 
 these wild hills of ours?” 
 
 “Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs— he was about to 
 say that he didn’t care for scenery, which was not at 
 all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic un- 
 dergraduate pretension; but he had begun to suspect 
 that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and sub- 
 
/Irabiap 
 
 57 
 
 stituted something else — “The fact is, I think it jolly. 
 They told me it was no good up here; even the guide- 
 book said so; but I don’t know what they meant. I 
 think it is deuced pretty — upon my word, I do.” 
 
 At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, 
 Elvira burst into tears. 
 
 “My voice!” she cried. “Leon, if I stay here longer 
 I shall lose my voice!” 
 
 “You shall not stay another moment,” cried the 
 actor. “If I have to beat in a door, if I have to 
 burn the town, I shall find you shelter.” 
 
 With that, he replaced the guitar, and comforting 
 her with some caresses, drew her arm through his. 
 
 “Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking off his hat, “the 
 reception I offer you is rather problematical ; but let 
 me be seech you to give us the pleasure of your so- 
 ciety. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; 
 you must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be 
 necessary. I ask it as a favor; we must not part so 
 soon after having met so strangely.” 
 
 “Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a 
 fellow like you — ” And there he paused, feeling some- 
 how or other on a wrong tack. 
 
 “I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Leon, 
 with a smile; “but if you refuse, indeed I shall not 
 take it kindly.” 
 
 “I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought the 
 undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he said, aloud 
 and ungraciously enough, “All right. I — I’m very much 
 obliged, of course.” And he proceeded to follow them, 
 thinking in his heart, “But it’s bad form, all the same, 
 to force an obligation on a fellow.” 
 
68 
 
 U/orKs of HotiOJ't Couij Steueijsoi) 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 Leon strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he 
 was going; the sobs of Madame were still faintly audi- 
 ble, and no one uttered a word. A dog barked furi- 
 ously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church 
 clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or 
 preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini 
 spied a light. It burned in a small house on the out- 
 skirts of the town, and thither the party now directed 
 their steps. 
 
 “It is always a chance,” said Leon. 
 
 The house in question stood back from the street 
 behind an open space, part garden, part turnip-field ; 
 and several outhouses stood forward from either wing 
 at right angles to the front. One of these had recently 
 undergone some change. An enormous window, looking 
 toward the north, had been effected in the wall and 
 roof, and Leon began to hope it was a studio. 
 
 “If it’s only a painter,” he said, with a chuckle, 
 “ten to one we get as good a welcome as we want.” 
 
 “I thought painters were principally poor,” said 
 Stubbs. 
 
 “Ah!” cried Leon, “you do not know the world as 
 I do. The poorer the better for us.” 
 
 And the trio advanced into the turnip-field. 
 
 The light was in the ground floor; as one window 
 was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, 
 
I^eu; /irabiai) 
 
 59 
 
 it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in 
 one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremu- 
 lousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live 
 fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice 
 now became audible ; and the trespassers paused to 
 listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had 
 still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utter- 
 ance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; 
 a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and 
 again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker 
 reckoned on its virtue. 
 
 Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was 
 a woman’s; and if the man were angry, the woman 
 was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that 
 absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; 
 that colorless unnatural speech which shows a spirit ac- 
 curately balanced between homicide and hysterics; the 
 tone in which the best of women sometimes utter words 
 worse than death to those most dear to them. If Ab- 
 stract Bones-and-Sepulcher were to be endowed with the 
 gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would it dis- 
 course. Leon was a brave man, and I fear he was 
 somewhat skeptically given (he had been educated in a 
 Papistical country), but the habit of childhood pre- 
 vailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had met 
 several women in his career. It was obvious that his 
 instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke 
 forth instantly in a towering passion. 
 
 The undergraduate, who had not understood the 
 significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his 
 ears at the change upon the man. 
 
 “There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined. 
 
60 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Stev/epsor? 
 
 There was another retort from the woman, still calm 
 but a little higher. • 
 
 “Hysterics?” asked Leon of his wife. “Is that the 
 stage direction?” 
 
 “How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat 
 tartly. 
 
 “Oh, woman, woman!” said Leon, beginning to open 
 the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life. 
 Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always 
 pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even 
 Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!” 
 
 “You are heartless, Leon,” said Elvira; “that wo- 
 man is in trouble.” 
 
 “And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, 
 passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, 
 m’amour?” 
 
 “He is a man,” she answered. 
 
 “You hear that?” said Leon to Stubbs. “It is not 
 too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he 
 continued, “what are we to give them?” 
 
 “Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs. 
 
 “I am a troubadour,” replied Leon. “I claim a 
 welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could 
 I do as much?” 
 
 “Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered 
 the undergraduate. 
 
 “Egad,” said Leon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that 
 is true.” 
 
 “Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know 
 it?” 
 
 “My dear,” answered Leon, impressively, “I know 
 nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of 
 
J\feu; /Irabiap 
 
 61 
 
 life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what 
 are we to give them? It should be something appro- 
 priate.” 
 
 , Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the 
 undergraduate’s mind; but it occurred to him that the 
 poetry was English and that he did not know the air. 
 Hence he contributed no suggestion. 
 
 “Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira. 
 
 “I have it,” cried Leon. And he broke forth into 
 a song of Pierre Dupont’s: 
 
 Savez-vous oil gite 
 Mai, ce joli mois? 
 
 Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear 
 and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the 
 music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situa- 
 tion. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigal- 
 ity and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven 
 in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed 
 to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause 
 to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for 
 a chorus. That is one of the best features of the 
 heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in par- 
 ticular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who 
 managed to get along without encouragement, is always 
 the world’s center for himself. 
 
 He alone — and it is to be noted, he was the worst 
 singer of the three — took the music seriously to heart, 
 and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of 
 view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about 
 their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the 
 whole affair in the light of a broad joke. 
 
62 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?’’’ 
 went the three voices in the turnip-field. 
 
 The inhabitants were plainly fiuttered ; the light 
 moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling 
 in another; and then the door was thrown open, and 
 a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying 
 a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewil- 
 dered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse 
 was stained with oil-colors in a harlequinesque disorder; 
 and there was something rural in the droop and baggi- 
 ness of his belted trousers. 
 
 From immediately behind him, and indeed over his 
 shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into the darkness; 
 it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it 
 wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be 
 quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and 
 sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain 
 drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when 
 the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain 
 pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as 
 both the mildness and the asperity were characters of 
 youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would 
 merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper. 
 
 “What is all this?” cried the man. 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 Leon had his hat in his hand at once. He came 
 forward with his customary grace; it was a moment 
 which would have earned him a round of cheering on 
 
)'(eu; /irabiaij 
 
 63 
 
 tJie stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, 
 like a couple of Admetus’s sheep following the god 
 Apollo. 
 
 “Sir,” said Leon, “the hour is unpardonably late, 
 and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. 
 Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, 
 I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and 
 without shelter, one a woman — a delicate woman — in 
 evening dress — in an interesting situation. This will not 
 fail to touch the woman’s heart of Madame, whom I 
 perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and 
 whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. 
 Ah! Monsieur, Madame — one generous movement, and 
 you make three people happy! Two or three hours be- 
 side your fire — I ask it of Monsieur in the name of 
 Art — I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of woman- 
 hood.” 
 
 The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from 
 the door. 
 
 “Come in,” said the man. 
 
 “Entrez, Madame,” said the woman. 
 
 The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the 
 house, which was to all appearance the only sitting- 
 room. The furniture was both plain and scanty; but 
 there were one or two landscapes, on the wall hand- 
 somely framed, as if they had already visited the com- 
 mittee-rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded. 
 Leon walked up to the pictures and represented the 
 part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his 
 usual dramatic insight and force. The master of the 
 house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from 
 canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira was led directly 
 
64 U/orKs of Hot>ert Coui5 Steuepsop 
 
 to the fire, where she proceeded to warm herself, while 
 Stubbs stood in the middle of the floor and followed 
 the proceedings of Leon with mild astonishment in his 
 eyes. 
 
 “You should see them by daylight,” said the artist. 
 “I promise myself that pleasure,” said Leon. “You 
 possess, sir, if you will permit me an observation, the 
 art of composition to a T.” 
 
 “You are very good,” returned the other. “But 
 should you not draw nearer to the fire?” 
 
 “With all my heart,” said Leon, 
 
 And the whole party was soon gathered at the table 
 over a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, washed 
 down with the least of small wines. Nobody liked the 
 meal, but nobody complained; they put a good face 
 upon it, one and all, and made a great clattering of 
 knives and forks. To see Leon eating a single cold 
 sausage was to see a triumph; by the time he had 
 done he had got through as much pantomime as would 
 have sufficed for a baron of beef, and he had the 
 relaxed expression of the over-eaten. 
 
 As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side 
 of Leon, and Stubbs as naturally, although I believe 
 unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, the host and hostess 
 were left together. Yet it was to be noted that they 
 never addressed a word to each other, nor so much as 
 suffered their eyes to meet. The interrupted skirmish 
 still survived in ill-feeling; and the instant the guests 
 departed it would break forth again as bitterly as ever. 
 The talk wandered from this to that subject — for with 
 one accord the party had declared it was too late to go 
 to bed; but those two never relaxed toward each other; 
 
j^feu/ /irabiai) 65 
 
 Goneril and Regan in a sisterly tiff were not more bent 
 on enmity. 
 
 It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the 
 little excitements of the night that for once she laid 
 aside her company manners, which were both easy and 
 correct, and in the most natural manner in the world 
 leaned her head on Leon’s shoulder. At the same time, 
 fatigue suggesting tenderness, she locked the fingers of 
 her right hand into those of her husband’s left; and, 
 half closing her eyes, dozed off into a golden borderland 
 between sleep and waking. But all the time she was 
 not aware of what was passing, and saw the painter’s 
 wife studying her with looks between contempt and 
 envy. 
 
 It occurred to Leon that his constitution demanded 
 the use of some tobacco; and he undid his fingers from 
 Elvira’s in order to roll a cigarette. It was gently 
 done, and he took care that his indulgence should in 
 no other way disturb his wife’s position. But it seemed 
 to catch the eye of the painter’s wife with a special 
 significance. She looked straight before her for an in- 
 stant, and then, with a swift and stealthy movement, 
 took hold of her husband’s hand below the table. Alas! 
 she might have spared herself the dexterity. For the 
 poor fellow was so overcome by this caress that he 
 stopped with his mouth open in the middle of a word, 
 and by the expression of his face plainly declared to 
 all the company that his thoughts had been diverted 
 into softer channels. 
 
 If it had not been rather amiable, it would have 
 been absurdly droll. His wife at once withdrew her 
 touch; but it was plain she had to exert some force. 
 
66 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis SteueQSOij 
 
 Thereupon the young man colored and looked for a 
 momeot beautiful. 
 
 Leon and Elvira both observed the by-play, and a 
 shock passed from one to the other; for they were in- 
 veterate match-makers, especially between those who were 
 already married. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” said Leon, suddenly. “I see 
 no use in pretending. Before we came in here we heard 
 sounds indicating— if I may so express myself — an im- 
 perfect harmony.” 
 
 “Sir — ” began the man. 
 
 But the woman was beforehand. 
 
 “It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause to be 
 ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do 
 my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to 
 yourself. Monsieur and Madame,” she went on, for she 
 passed Stubbs over, “that this wretched person — a 
 dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter — re- 
 ceives this morning an admirable offer from an uncle — 
 an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, and ten- 
 derly beloved — of a clerkship with nearly a hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year, and that he — picture to your- 
 self! — he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, he 
 says. Look at his art, I say — look at it! Is it fit to 
 be seen? Ask him — ^is it fit to be sold? And it is for 
 this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me to 
 the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, without 
 comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!” 
 she cried, “non — je ne me tairai pas — c’est plus fort 
 que moi! I take these gentlemen and this lady for 
 judges — is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do I 
 not deserve better at his hands after having married 
 
J^cu; /Irabiai) 
 
 67 
 
 him and” — (a visible hitch) — “done everything in the 
 world to please him.” 
 
 I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed com- 
 pany at a table; every one looked like a fool; and the 
 husband like the biggest. 
 
 “The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, break- 
 ing the silence, “is not wanting in distinction.” 
 
 “It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody 
 will buy it.” 
 
 “I should have supposed a clerkship — ” began Stubbs. 
 
 “Art is Art,” swept in Leon. “I salute Art. It is 
 the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world, 
 and the pride of life. But — ” And the actor paused. 
 
 “A clerkship — ” began Stubbs. 
 
 “I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am 
 an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and 
 the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make 
 my life a piece of perdition aU day long, I prefer to 
 go and drown myseK out of hand.” 
 
 “Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!” 
 
 “I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a 
 fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he 
 likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital 
 water-color sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.” 
 
 To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; 
 each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her lord; 
 even Elvira, an artist herself ! — but indeed there must be 
 something permanently mercantile in the female nature. 
 The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not 
 otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end 
 of a laborious life each recognized that he was still a 
 mystery to his disciples. 
 
68 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert C0U15 Stcueijsop 
 
 Leon arose. 
 
 “Art is Art,” he repeated, sadly. “It is not water- 
 color sketches, nor practicing on a piano. It is a life 
 to be lived.” 
 
 “And in the meantime people starve!” observed the 
 woman of the house. “If that’s a life, it is not one 
 for me.” 
 
 “I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Leon; “you, Ma- 
 
 I 
 
 dame, go into another room and talk it over with my 
 wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it over with your 
 husband. It may come to nothing, but let’s try.” 
 
 “I am very willing,” replied the young woman; and 
 she proceeded to light a candle. “This way, if you 
 please.” And she led Elvira upstairs into a bedroom. 
 The fact is,” said she, sitting down, “that my husband 
 cannot paint.” 
 
 “No more can mine act,” replied Elvira. 
 
 “I should have thought he could,” returned the 
 other; “he seems clever.” 
 
 “He is so, and the best of men besides,” said El- 
 vira; “but he cannot act.” 
 
 “At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he 
 can at least sing,” 
 
 “You mistake Leon,” returned his wife, warmly. 
 “He does not even pretend to sing; he has too fine a 
 taste; he does so for a living. And, believe me, neither 
 of the men are humbugs. They are people with a 
 mission — which they cannot carry out.” 
 
 “Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you came 
 very near passing the night in the fields; and, for my 
 part, I live in terror of starvation. I should think it 
 was a man’s mission to think twice about his wife. 
 
)'/eu7 /irabiarj 
 
 69 
 
 But it appears not. Nothing is their mission but to 
 play the fool. Oh!” she broke out, “is it not some- 
 thing dreary to think of that man of mine? If he 
 could only do it, who would care? But no — not he — 
 no more than I can!” 
 
 “Have you any children?” asked Elvira. 
 
 “No; but then I may.” 
 
 “Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh. 
 
 And just then from the room below there flew up 
 a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one followed 
 after another; then the voice of Leon joined in; and 
 there was an air being played and sung that stopped 
 the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter 
 stood like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her 
 eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories and 
 kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul 
 with every note; it was a piece of her youth that 
 went before her; a green French plain, the smell of 
 apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, 
 and the words and presence of love. 
 
 “Leon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. 
 “I wonder how.” 
 
 The how was plain enough. Leon had asked the 
 painter if there were no air connected with courtship 
 and pleasant times; and having learned what he wished, 
 and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into 
 
 O mon amante, 
 
 O moa desir, 
 
 Sachons cueillir 
 L’heure charmantel 
 
 “Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, 
 “your husband sings admirably well.” 
 
70 U/orl^5 of Couis Steueijsoi> 
 
 “He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira, 
 critically, although she was a little moved herself, for 
 the song cut both ways in the upper chamber; “but 
 it is as an actor and not as a musician.” 
 
 “Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes 
 away under one’s fingers.” 
 
 “I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. “I think 
 the good parts of it last and grow greater every day.” 
 “Frankly, how would you advise me?” - 
 “Frankly, I would let my husband do what he 
 wished. He is obviously a very loving painter; you 
 have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you know — 
 if it were only as the possible father of your children 
 — it is as well to keep him at his best.” 
 
 “He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife. 
 
 They kept it up till sunrise with music and all 
 manner of good fellowship; and at sunrise, while the 
 sky was still temperate and clear, they separated on the 
 threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for each 
 other’s welfare. Castel-le-Gachis was beginning to send 
 up its smoke against the golden East; and the church 
 bell was ringing six. 
 
 “My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said Leon, as he 
 and Elvira took the nearest way toward the inn; “it 
 resuscitated a Commissary, created an English tourist, 
 and reconciled a man and wife.” 
 
 Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with 
 reflections of his own. “They are aU mad,” thought he, 
 “all mad — but wonderfully decent.” 
 
 END OP “new ARABIAN NIGHTS” 
 
THE MERRY MEN 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 EILEAN AKOS 
 
 It was a beautiful morning in the late July when 
 I set forth on foot for the last time for Aros. A boat 
 had put me ashore the night before at Grisapol; I had 
 such breakfast as the little inn afforded, and, leaving 
 all my baggage till I had an occasion to come round 
 for it by sea, struck right across the promontory with 
 a cheerful heart. 
 
 I was far from being a native of these parts, spring- 
 ing, as I did, from an unmixed lowland stock. But an 
 uncle of mine, Gordon Darnaway, after a poor, rough 
 youth, and some years at sea, had married a young 
 wife in the islands; Mary Maclean she was called, the 
 last of her family; and when she died in giving birth 
 to a daughter, Aros, the sea-girt farm, had remained 
 in his possession. It brought him in nothing but the 
 means of life, as I was well aware; but he was a 
 man whom ill-fortune had pursued ; he feared, cum- 
 bered as he was with the young child, to make a fresh 
 adventure upon life; and remained in Aros, biting his 
 nails at destiny. Years passed over his head in that 
 isolation, and brought neither help nor contentment. 
 Meantime our family was dying out in the lowlands; 
 
 Stetenson. Yol. I. — 24 /iyo\ 
 
74 U/orKs of Coui 3 Steueijjoij 
 
 there is little luck for any of that race; and perhaps 
 
 my father was the luckiest of all, for not only was he 
 
 one of the last to die, but he left a son to his name 
 
 and a little money to support it. I was a student of 
 
 Edinburgh University, living well enough at my own 
 charges, but without kith or kin; when some news of 
 me found its way to Uncle Gordon on the Ross of 
 Grisapol; and he, as he was a man who held blood 
 thicker than water, wrote to me the day he heard of 
 my existence, and taught me to count Aros as my 
 home. Thus it was that I came to spend my vaca- 
 tions in that part of the country, so far from all so- 
 ciety and comfort, between the codfish and the moor- 
 cocks; and thus it was that now, when I had done 
 with my classes, I was returning thither with so light 
 a heart that July day. 
 
 The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neither 
 wide nor high, but as rough as God made it to this 
 day; the deep sea on either hand of it, full of rugged 
 isles and reefs most perilous to seamen — all overlooked 
 from the eastward by some very high cliffs and the 
 great peak of Ben Kyaw. “The Mountain of the Mist,” 
 they say the words signify in the Gaelic tongue; and 
 it is well named. For that hilltop, which is more than 
 three thousand feet in height, catches all the clouds 
 that come blowing from the seaward; and, indeed, I 
 used often to think that it must make them for itself; 
 since when all heaven was clear to the sea level, there 
 would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw. It brought 
 water, too, and was mossy * to the top in consequence. 
 
 Boggy. 
 
TI?^ /I\crry /I\ep 
 
 75 
 
 I have seen us sitting in broad sunshine on the Ross, 
 and the rain falling black like crape upon the moun- 
 tain. But the wetness of it made it often appear more 
 beautiful to my eyes; for when the sun struck upon 
 the hillsides, there were many wet rocks and water- 
 courses that shone like jewels even as far as Aros, 
 
 fifteen miles away. 
 
 The road that I followed was a cattle-track. It 
 twisted so as nearly to double the length of my jour- 
 ney; it went over rough bowlders so that a man had 
 
 to leap from one to another, and through soft bottoms 
 where the moss came nearly to the knee. There was 
 no cultivation anywhere, and not one house in the ten 
 miles from Grisapol to Aros. Houses of course there 
 were — three at least; but they lay so far on the one 
 side or the other that no stranger could have found 
 them from the track. A large part of the Ross is cov- 
 ered with big granite rocks, some of them larger than 
 a two-roomed house, one beside another, with fern and 
 deep heather in between them where the vipers breed. 
 Anyway the wind was, it was always sea air, as salt 
 as on a ship; the gulls were as free as moorfowl over 
 all the Ross; and whenever the way rose a little, your 
 eye would kindle with the brightness of the sea. From 
 the very midst of the land, on a day of wind and a 
 high spring, I have heard the Roost roaring like a bat- 
 tle where it runs by Aros, and the great and fearful 
 voices of the breakers that we call the Merry Men. 
 
 Aros itself — Aros Jay, I have heard the natives call 
 it, and they say it means the House of God — Aros it- 
 self was not properly a piece of the Ross, nor was it 
 quite an islet. It formed the southwest corner of the 
 
76 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 land, fitted close to it, and was in one place only sepa* 
 rated from the coast by a little gut of the sea, not 
 forty feet across the narrowest. When the tide was 
 full, this was clear and still, like a pool on a land 
 river j only there was a difference in the weeds and 
 fishes, and the water itself was green instead of brown; 
 but when the tide went out, in the bottom of the ebb, 
 there was a day or two in every month when you 
 couid pass dryshod from Aros to the mainland. There 
 was some good pasture, where my uncle fed the sheep 
 he lived on; perhaps the feed was better because the 
 ground rose higher on the islet iinan the main level of 
 the Ross, but this I am not skilled enough to settle. 
 The house was a good one for that country, two stories 
 high. It looked westward over a bay, with a pier hard 
 by for a boat, and from the door you could watch the 
 vapors blowing on Ben Kyaw. 
 
 On all this part of the coast, and especially near 
 
 Aros, these great granite rocks that I have spoken of 
 
 go down together in troops into the sea, like cattle on 
 
 a summer’s day. There they standj for all the world 
 
 like their neighbors ashore; only the salt water sobbing 
 
 between them instead of the quiet earth, and clots of 
 
 sea-pink blooming on their sides instead of heather; 
 
 and the great sea conger to wreathe about the base of 
 
 them instead of the poisonous viper of the land. On 
 
 calm days you can go wandering between them in a 
 
 / 
 
 boat for. hours, echoes following you about the labyrinth; 
 but when the sea is up. Heaven help the man that 
 hears that caldron boiling. 
 
 Off the southwest end of Aros these blocks are very 
 many, and much greater in size. Indeed, they must 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 77 
 
 grow monstrously bigger out to sea, for there must be 
 ten sea miles of open water sown with them as thick 
 as a country place with houses, some standing thirty 
 feet above the tides, some covered, but all perilous to 
 ships ; so that on a clear, westerly blowing day, I 
 have counted, from the top of Arcs, the great rollers 
 breaking white and heavy over as many as six-and- 
 forty buried reefs. But it is nearer in shore that the 
 danger is worst; for the tide, here running like a mill- 
 race, makes a long belt of broken water — a Boost 
 
 we call it — at the tail of the land. I have often 
 been out there in a dead calm at the slack of the 
 
 tide; and a strange place it is, with the sea swirl- 
 ing and combing up and boiling like the caldrons of a 
 linn, and now and again a little dancing mutter of 
 
 sound as though the Roost were talking to itself. But 
 when the tide begins to run again, and above all in 
 
 heavy weather, there is no man could take a boat 
 within half a mile of it, nor a ship afloat that could 
 either steer or live in such a place. You can hear the 
 
 roaring of it six miles away. At the seaward end 
 
 there comes the strongest of the bubble; and it’s here 
 that these big breakers dance together — the dance of 
 death, it may be called — that have got the name, in 
 these parts, of the Merry Men. I have heard it said 
 
 that they run fifty feet high; but that must be the 
 
 green water only, for the spray runs twice as high as 
 that. Whether they got the name from their move- 
 ments, which are swift and antic, or from the shouting 
 they make about the turn of the tide, so that all Aros 
 shakes with it, is more than I can tell. 
 
 The truth is, that in a southwesterly wind, that 
 
78 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuei^soij 
 
 part of our archipelago is no better than a trap. If a 
 ship got through the reefs, and weathered the Merry 
 
 Men, it would be to come ashore on the south coast of 
 Aros, in Sandag Bay, where so many dismal things 
 
 befell our family, as I propose to tell. The thought of 
 
 all these dangers, in the place I knew so long, makes 
 
 me particularly welcome the works now going forward 
 to set lights upon the headlands and buoys along the 
 channels of our iron-bound, inhospitable islands. 
 
 The country people had many a story about Aros, 
 as I used to hear from my uncle’s man, Rorie, an old 
 servant of the Macleans, who had transferred his ser- 
 vices without afterthought on the occasion of the mar- 
 riage. There was some tale of an unlucky creature, a 
 sea-kelpie, that dwelt and did business in some fearful 
 manner of his own among the boiling breakers of the 
 Roost. A mermaid had once met a piper on Sandag 
 beach, and there sang to him a long, bright midsum- 
 mer’s night, so that in the morning he was found 
 stricken crazy, and from thenceforward, till the day he 
 died, said only one form of words; what they were in 
 the original Gaelic I cannot tell, but they were thus 
 translated: “Ah, the sweet singing out of the sea.” 
 Seals that haunted on that coast have been known, to 
 speak to man in his own tongue, presaging great dis- 
 asters. It was here that a certain saint first landed on 
 his voyage out of Ireland to convert the Hebrideans. 
 And indeed, I think he had some claim to be called 
 saint; for, with the boats of that past age, to make so 
 rough a passage, and land on such a ticklish coast, 
 was surely not far short of the miraculous. It was to 
 him, or to some of his monkish underlings who had a 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 79 
 
 cell there, that the islet owes its holy and beautiful 
 name, the House of God. 
 
 Among these old wives’ stories there was one which 
 I was inclined to hear with more credulity. As I was 
 told, in that tempest which scattered the ships of the 
 Invincible Armada over all the north and west of Scot- 
 land, one great vessel came ashore on Aros, and before 
 the eyes of some solitary people on a hilltop, went 
 down in a moment with all hands, her colors flying 
 even as she sank. There was some likelihood in this 
 tale; for another of that fleet lay sunk on the north 
 side, twenty miles from Grisapol. It was told, I 
 thought, with more detail and gravity than its com- 
 panion stories, and there was one particularity which 
 vent far to convince me of its truth: the name, that 
 IS, of the ship was still remembered, and sounded, in 
 my ears, Spanishly. The “Espirito Santo” they called 
 it, a great ship of many decks of guns, laden with 
 treasure and grandees of Spain, and flerce soldadoes, that 
 now lay fathom deep to all eternity, done with her 
 wars and voyages, in Sandag Bay, upon the west of 
 Aros. No more salvos of ordnance for that tall ship, 
 the “Holy Spirit,” no more fair winds or happy ven- 
 tures; only to rot there deep in the sea-tangle and 
 hear the shoutings of the Merry Men as the tide ran 
 high about the island. It was a strange thought to me 
 flrst and last, and only grew stranger as I learned the 
 more of Spain, from which she had set sail with so 
 proud a company, and King Philip, the wealthy king, 
 that sent her on that voyage. 
 
 And now I must tell you, as I walked from Grisa- 
 pol that day, the “Espirito Santo” was very much in 
 
80 U/orK5 of F^obert Coui 3 Steuei? 5 oi? 
 
 my reflections. I had been favorably remarked by our 
 then Principal in Edinburgh College, that famous writer, 
 Dr. Robertson, and by him had been set to work on 
 some papers of an ancient date to rearrange and sift of 
 what was worthless; and in one of these, to my great 
 wonder, I found a note of this very ship, the “Espirito 
 Santo,” with her captain’s name, and how she carried 
 a great part of the Spaniard’s treasure, and had been 
 lost upon the Ross of Grisapol ; but in what particular 
 spot, the wild tribes of that place and period would 
 give no information to the king’s inquiries. Putting 
 one thing with another, and taking our island tradition 
 together with this note of old King Jamie’s perquisitions 
 after wealth, it had come strongly on my mind that 
 
 the spot for which he sought in vain could be no 
 other than the small bay of Sandag on my uncle’s 
 
 land; and being a fellow of a mechanical turn, I had 
 ever since been plotting how to weigh that good ship 
 up again with all her ingots, ounces, and doubloons, 
 and bring back our house of Darnaway to its long- for- 
 gotten dignity and wealth. 
 
 This was a design of which I soon had reason to 
 repent. My mind was sharply turned on different re- 
 flections; and since I became the witness of a strange 
 judgment of God’s, the thought of dead men’s treas- 
 ures has been intolerable to my conscience. But even 
 at that time I must acquit myself of sordid greed ; 
 
 for if I desired riches it was not for their own sake,, 
 
 but for the sake of a person who was dear to my 
 heart — my uncle’s daughter, Mary Ellen. She had been 
 educated well, and had been a time to school upon the 
 mainland; which, poor girl, she would have been hap- 
 
TI?<? /I\erry /I\ei? 
 
 81 
 
 pier without. For Aros was no place for her, with old 
 Rorie the servant, and her father, who was one of the 
 unhappiest men in Scotland, plainly bred up in a coun- 
 try place among Cameronians, long a skipper sailing 
 out of the Clyde about the islands, and now, with 
 infinite discontent, managing his sheep and a little ’long- 
 shore fishing for the necessary bread. If it was some- 
 times weariful to me, who was there but a month or 
 two, you may fancy what it was to her who dwelt in 
 that same desert all the year round, with the sheep 
 and flying seagulls, and the Merry Men singing and 
 dancing in the Roost! 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS 
 
 It was half- flood when I got the length of Aros; 
 and there was nothing for it but to stand on the far 
 shore and whistle for Rorie with the boat. I had no 
 need to repeat the signal. At the first sound, Mary 
 was at the door flying a handkerchief by way of an- 
 swer, and the old long-legged serving-man was sham- 
 bling down the gravel to the pier. For all his hurry, 
 it took him a long while to pull across the bay; and 
 I observed him several times to pause, go into the 
 stern, and look over curiously into the wake. As he 
 came nearer, he seemed to me aged and haggard, and 
 I thought he avoided my eye. The coble had been 
 repaired, with two new thwarts and several patches of 
 
82 \I/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 some rare and beautiful foreign wood, the name of it 
 unknown to me. 
 
 “Why, Rorie,” said I, as we began the return 
 voyage, “this is fine wood. How came you by that?” 
 
 “It will be hard to cheesel,” Rorie opined reluc- 
 tantly; and just then, dropping the oars, he made 
 another of those dives into the stern which I had re- 
 marked as he came across to fetch me, and, leaning 
 his hand on my shoulder, stared with an awful look 
 into the waters of the bay. 
 
 “What is wrong?” I asked, a good deal startled. 
 
 “It will be a great feesh,” said the old man, re- 
 turning to his oars; and nothing more could I get out 
 of him but strange glances and an ominous nodding of 
 the head. In spite of myself I was infected with a 
 measure of uneasiness; I turned, also, and studied the 
 wake. The water was still and transparent, but, out 
 here in the middle of the bay, exceeding deep. For 
 some time I could see naught; but at last it did seem 
 to me as if something dark — a great fish, or perhaps 
 only a shadow — followed studiously in the track of the 
 moving coble. And then I remembered one of Rorie’s 
 superstitions: how in a ferry in Morven, in some great, 
 exterminating feud among the clans, a fish, the like of 
 it unknown in all our waters, followed for some years 
 the passage of the ferryboat, until no man dared to 
 make the crossing. 
 
 “He will be waiting for the right man,” said Rorie. 
 
 Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the brae 
 and into the house of Aros. Outside and inside there 
 were many changes. The garden was fenced with the 
 same wood that I had noted in the boat ; there were 
 
Tl?q /I\erry p\eT) 
 
 83 
 
 chairs in the kitchen covered with strange brocade; cur- 
 tains of brocade hung from the window; a clock stood 
 silent on the dresser; a lamp of brass was swinging 
 from the roof; the table was set for dinner with the 
 finest of linen and silver; and all these new riches 
 were displayed in the plain old kitchen that I knew so 
 well, with the high-backed settle, and the stools, and 
 the closet bed for Rorie; with the wide chimney the 
 sun shone into, and the clear-smoldering peats ; with 
 the pipes on the mantel-shelf and the three-cornered 
 spittoons, filled with sea-shells instead of sand, on the 
 fioor; with the bare stone walls and the bare wooden 
 floor, and the three patchwork rugs that were of yore 
 its sole adornment — poor man’s patchwork, the like of 
 it unknown in cities, woven with homespun, and Sun- 
 day black, and sea-cloth polished on the bench of row- 
 ing. The room, like the house, had been a sort of 
 
 wonder in that country-side, it was so neat and habit- 
 able; and to see it now, shamed by these incongruous 
 additions, filled me with indignation and a kind of 
 anger. In view of the errand I had come upon to 
 
 Aros, the feeling was baseless and unjust; but it 
 
 burned high, at the first moment, in my heart. 
 
 “Mary, girl,” said I, “this is the place I had 
 
 learned to call my home, and I do not know it.” 
 
 “It is my home by nature, not by the learning,” 
 she replied; “the place I was born and the place I’m 
 like to die in; and I neither like these changes, nor 
 the way they came, nor that which came with them. 
 I would have liked better, under God’s pleasure, they 
 had gone down into the sea, and the Merry Men were 
 dancing on them now.” 
 
84 U/orKs of Hot>ert C0U15 Steuei?50i? 
 
 Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the only 
 trait that she shared with her father; but the tone with 
 which she uttered these words was even graver than 
 of custom. 
 
 “Ay,” said I, “I feared it came by wreck, and 
 that’s by death; yet when my father died, I took his 
 goods without remorse.” 
 
 “Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk 
 say,” said Mary. 
 
 “True,” I returned; “and a wreck is like a judg- 
 ment. What was she called?” 
 
 “They ca’d her the ‘Christ- Anna,’ ” said a voice 
 
 behind me; and, turning round, I saw my uncle stand- 
 ing in the doorway. 
 
 He was a sour, small, bilious man, with a long 
 face and very dark eyes; fifty-six years old, sound and 
 active in body, and with an air somewhat between that 
 of a shepherd and that of a man following the sea. 
 He never laughed, that I heard ; read long at the 
 
 Bible; prayed much, like the Cameronians he had been 
 brought up among; and indeed, in many ways, used 
 to remind me of one of the hill-preachers in the kill- 
 ing times before the Revolution. But he never got 
 much comfort, nor even, as I used to think, much 
 
 guidance, by his piety. He had his black fits when he 
 was afraid of hell; but he had led a rough life, to 
 which he would look back with envy, and was still a 
 rough, cold, gloomy man. 
 
 As he came in at the door out of_ the sunlight, with 
 his bonnet on his head and a pipe hanging in his but- 
 ton-hole, he seemed, like Rorie, to have grown older 
 
 and paler, the lines were deeplier plowed upon his face, 
 
 
 
Tl?r merry /I\eP 
 
 85 
 
 and the whites of his eyes were yellow, like old stained 
 ivorj’^, or the bones of the dead. 
 
 “Ay,” he repeated, dwelling upon the first part of 
 the word, “the ‘Christ- Anna.’ It’s an awfu’ name.” 
 
 I made him my salutations, and complimented him 
 upon his look of health; for I feared he had perhaps 
 been ill. 
 
 “I’m in the body,” he replied, ungraciously enough; 
 “ay, in the body and the sins of the body, like your- 
 sel’. Denner,” he said abruptly to Mary, and then ran 
 on to me: “They’re grand braws, thir that we hae 
 gotten, are they no? Yon’s a bonny knock,* but it’ll 
 no gang; and the napery’s by ordnar. Bonny, bairnly 
 braws; it’s for the like o’ them folk sells the peace of 
 God that passeth understanding; it’s for the like o’ 
 them, an’ maybe no even sae muckle worth, folk 
 daunton God to His face and burn in muckle hell; and 
 it’s for that reason the Scripture ca’s them, as I read the 
 passage, the accursed thing. Mary, ye girzie,” he in- 
 terrupted himself to cry with some asperity, “what for 
 hae ye no put out the twa candlesticks?” 
 
 “Why should we need them at high noon?” she 
 asked. 
 
 But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea. 
 “We’ll bruik f them while we may,” he said; and so 
 two massive candlesticks of wrought silver were added 
 to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough 
 seaside farm. 
 
 “She cam’ ashore Februar’ 10, about ten at nicht,” 
 he went on to me. “There was nae wind, and a sair 
 
 * Clock. 
 
 t Enjoy. 
 
86 U/orl^5 of Robert Couij Steuei?5op 
 
 run o’ sea; and slie was in the sook o’ the Roost, as 
 I Jaloose. We had seen he a’ day, Rorie and me, 
 beating to the wind. She wasnae a handy craft, I’m 
 thinking, that ‘Christ- Anna’; for she would neither 
 steer nor stey wi’ them. A sair day they had of it; 
 their hands was never aff the sheets, and it perishin’ 
 cauld — ower cauld to snaw; and ay they would get a 
 bit nip o’ wind, and awa’ again, to pit the emp’y hope 
 into them. Eh, man! but they had a sair day for the 
 last o’t! He would have had a prood, prood heart that 
 won ashore upon the back o’ that.” 
 
 “And were all lost?” I cried. “God help them!” 
 
 “Wheesht!” he said sternly. “Nane shall pray for 
 the deid on my hearthstane. ” 
 
 I disclaimed a Popish sense for my ejaculation; and 
 he seemed to accept my disclaimer with unusual facil- 
 ity, and ran on once more upon what had evidently 
 become a favorite subject. 
 
 “We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an’ me, and 
 a’ thae braws in the inside of her. There’s a kittle 
 bit, ye see, about Sandag; whiles the sook rins strong 
 for the Merry Men; an’ whiles again, when the tide’s 
 makin’ hard an’ ye can hear the Roost blawin’ at the 
 far-end of Aros, there comes a back-spang of current 
 straucht into Sandag Bay. Weel, there’s the thing that 
 got the grip on the ‘Christ- Anna.’ She but to have 
 come in ram-stam an’ stern forrit; for the bows of her 
 are aften under, and the back-side of her is clear at 
 hie-water o’ neaps. But, man! the dunt that she cam 
 doon wi’ when she struck! Lord save us a’! but it’s 
 an unco life* to be a sailor — a cauld, wanchancy life. 
 Mony’s the gliflE I got mysol’ in the great deep; and 
 
/T\erry /I\ei? 
 
 87 
 
 why the Lord should hae made yon unco water is 
 mair than ever I could win to understand. He made 
 the vales and the pastures, the bonny green yaird, the 
 halesome, canty land — 
 
 And now they shout and sing to Thee, 
 
 For Thou hast made them glad, 
 
 as the Psalms say in the metrical version. No that I 
 would preen my faith to that clink neither; but it’s 
 bonny, and easier to mind. ‘Who go to sea in ships,’ 
 they hae’t again — 
 
 And in 
 
 Great waters trading be. 
 
 Within the deep these men God’s works 
 And His great wonders see. 
 
 Weel, it’s easy sayin’ sae. Maybe Dauvit wasnae very 
 weel acquant wi’ the sea. But, troth, if it wasnae 
 prentit in the Bible, I wad whiles be temp’it to think 
 it wasnae the Lord, but the muckle, black deil that 
 made the sea. There’s naething good comes oot o’t but 
 the fish; an’ the spentacle o’ God riding on the tern 
 pest, to be shure, whilk would be what Dauvit was 
 likely ettling at. But, man, they were sair wonders 
 that God showed to the ‘Christ- Anna’ — wonders, do I 
 ca’ them? Judgments, rather: judgments in the mirk 
 nicht among the draygons o’ the deep. And their souls 
 — to think o’ that — their souls, man, maybe no pre- 
 pared!* The sea — a muckle yett to hell!” 
 
 I observed, as my uncle spoke, that his voice was 
 unnaturally moved and his manner unwontedly demon- 
 strative. He leaned forward at these last words, for 
 
88 U/orl^j of l^obert C0U15 Stevepjoij 
 
 example, and touched me on the knee with his spread 
 fingers, looking up into my face with a certain pallor, 
 and I could see that his eyes shone with a deep-seated 
 fire, and that the lines about his mouth were drawn 
 and tremulous. 
 
 Even the entrance of Rorie, and the' beginning of 
 our meal, did not detach him from his train of thought 
 beyond a moment. He condescended, indeed, to ask me 
 some questions as to my success at college, but I 
 thought it was with half his mind; and even in his 
 extempore grace, which was, as usual, long and wan- 
 dering, I could find the trace of his preoccupation, 
 praying, as he did, that God would “remember in 
 mercy fower puir, feckless, fiddling, sinful creatures here 
 by their lee-lane beside the great and dowie waters.” 
 
 Soon there came an interchange of speeches between 
 him and Rorie. 
 
 “Was it there?” asked my uncle. 
 
 “Ou, ay!” said Rorie. 
 
 1 observed that they both spoke in a manner of 
 
 aside, and with some show of embarrassment, and that 
 Mary herself appeared to color, and looked down on 
 
 her plate. Partly to show my knowledge, and so re- 
 lieve the party from an awkward strain, partly because 
 I was curious, I pursued the subject. 
 
 “You mean the fish?” I asked. 
 
 “Whatten fish?” cried my uncle. “Pish, quo’ he! 
 
 Fish! Your een are fu’ o’ fatness, man; your heid 
 
 dozened wi’ carnal leir. Pish! it’s a bogle!” 
 
 He spoke with great vehemence, as though angry ; 
 and perhaps I was not very willing to be put down 
 so shortly, for young men are disputatious. At least I 
 
Jl?(? p\erry /I\ep 89 
 
 remember I retorted hotly, crying out upon childish 
 superstitions. 
 
 “And ye come frae the College!” sneered Uncle 
 Gordon. “Gude kens what they learn folk there; it’s 
 no muckle service onyway. Do ye think, man, that 
 there’s naething in a’ yon saut wilderness o’ a world 
 oot wast there, wi’ the sea grasses growin’, an’ the 
 sea beasts fechtin’, an’ the sun glintin’ down into it, 
 day by day? Na; the sea’s like the land, but fear- 
 somer. If there’s folk ashore, there’s folk in the sea — 
 deid they may be, but they’re folk whatever; and as 
 for deils, there’s nane that’s like the sea deils. There’s 
 no sae muckle harm in the land deils, when a’s said 
 and done. Lang syne, when I was a callant in the 
 south country, I mind there was an auld, bald bogle 
 in the Peewie Moss. I got a glisk o’ him mysel’, 
 sittin’ on his hunkers in a hag, as gray’s a tombstone. 
 An’, troth, he was a fearsome-like taed. But he steered 
 naebody. Nae doobt, if ane that was a reprobate, ane 
 the Lord hated, had gane by there wi’ his sin still 
 upon his stamach, nae doobt the creature would hae 
 lowped upo’ the likes o’ him. But there’s deils in the 
 deep sea would yoke on a communicant! Eh, sirs, if ye 
 had gane doon wi’ the puir lads in the ‘Christ- Anna,’ 
 ye would ken by now the mercy o’ the seas. If ye 
 had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate the 
 thocht of it as I do. If ye had but used the een God 
 gave ye, ye would hae learned the wickedness o’ that 
 fause, saut, cauld, bullering creature, and of a’ that’s 
 in it by the Lord’s permission; labsters an’ partans, 
 an’ sic like, howking in the deid; muckle, gutsy, blaw- 
 
 ing whales; an’ fish — the hale clan o’ them — cauld- 
 
 Sthvenson. Yol. I. — 26 
 
90 U/or^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 warned, blind-eed uncanny ferlies. O, sirs,” he cried, 
 “the horror — the horror o’ the sea!” 
 
 We were all somewhat staggered by this outburst; 
 and the speaker himself, after that last hoarse apos- 
 trophe, appeared to sink gloomily into his own thoughts. 
 But Rorie, who was greedy of superstitious lore, re- 
 called him to the subject by a question. 
 
 “You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?” 
 he asked. 
 
 “No clearly,” replied the other. “I misdoobt if a 
 mere man could see ane clearly and conteenue in the 
 body. I hae sailed wi’ a lad— they ca’d him Sandy 
 Gabart; he saw ane, shiire eneuch, an’ shiire eneuch it 
 was the end of him. We were seeven days oot frae 
 the Clyde — a sair wark we had had — gaun north wi’ 
 seeds an’ braws an’ things for the Macleod. We had 
 got in ower near under the Cutchull’ns, an’ had just 
 gane about by Soa, an’ were off on a lang tack, we 
 thocht would maybe hauld as far’s Copnahow. I mind 
 the nicht weel; a mune smoored wi’ mist; a fine gaun 
 breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an’ — what nane 
 o’ us likit to hear — anither wund gurlin’ owerheid, 
 amang thae fearsome, auld stane craigs o’ the Cut- 
 chull’ns. Weel, Sandy was forrit wi’ the jib sheet; we 
 couldnae see him for the mains’l, that had just begude 
 to draw, when a’ at ance he gied a skirl.* I luffed for 
 
 my life, for I thocht we were ower near Soa; but na, 
 
 it wasnae that, it was puir Sandy Gabart’s deid skreigh, 
 or near hand, for he was deid in half an hour. A’t 
 he could tell was that a sea deil, or sea bogle, or sea 
 
 spenster, or sic-like, had clum up by the bowsprit, an' 
 
 gi’en him ae cauld, uncanny look. An’, or the life wag. 
 
fT\erry /T\ep 
 
 91 
 
 oot o’ Sandy’s body, we kent weel what the thing be- 
 tokened, and why the wund gurled in the taps o’ the 
 Cutchull’ns; for doon it cam’ — a wund do I ca’ it! it 
 was the wund o’ the Lord’s anger — an’ a’ that nicht 
 we foucht like men dementit, and the niest that we 
 kenned we were ashore in Loch Uskevagh, an’ the 
 cocks were crawin’ in Benbecula.” 
 
 “It will have been a merman,” Rorie said. 
 
 “A merman!” screamed my uncle with immeasurable 
 scorn. “Auld wives’ clavers! There’s nae sic things as 
 mermen.” 
 
 “But what was the creature like?” I asked. 
 
 “What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken 
 what like it was! It had a kind of a heid upon it— 
 man could say nae mair.” 
 
 Then Rorie, smarting under the affront, told several 
 tales of mermen, mermaids, and sea-horses that had come 
 ashore upon the islands and attacked the crews of boats 
 upon the sea; and my uncle, in spite of his incredulity, 
 listened with uneasy interest. 
 
 “Aweel, aweel,” he said, “it may be sae; I may be 
 wrang; but I find nae word o’ mermen in the Scrip- 
 tures.” 
 
 “And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, may- 
 be,” objected Rorie, and his argument appeared to carry 
 weight. 
 
 When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth 
 with him to a bank behind the house. It was a very 
 hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple anywhere upon 
 the sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep 
 and gulls; and perhaps in consequence of this repose in 
 nature, my kinsman showed himself more rational and 
 
92 U/orKs of F^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 tranquil than before. He spoke evenly and almost 
 cheerfully of my career, with every now and then a 
 reference to the lost ship or the treasures it had brought 
 to Aros. For my part, I listened to him in a sort of 
 trance, gazing with all my heart on that remembered 
 scene, and drinking gladly the sea-air and the smoke of 
 peats that had been lighted by Mary. 
 
 Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who 
 
 had all the while been covertly gazing on the surface 
 of the little bay, rose to his feet and bade me follow 
 his example. Now I should say that the great run of 
 tide at the southwest end of Aros exercises a perturbing 
 influence round all the coast. In Sandag Bay, to the 
 south, a strong current runs at certain periods of the 
 flood and ebb respectively; but in this northern bay — 
 Aros Bay, as it is called — where the house stands and 
 on which my uncle was now gazing, the only sign of 
 disturbance is toward the end of the ebb, and even 
 
 then it is too slight to be remarkable. When there is 
 
 any swell, nothing can be seen at all; but when it is 
 
 calm, as it often is, there appear certain strange, un- 
 decipherable marks — sea-runes, as we may name them — 
 on the glassy surface of the bay. The like is common 
 in a thousand places on the coast ; and many a boy 
 must have amused himself as I did, seeking to read 
 in them some reference to himself or those he loved. 
 It was to these marks that my uncle now directed my 
 attention, struggling, as he did so, with an evident 
 reluctance. 
 
 “Do ye see yon scart upo’ the water?” he inquired; 
 “yon ane wast the gray stane? Ay? Weel, it’ll no be 
 like a letter, wull it?’* 
 
Tl?<? /I\erry /I\ei? 
 
 93 
 
 “Certainly it is,” I replied. “I have often remarked 
 it. It is like a C.” 
 
 He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with 
 my answer, and then added below his breath: “Ay, 
 
 for the ‘Christ- Anna.’ ” 
 
 “I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,” said I; 
 “for my name is Charles.” 
 
 “And so ye saw’t afore?” he ran on, not heeding 
 my remark. “Weel, weel, but that’s unco strange. 
 Maybe, it’s been there waitin’, as a man wad say, 
 through a’ the weary ages. Man, but that’s awfu’.” 
 And then, breaking off: “Ye’ll no see anither, will ye?” 
 
 he asked. 
 
 “Yes,” said I. “I see another very plainly, near 
 the Ross side, where the road comes down — an M.” 
 
 “An M,” he repeated very low; and then, again after 
 another pause: “An’ what wad ye make o’ that?” he 
 inquired. 
 
 “I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,” I 
 answered, growing somewhat red, convinced as I was 
 in my own mind that I was on the threshold of a 
 decisive explanation. 
 
 But we were each following his own train of thought 
 to the exclusion of the other’s. My uncle once more 
 paid no attention to my words ; only hung his head 
 and held his peace; and I might have been led to fancy 
 that he had not heard me, if his next speech had not 
 contained a kind of echo from my own. 
 
 “I would say naething o’ thae clavers to Mary,” he 
 observed, and began to walk forward. 
 
 There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros Bay 
 where walking is easy; and it was along this that I 
 
94 U/orl^5 of F^obcrt Coui$ Steueijjoi? 
 
 silently followed my silent kinsman. I was perhaps a 
 little disappointed at having lost so good an opportunity 
 to declare my love; but I was at the same time far 
 more deeply exercised at the change that had befallen 
 my uncle. He was never an ordinary, never, in the 
 strict sense, an amiable man; but there was nothing in 
 even the worst that I had known of him before, to 
 prepare me for so strange a transformation. It was 
 impossible to close the eyes against one fact; that he 
 had, as the saying goes, something on his mind; and 
 as I mentally ran over the different words which might 
 be represented by the letter M — misery, mercy, mar- 
 riage, money, and the like — I was arrested with a sort 
 of start by the word murder. I was still considering 
 the ugly sound and fatal meaning of the word, when 
 the direction of our walk brought us to a point from 
 
 which a view was to be had to either side, back 
 
 toward Aros Bay and homestead, and forward on the 
 ocean, dotted to the north with isles, and lying to the 
 southward blue and open to the sky. There my guide 
 came to a halt, and stood staring for a while on that 
 
 expanse. Then he turned to me and laid a hand on 
 
 my arm. 
 
 “Ye think there’s naething there,” he said, pointing 
 with his pipe; and then cried out aloud, with a kind 
 of exultation: “I’ll tell ye, man! The deid are down 
 there — thick like rations !” 
 
 He turned at once, and, without another word, we 
 retraced our steps to the house of Aros. 
 
 I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was not 
 till after supper, and then but for a short while, that 
 I could have a word with her. I lost no time beating 
 
Tl?<? /I\erry /I\eQ 95 
 
 about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my 
 mind. 
 
 “Mary,” I said, “I have not come to Aros without 
 a hope. If that should prove well founded, we may 
 all leave and go somewhere else, secure of daily bread 
 and comfort; secure, perhaps, of something far beyond 
 that, which it would seem extravagant in me to promise. 
 But there’s a hope that lies nearer to my heart than 
 money.” And at that I paused. “You can guess fine 
 what that is, Mary,” I said. She looked away from 
 me in silence, and that was small encouragement, but 
 I was not to be put off. “All my days I have thought 
 the world of you,” I continued; “the time goes on and 
 I think always the more of you; I could not think to 
 be happy or hearty in my life without you: you are 
 the apple of my eye.” Still she looked away, and said 
 never a word ; but I thought I saw that her hands 
 shook. “Mary,” I cried in fear, “do ye no like me?” 
 
 “Oh, Charlie man,” she said, “is this a time to 
 speak of it? Let me be, a while; let me be the way 
 I am; it’ll not be you that loses by the waiting!” 
 
 I made out by her voice that she was nearly weep- 
 ing, and this put me out of any thought but to com- 
 pose her. “Mary Ellen,” I said, “say no more; I did 
 not come to trouble you: your way shall be mine, and 
 your time too; and you have told me all I wanted. 
 Only just this one thing more: what ails you?” 
 
 She owned it was her father, but would enter into 
 no particulars, only shook her head, and said he was 
 not well and not like himself, and it was a great pity. 
 She knew nothing of the wreck. “I ha venae been near 
 it,” said she. “What for would I go near it, Charlie 
 
96 U/orK» of f^obcrfc Couis Steuepsorj 
 
 lad? The poor souls are gone to their account long 
 syne; and I would just have wished they had ta’en 
 their gear with them — poor souls!” 
 
 This was scarcely any great encouragement for me 
 to tell her of the “Espirito Santo”; yet I did so, and 
 at the very first word she cried out in surprise. 
 “There was a man at Grisapol,” she said, “in the 
 month of May— a little, yellow, hlack-avised body, they 
 tell me, with gold rings upon his fingers, and a heard; 
 and he was speiring high and low for that same ship.” 
 It was toward the end of April that I had been 
 given these papers to Sort out by Dr. Robertson : and 
 it came suddenly back upon my mind that they were 
 thus prepared for a Spanish historian, or a man calling 
 himself such, who had come with high recommendations 
 to the Principal, on a mission of inquiry as to the 
 dispersion of the great Armada. Putting one thing 
 with another, I fancied that the visitor “with the gold 
 rings upon his fingers” might be the same with Dr. 
 Robertson’s historian from Madrid. If that were so, he 
 would be more likely after treasure for himself than 
 information for a learned society. I made up my mind 
 I should lose no time over my undertaking; and if the 
 ship lay sunk in Sandag Bay, as perhaps both he and 
 I supposed, it should not be for the advantage of this 
 ringed adventurer, but for Mary and myself and for 
 the good, old, honest, kindly family of the Darnaways. 
 
/l\erry 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY 
 
 I WAS early afoot next morning; and as soon as I 
 had a bite to eat set forth upon a tour of exploration. 
 Something in my heart distinctly told me that I should 
 find the ship of the Armada; and although I did not 
 give way entirely to such hopeful thoughts, I was still 
 very light in spirits and walked upon air. Aros is a 
 very rough islet, its surface strewn with great rocks 
 and shaggy with fern and heather; and my way lay 
 almost north and south across the highest knoll; and 
 though the whole distance was inside of two miles, it 
 took more time and exertion than four upon a level 
 road. Upon the summit I paused. Although not very 
 high — not three hundred feet, as I think — it yet outtops 
 all the neighboring lowlands of the Ross, and commands 
 a great view of sea and islands. The sun, which had 
 been up some time, was already hot upon my neck; 
 the air was listless and thundery, although purely clear; 
 away over the northwest, where the isles lie thickliest 
 congregated, some half a dozen small and ragged clouds 
 hung together in a covey; and the head of Ben Kyaw 
 wore, not merely a few streamers, but a solid hood of 
 vapor. There was a threat in the weather. The sea, it 
 is true, was smooth like glass: even the Roost was but 
 a seam on that wide mirror, and the Merry Men no 
 
98 U/orl^5 of Robert Couij Steuei? 50 ij 
 
 more than caps of foam; but to my eye and ear, so 
 long familiar with these places, the sea also seemed to 
 lie uneasily; a sound of it, like a long sigh, mounted to 
 me where I stood; and, quiet as it was, the Roost itself 
 appeared to be revolving mischief. For I ought to say 
 that all we dwellers in these parts attributed, if not 
 prescience, at least a quality of warning, to that strange 
 and dangerous creature of the tides. 
 
 I hurried on, then, with the greater speed, and had 
 Boon descended the slope of Aros to the part that we 
 call Sandag Bay. It is a pretty large piece of water 
 compared with the size of the isle; well sheltered from 
 all but the prevailing wind; sandy and shoal and 
 bounded by low sand-hills to the west, but to the east- 
 ward lying several fathoms deep along a ledge of rocks. 
 It is upon that side that, at a certain time each flood, 
 the current mentioned by my uncle sets so strong into 
 the bay; a little later, when the Roost begins to work 
 higher, an undertow runs still more strongly in the 
 reverse direction; and it is the action of this last, as I 
 suppose, that has scoured that part so deep. Nothing 
 is to be seen out of Sandag Bay but one small segment 
 of the horizon and, in heavy weather, the breakers fly- 
 ing high over a deep sea reef. 
 
 From half-way down the hill, I had perceived the 
 wreck of February last, a brig of considerable tonnage, 
 lying, with her back broken, high and dry on the east 
 corner of the sands; and I was making directly toward 
 it, and already almost on the margin of the turf, when 
 my eyes were suddenly arrested by a spot, cleared of 
 fern and heather, and marked by one of those long, 
 low, and almost human-looking mounds that we see so 
 
TI?^ /I\erry 
 
 99 
 
 commonly in graveyards. I stopped like a man shot. 
 Nothing had been said to me of any dead man or in- 
 terment on the island; Rory, Mary, and my uncle had 
 all equally held their peace; of her, at least, I was 
 certain that she must he ignorant; and yet here, before 
 my eyes, was proof indubitable of the fact. Here was 
 a grave; and I had to ask myself, with a chill, what 
 manner of man lay there in his last sleep, awaiting 
 the signal of the Lord in that solitary, sea-beat resting- 
 place? My mind supplied no answer but what I feared 
 to entertain. Shipwrecked, at least, he must have been; 
 perhaps, like the old Armada mariners, from some far 
 and rich land oversea; or perhaps one of my own race, 
 perishing within eyesight of the smoke of home. I 
 stood a while uncovered by his side, and I could have 
 desired that it had lain in our religion to put up some 
 prayer for that unhappy stranger, or, in the old classic 
 way, outwardly to honor his misfortune. I knew, al- 
 though his bones lay there, a part of Aros, till the 
 trumpet sounded, his imperishable soul was forth and far 
 away, among the raptures of the everlasting Sabbath or 
 the pangs of hell; and yet my mind misgave me even 
 with a fear, that perhaps he was near me where I 
 stood, guarding his sepulcher, and lingering on the 
 scene of his unhappy fate. 
 
 Certainly it was with a spirit somewhat overshad- 
 owed that I turned away from the grave to the hardly 
 less melancholy spectacle of the wreck. Her stem was 
 above the first arc of the flood; she was broken in two 
 a little abaft the foremast — though indeed she had none, 
 both masts having broken short in her disaster; and as 
 the pitch of the beach was very sharp and sudden, and 
 
100 U/or^5 of r^obert Couis Steueijsor? 
 
 the bows lay many feet below the stern, the fracture 
 gaped widely open, and you could see right through her 
 poor hull upon the further side. Her name was much 
 defaced, and I could not make out clearly whether she 
 was called “Christiania,” after the Norwegian city, or 
 “Christiana,” after the good woman, Christian’s wife, in 
 that old book the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” By her build 
 she was a foreign ship, but I was not certain of her 
 nationality. She had been painted green, but the color 
 was faded and weathered, and the paint peeling off in 
 strips. The wreck of the mainmast lay alongside, half 
 buried in sand. She was a forlorn sight, indeed, and 
 I could not look without emotion at the bits of rope 
 that still hung about her, so often handled of yore by 
 shouting seamen; or the little scuttle where they had 
 passed up and down to their affairs; or that poor nose- 
 less angel of a figurehead that had dipped into so many 
 running billows. 
 
 I do not know whether it came most from the ship 
 or from the grave, but I fell into some melancholy 
 scruples, as I stood there, leaning with one hand 
 
 against the battered timbers. The homelessness of men 
 and even of inanimate vessels cast away upon strange 
 
 shores, came strongly in upon my mind. To make a 
 
 profit of such pitiful misadventures seemed an unmanly 
 and a sordid act; and I began to think of my then 
 quest as of something sacrilegious in its nature. But 
 
 when I remembered Mary, I took heart again. My 
 uncle would never consent to an imprudent marriage, 
 nor would she, as I was persuaded, wed without his 
 full approval. It behooved me, then, to be up and doing 
 for my wife; and I thought with a laugh how long it 
 
TI?^ /T\erry /I\eij 
 
 101 
 
 was since that great sea-.castle, the “Espirito Santo,” 
 had left her bones in Sandag Bay, and how weak it 
 would be to consider rights so long extinguished and 
 misfortunes so long forgotten in the process of time. 
 
 I had my theory of where to seek for her remains. 
 The set of the current and the soundings both pointed 
 to the east side of the bay under the ledge of rocks. 
 If she had been lost in Sandag Bay, and if, after these 
 centuries, any portion of her held together, it was there 
 that I should find it. The water deepens, as I have 
 
 said, with great rapidity, and even close alongside the 
 rocks several fathoms may be found. As I walked 
 
 upon the edge I could see far and wide over the sandy 
 
 bottom of the bay; the sun shone clear and green and 
 
 steady in the deeps; the bay seemed rather like a great 
 transparent crystal, as one sees them in a lapidary’s 
 shop; there was naught to show that it was water but 
 an internal trembling, a hovering within of sun-glints 
 and netted shadows, and now and then a faint lap and 
 a dying bubble round the edge. The shadows of the 
 rocks lay out for some distance at their feet, so that 
 my own shadow, moving, pausing, and stooping on the 
 top of that, reached sometimes half across the bay. It 
 was above all in this belt of shadows that I hunted 
 for the “Espirito Santo”; since it was there the under- 
 tow ran strongest, whether in or out. Cool as the 
 whole water seemed this broiling day, it looked, in 
 that part, yet cooler, and had a mysterious invitation 
 for the eyes. Peer as I pleased, however, I could see 
 nothing but a few fishes or a bush of sea-tangle, and 
 here and there a lump of rock that had fallen from 
 above and now lay separate on the sandy floor. Twice 
 
102 U/orK 5 of Robert C0U15 Steuei?50ij 
 
 did I pass from one end to the other of the rocks, and 
 in the whole distance I could see nothing of the wreck, 
 nor any place but one where it was possible for it to 
 be. This was a large terrace in five fathoms of water, 
 raised off the surface of the sand to a considerable 
 height, and looking from above like a mere outgrowth 
 of the rocks on which I walked. It was one mass of 
 great sea-tangles like a grove, which prevented me 
 judging of its nature, but in shape and size it bore 
 some likeness to a vessel’s hull. At least it was my 
 best chance. If the “Espirito Santo” lay not there un- 
 der the tangles, it lay nowhere at all in Sandag Bay; 
 and I prepared to put the question to the proof, once 
 and for all, and either go back to Aros a rich man or 
 cured forever of my dreams of wealth. 
 
 I stripped to the skin, and stood on the extreme 
 margin with my hands clasped, irresolute. The bay at 
 that time was utterly quiet; there was no sound but 
 from a school of porpoises somewhere out of sight be- 
 hind the point; yet a certain fear withheld me on the 
 threshold of my venture. Sad sea-feelings, scraps of 
 my uncle’s superstitions, thoughts of the dead, of the 
 grave, of the old broken ships, drifted through my 
 mind. But the strong sun upon my shoulders warmed 
 me to the heart, and I stooped forward and plunged 
 into the sea. 
 
 It was all that I could do to catch a trail of the 
 sea-tangle that grew so thickly on the terrace; but once 
 so far anchored I secured myself by grasping a whole 
 armful of these thick and slimy stalks, and, planting 
 my feet against the edge, I looked around me. On all 
 sides the clear sand stretched forth unbroken; it came 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 103 
 
 to the foot of the rocks, scoured into the likeness of 
 an alley in a garden by the action of the tides; and 
 before me, for as far as I could see, nothing was visi- 
 ble but the same many-folded sand upon the sun-bright 
 bottom of the bay. Yet the terrace to which I was 
 then holding was as thick with strong sea-growths as 
 a tuft of heather, and the cliff from which it bulged 
 hung draped below the water-line with brown lianas. 
 In this complexity of forms, all swaying together in 
 the current, things were hard to be distinguished; and 
 I was still uncertain whether my feet were pressed upon 
 the natural rock or upon the timbers of the Armada 
 treasure-ship, when the whole tuft of tangle came away 
 in my hand, and in an instant I was on the surface, 
 and the shores of the bay and the bright water swam 
 before my eyes in a glory of crimson. 
 
 I clambered back upon the rocks, and threw the 
 plant of tangle at my feet. Something at the same 
 moment rang sharply, like a falling coin. I stooped, 
 and there, sure enough, crusted with the red rust, there 
 lay an iron shoe-buckle. The sight of this poor human 
 relic thrilled me to the heart, but not with hope nor 
 fear, only with a desolate melancholy. I held it in my 
 hand, and the thought of its owner appeared before me 
 like the presence of an actual man. His weather-beaten 
 face, his sailor’s hands, his sea-voice hoarse with sing- 
 ing at the capstan, the very foot that had once worn 
 that buckle and trod so much along the swerving decks 
 — the whole human fact of him, as a creature like my- 
 self, with hair and blood and seeing eyes, haunted me 
 in that sunny, solitary place, not like a specter, but 
 like some friend whom I had basely injured. Was the 
 
104 U/orKs of F(obert Coui 5 SteueijjOQ 
 
 great treasure ship indeed below there, with her guns 
 and chain and treasure, as she had sailed from Spain ; 
 her decks a garden for the seaweed, her cabin a breed- 
 ing place for fish, soundless but for the dredging water, 
 motionless but for the waving of the tangle upon her 
 battlements — that old, populous, sea-riding castle, now a 
 reef in Sandag Bay? Or, as I thought it likelier, was 
 this a waif from the disaster of the foreign brig — was 
 this shoe-buckle bought but the other day and worn by 
 a man of my own period in the world’s history, hear- 
 ing the same news from day to day, thinking the same 
 thoughts, praying, perhaps, in the same temple with 
 myself? However it was, I was assailed with dreary 
 thoughts; my uncle’s words, “the dead are down 
 there,” echoed in my ears; and though I determined 
 to dive once more, it was with a strong repugnance 
 that I stepped forward to the margin of the rocks. 
 
 A great change passed at that moment over the ap- 
 pearance of the bay. It was no more that clear, visi- 
 ble interior, like a house roofed with glass, where the 
 green, submarine sunshine slept so stilly. A breeze, I 
 suppose, had flawed the surface, and a sort of trouble 
 and blackness filled its bosom, where flashes of light 
 and clouds of shadow tossed confusedly together. Even 
 the terrace below obscurely rocked and quivered. It 
 seemed a graver thing to venture on this place of am- 
 bushes; and when I leaped into the sea the second 
 time it was with a quaking in my soul. 
 
 I secured myself as at first, and groped among the 
 waving tangle. All that met my touch was cold and 
 soft and gluey. The thicket was alive with crabs and 
 lobsters, trundling to and fro lopsidedly, and I had to 
 
(T\erry /I\er? 
 
 105 
 
 harden my heart against the horror of their carrion 
 neighborhood. On all sides I could feel the grain and 
 the clefts of hard, living stone; no planks, no iron, not 
 a sign of any wreck; the “Espirito Santo” was not 
 there. I remember I had almost a sense of relief in 
 my disappointment, and I was about ready to leave go, 
 when something happened that sent me to the surface 
 with my heart in my mouth. I had already stayed 
 somewhat late over my explorations; the current was 
 freshening with the change of the tide, and Sandag 
 Bay was no longer a safe place for a single swimmer. 
 Well, just at the last moment there came a sudden 
 flush of current, dredging through the tangles like a 
 wave. I lost one hold, was flung sprawling on my 
 
 side, and, instinctively grasping for a fresh support, my 
 
 fingers closed on something hard and cold. I think I 
 knew at that moment what it was. At least I instantly 
 left hold of the tangle, leaped for the surface, and clam- 
 bered out next moment on the friendly rocks with the 
 bone of a man’s leg in my grasp. 
 
 Mankind is a material creature, slow to think and 
 
 dull to perceive connections. The grave, the wreck of 
 
 the brig, and the rusty shoe-buckle were surely plain 
 
 advertisements. A child might have read their dismal 
 
 story, and yet it was not until I touched that actual 
 
 piece of mankind that the full horror of the charnel 
 
 ocean burst upon my spirit. I laid the bone beside the 
 
 buckle, picked up my clothes, and ran as I was along 
 
 the rocks toward the human shore. I could not be far 
 
 enough from the spot; no fortune was vast enough to 
 
 tempt me back again. The bones of the drowned dead 
 
 should henceforth roll undisturbed by me, whether on 
 Stevenson. Yol. I. — ^26 
 
106 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 tangle or minted gold. But as soon as I trod the good 
 earth again, and had covered my nakedness against the 
 sun, I knelt down over against the ruins of the brig, 
 and out of the fullness of my heart prayed long and 
 passionately for all poor souls upon the sea. A generous 
 prayer is never presented in vain; the petition may be 
 refused, but the petitioner is always, I believe, rewarded 
 by some gracious visitation. The horror, at least, was 
 lifted from my mind; I could look with calm of spirit 
 on that great bright creature, God’s ocean; and as I 
 set off homeward up the rough sides of Aros, nothing 
 remained of my concern beyond a deep determination 
 to meddle no more with the spoils of wrecked vessels 
 or the treasures of the dead. 
 
 I was already some way up the hill before I paused 
 to breathe and look behind me. The sight that met my 
 eyes was doubly strange. 
 
 For, first, the storm that I had foreseen was now 
 advancing with almost tropical rapidity. The whole sur- 
 face of the sea had been dulled from its conspicuous 
 brightness to an ugly hue of corrugated lead ; already 
 in the distance the white waves, the “skipper’s daugh- 
 ters,” had begun to flee before a breeze that was still 
 insensible on Aros ; and already along the curve of 
 Sandag Bay there was a splashing run of sea that I 
 could hear from where I stood. The change upon the 
 sky was even more remarkable. There had begun to 
 arise out of the southwest a huge and solid continent 
 of scowling cloud; here and there, through rents in its 
 contexture, the sun still poured a sheaf of spreading 
 rays; and here and there, from all its edges, vast inky 
 streamers lay forth along the yet unclouded sky. The 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 107 
 
 menace was express and imminent. Even as I gazed, 
 the sun was blotted out. At any moment the tempest 
 might fall upon Aros in its might. 
 
 The suddenness of this change of weather so fixed 
 my eyes on heaven that it was some seconds before 
 they alighted on the bay, mapped out below my feet, 
 and robbed a moment later of the sun. The knoll 
 which I had just surmounted overflanked a little am- 
 phitheater of lower hillocks sloping toward the sea, and 
 beyond that the yellow arc of beach and the whole ex- 
 tent of Sandag Bay. It was a scene on which I had 
 often looked down, but where I had never before beheld 
 a human figure. I had but just turned my back upon 
 it and left it empty, and my wonder may be fancied 
 when I saw a boat and several men in that deserted 
 spot. The boat was lying by the rocks. A pair of 
 
 fellows, bareheaded, with their sleeves rolled up, and 
 one with a boathook, kept her with difficulty to her 
 moorings, for the current was growing brisker every 
 moment. A little way off upon the ledge two men in 
 black clothes, whom I judged to be superior in rank, 
 laid their heads together over some task which at first 
 I did not understand, but a second after I had made 
 it out — they were taking bearings with the compass ; 
 and just then I saw one of them unroll a sheet of 
 paper and lay his finger .down, as though identifying 
 features in a map. Meanwhile a third was walking to 
 and fro, poking among the rocks and peering over the 
 edge into the water. While I was still watching them 
 with the stupefaction of surprise, my mind hardly yet 
 able to work on what my eyes reported, this third per- 
 son suddenly stooped and summoned his companions with 
 
108 U/orl^s of {Robert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 a cry so loud that it reached my ears upon the hill. 
 The others ran to him, even dropping the compass in 
 their hurry, and I could see the bone and the shoe- 
 buckle going from hand to hand, causing the most un- 
 usual gesticulations of surprise and interest. Just then 
 I could hear the seamen crying from the boat, and 
 
 saw them point westward to that cloud continent which 
 was ever the more rapidly unfurling its blackness over 
 heaven. The others seemed to consult; but the danger 
 was too pressing to be braved, and they bundled into 
 the boat carrying my relics with them, and set forth 
 
 out of the bay with all speed of oars. 
 
 I made no more ado about the matter, but turned 
 and ran for the house. Whoever these men were, it 
 was fit my uncle should be instantly informed. It was 
 not then altogether too late in the day for a descent 
 of the Jacobites; and maybe Prince Charlie, whom I 
 knew my uncle to detest, was one of the three supe- 
 riors whom I had seen upon the rock. Yet as I ran 
 
 leaping from rock to rock, and turned the matter loosely 
 in my mind, this theory grew ever the longer the less 
 welcome to my reason. The compass, the map, the in- 
 terest awakened by the buckle, and the conduct of that 
 one among the strangers who had looked so often be- 
 low him in the water, all seemed to point to a differ- 
 ent explanation of their presence on that outlying, ob- 
 scure islet of the western sea. The Madrid historian, 
 the search instituted by Dr. Robertson, the bearded 
 stranger with the rings, my own fruitless search that 
 very morning in the deep water of Sandag Bay, ran 
 together, piece by piece, in my memory, and I made 
 sure that these strangers must be Spaniards in quest of 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ei? 
 
 109 
 
 ancient treasure and the lost ship of the Armada. But 
 the people living in outlying islands, such as Arcs, are 
 answerable for their own security; there is none near 
 by to protect or even to help them; and the presence 
 in such a spot of a crew of foreign adventurers — poor, 
 greedy, and most likely lawless — filled me with appre- 
 hensions for my uncle’s money, and even for the safety 
 of his daughter. I was still wondering how we were to 
 get rid of them when I came, all breathless, to the top 
 of Aros. The whole world was shadowed over; only in 
 the extreme east, on a hill of the mainland, one last 
 gleam of sunshine lingered like a jewel; rain had be- 
 gun to fall, not heavily, but in great drops; the sea 
 was rising with each moment, and already a band of 
 white encircled Aros and the nearer coasts of Grisapol. 
 The boat was still pulling seaward, but I now became 
 aware of what had been hidden from me lower down 
 — a large, heavily sparred, handsome schooner, lying to 
 at the soiifn end of Aros. Since I had not seen her in 
 the morning when I had looked around so closely at 
 the signs of the weather, and upon these lone waters 
 where a sail was rarely visible, it was clear she must 
 have lain last night behind the uninhabited Eilean Gour, 
 and this proved conclusively that she was manned by 
 strangers to our coast, for that anchorage, though good 
 enough to look at, is little better than a trap for ships. 
 With such ignorant sailors upon so wild a coast, the 
 coming gale was not unlikely to bring death upon its 
 wings. 
 
110 
 
 Worlds of Robert C0U15 SteueijsoQ 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE GALE 
 
 I FOUND my uncle at the gable end, watching the 
 signs of the weather, with a pipe in his fingers. 
 
 “Uncle,” said I, “there were men ashore at Sandag 
 Bay—” 
 
 I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only 
 forgot my words, but even my weariness, so strange 
 was the effect on Uncle Gordon. He dropped his pipe 
 and fell back against the end of the house with his 
 jaw fallen, his eyes staring, and his long face as white 
 as paper. We must have looked at one another silently 
 for a quarter of a minute, before he made answer in 
 this extraordinary fashion: “Had he a hair kep on?” 
 
 I knew as well as if I had been there that the man 
 who now lay buried at Sandag had worn a hairy cap, 
 and that he had come ashore alive. For the first and 
 only time I lost toleration for the man who was my 
 benefactor and the father of the woman I hoped to call 
 my wife. 
 
 “These were living men,” said I, “perhaps Jacobites, 
 perhaps the French, perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers 
 come here to seek the Spanish treasure ship; but, what 
 ever they may be, dangerous at least to your daughter 
 and my cousin. As for your own guilty terrors, man, 
 the dead sleeps well where you have laid him. I stood 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ei? Ill 
 
 this morning by his grave; he will not wake before the 
 trump of doom.” 
 
 My kinsman looked upon me, blinking, while I spoke; 
 then he fixed his eyes for a little on the ground, and 
 pulled his fingers foolishly; but it was plain that he 
 was past the power of speech. 
 
 “Come,” said I. “You must think for others. You 
 must come up the hill with me, and see this ship.” 
 
 He obeyed without a word or a look, following slowly 
 after my impatient strides. The spring seemed to have 
 gone out of his body, and he scrambled heavily up and 
 down the rocks, instead of leaping, as he was wont, 
 from one to another. Hor could I, for all my cries, 
 induce him to make better haste. Only once he replied 
 to me complainingly, and like one in bodily pain: “Ay, 
 ay, man, I’m coming.” Long before we had reached 
 the top, I had no other thought for him but pity. If 
 the crime had been monstrous, the punishment was in 
 proportion. 
 
 At last we emerged above the sky-line of the hill, 
 and could see around us. All was black and stormy 
 to the eye; the last gleam of sun had vanished; a 
 wind had sprung up, not yet high, but gusty and un- 
 steady to the point; the rain, on the other hand, had 
 ceased. Short as was the interval, the sea already ran 
 vastly higher than when I had stood there last; already 
 it had begun to break over some of the outward reefs, 
 and already it moaned aloud in the sea-caves of Aros. 
 
 I looked, at first, in vain for the schooner. 
 
 “There she is,” I said at last. But her new posi- 
 tion, and the course she was now lying, puzzled me. 
 “They cannot mean to beat to sea,” I cried. 
 
112 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis SteuepsoQ 
 
 “That’s what they mean,” said my uncle, with 
 something like joy; and just then the schooner went 
 about and stood upon another tack, which put the 
 question beyond the reach of doubt. These strangers, 
 seeing a gale on hand, had thought first of sea-room. 
 With the wind that threatened, in these reef-sown waters 
 and contending against so violent a stream of tide, their 
 course was certain death. 
 
 “Good God!” said I, “they are all lost.” 
 
 “Ay,” returned my uncle, “a’ — a’ lost. They hadnae 
 a chance but to rin for Kyle Dona. The gate they’re 
 gaun the noo, they couldnae win through an the muckle 
 deil were there ’to pilot them. Eh, man,” he continued, 
 touching me on the sleeve, “it’s a braw nicht for a 
 shipwreck! Twa in ae twalmonth! Eh, but the Merry 
 Men’ll dance bonny!” 
 
 I looked at him, and it was then that I began to 
 fancy him no longer in his right mind. He was peer- 
 ing up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his 
 eyes. All that had passed between us was already 
 forgotten in the prospect of this fresh disaster. 
 
 “If it were not too late,” I cried with indignation, 
 “I would take the coble and go out to warn them.” 
 
 “Na, na,” he protested, “ye maunnae interfere; 
 ye maunnae meddle wi’ the like o’ that. It’s His” — 
 doffing his bonnet — “His wull. And, eh, man! but it’s 
 a braw nicht for’t!” 
 
 Something like fear began to creep into my soul; 
 and, reminding him that I had not yet dined, I pro- 
 posed we should return to the house. But no; nothing 
 would tear him from his place of outlook, “I maun 
 see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,” he explained; and 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry fl\ei) 
 
 113 
 
 then as the schooner went about a second time, “Eh, 
 but they han’le her bonny!” he cried. “The ‘Christ- 
 Anna’ was naething to this.” 
 
 Already the men on board the schooner must have 
 begun to realize some part, but not yet the twenti- 
 eth, of the dangers that environed their doomed ship. 
 At every lull of the capricious wind they must have 
 seen how fast the current swept them back. Each tack 
 was made shorter, as they saw how little it prevailed. 
 Every moment the rising swell began to boom and 
 foam upon another sunken reef; and ever and again a 
 breaker would fall in sounding ruin under the Very 
 bows of her, and the brown reef and streaming tangle 
 appear in the hollow of the wave. I tell you, they 
 had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle man 
 aboard that ship, God knows. It was upon the progress 
 of a scene so horrible to any human-hearted man that 
 my misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a con- 
 noisseur. As I turned to go down the hill, he was 
 lying on his belly on the summit, with his hands 
 stretched forth and clutching in the heather. He seemed 
 rejuvenated, mind and body. 
 
 When I got back to the house already dismally 
 affected, I was still more sadly downcast at the sight 
 of Mary. She had her sleeves rolled up over her strong 
 arms, and was quietly making bread. I got a bannock 
 from the dresser and sat down to eat it in silence. 
 
 “Are ye wearied, lad?” she asked after a while. 
 
 “I am not so much wearied, Mary,” I replied, get- 
 ting on my feet, “as I am weary of delay, and per- 
 haps of Aros too. You know me well enough to judge 
 me fairly, say what I like. Well, Mary, you may 
 
114 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 be sure of this : you had better be anywhere than 
 here.” 
 
 “I’ll be sure of one thing,” she returned: “I’ll be 
 where my duty is.” 
 
 “You forget, you have a duty to yourself,” I 
 said. 
 
 “Ay, man?” she replied, pounding at the dough; 
 “will you have found that in the Bible, now?” 
 
 “Mary,” I said solemnly, “you must not laugh at 
 me just now. God knows I am in no heart for laugh- 
 ing. If we could get your father with us, it would 
 be best; but with him or without him, I want you far 
 away from here, my girl; for your own sake, and for 
 mine, ay, and for your father’s too, I want you far — 
 far away from here. I came with other thoughts; I 
 came here as a man comes home; now it is all changed, 
 and I have no desire nor hope but to flee — for that’s 
 the word — flee, like a bird out of the fowler’s snare, 
 from this accursed island.” 
 
 She had stopped her work by this time. 
 
 “And do you think, now,” said she, “do you think, 
 now, I have neither eyes nor ears? Do ye think I 
 havenae broken my heart to have these braws (as he 
 calls them, God forgive him!) thrown into the sea? Do 
 ye think I have lived with him, day in, day out, and 
 not seen what you saw in an hour or two? No,” she 
 said, “I know there’s wrong in it; what wrong, I 
 neither know nor want to know. There was never an 
 ill thing made better by meddling, that I could hear 
 of. But, my lad, you must never ask me to leave my 
 father. While the breath is in his body. I’ll be with 
 him. And he’s not long for here, either: that I can 
 
xi?^ /r\erry /I\eij 
 
 115 
 
 tell you, Charlie — he’s not long for here. The mark is 
 on his brow; and better so — maybe better so.” 
 
 I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and 
 when I roused my head at last to speak, she got 
 before me. 
 
 “Charlie,” she said, “what’s right for me, neednae 
 be right for you. There’s sin upon this house and 
 trouble; you are a stranger; take your things upon your 
 back and go your ways to better places and to better 
 folk, and if you were ever minded to come back, 
 though it were twenty years syne, you would find me 
 aye waiting.” 
 
 “Mary Ellen,” I said, “I asked you to be my 
 wife, and you said as good as yes. That’s done for 
 good. Wherever you are, I am; as I shall answer to 
 my God.” 
 
 As I said the- words, the wind suddenly burst out 
 raving, and then seemed to stand still and shudder 
 round the house of Aros. It was the first squall, or 
 prologue, of the coming tempest, and as we started and 
 looked about us, we found that a gloom, like the ap- 
 proach of evening, had settled round the house. 
 
 “God pity all poor folks at sea!” she said. “We’ll 
 see no more of my father till the morrow’s morning.” 
 
 And then she told me, as we sat by the fire and 
 hearkened to the rising gusts, of how this change had 
 fallen upon my uncle. All last winter he had been 
 dark and fitful in his mind. Whenever the Roost ran 
 high, or, as Mary said, whenever the Merry Men were 
 dancing, he would lie out for hours together on the 
 Head, if it were at night, or on the top of Aros by 
 day, watching the tumult of the sea, and sweeping the 
 
116 U/orl^5 of f^obert C0U15 Steuepsop 
 
 horizon for a sail. After February the tenth, when 
 the wealth-bringing wreck was cast ashore at Sandag, 
 he had been at first unnaturally gay, and his excite- 
 ment had never fallen in degree, but only changed in 
 kind from dark to darker. He neglected his work, and 
 kept Rorie idle. They two would speak together by 
 the hour at the gable end, in guarded tones and with 
 an air of secrecy and almost of guilt; and if she ques- 
 tioned either, as at first she sometimes did, her inquiries 
 were put aside with confusion. Since Rorie had first 
 remarked the fish that hung about the ferry, his mas- 
 ter had never set foot but once upon the mainland of 
 the Ross. That once — ^it was in the height of the 
 springs — he had passed dryshod while the tide was out; 
 but, having lingered overlong on the far side, found 
 himself cut off from Aros by the returning waters. It 
 was with a shriek of agony that he had leaped across 
 the gut, and he had reached home thereafter in a 
 fever-fit of fear. A fear of the sea, a constant haunt- 
 ing thought of the sea, appeared in his talk and 
 devotions, and even in his looks when he was silent, 
 
 Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little later my 
 uncle appeared, took a bottle under his arm, put some 
 bread in his pocket, and set forth again to his outlook, 
 followed this time by Rorie. I heard that the schooner 
 was losing ground, but the crew were still fighting 
 every inch with hopeless ingenuity and courage ; and 
 the news filled my mind with blackness. 
 
 A little after sundown the full fury of the gale 
 broke forth, such a gale as I have never seen in sum- 
 mer, nor, seeing how swiftly it had come, even in 
 winter. Mary and I sat in silence, the house quaking 
 
Tl?<? /I\erry /I\ei? 
 
 117 
 
 ^ overhead, the tempest howling without, the fire between 
 'us sputtering with raindrops. Our thoughts were far 
 away with the poor fellows on the schooner, or my not 
 less unhappy uncle, houseless on the promontory; and 
 yet ever and again we were startled back to ourselves, 
 when the wind would rise and strike the gable like a 
 solid body, or suddenly fall and draw away, so that 
 the fire leaped into flame and our hearts bounded in 
 our sides. Now the storm in its might would seize and 
 shake the four corners of the roof, roaring like Levi- 
 athan in anger. Anon, in a lull, cold eddies of tem- 
 pest moved shudderingly in the room, lifting the hair 
 upon our heads and passing between us as we sat. 
 And again the wind would break forth in a chorus of 
 melancholy sounds, hooting low in the chimney, wailing 
 with flutelike softness round the house. 
 
 It was perhaps eight o’clock when Borie came in 
 and pulled me mysteriously to the door. 
 
 My uncle, it appeared, had frightened even his con- 
 stant comrade; and Eorie, uneasy at his extravagance, 
 prayed me to come out and share the watch. I hast- 
 ened to do as I was asked; the more readily as, what 
 with fear and horror, and the electrical tension of the 
 night, I was myself restless and disposed for action. I 
 told Mary to be under no alarm, for I should be a 
 safeguard on her father; and wrapping myself warmly 
 in a plaid, I followed Rorie into the open air. 
 
 The night, though we were so little past midsum- 
 mer, was as dark as January. Intervals of a groping 
 twilight alternated with spells of utter blackness; and 
 it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes 
 in the flying horror of the sky. The wind blew the 
 
118 U/orl^5 of Coui5 Steueij50i? 
 
 breath out of a man’s nostrils; all heaven seemed to 
 thunder overhead like one huge sail; and when there 
 fell a momentary lull on Arcs, we could hear the gusts 
 dismally sweeping in the distance. Over all the low- 
 lands of the Ross, the wind must have blown as fierce 
 as on the open sea; and God only knows the uproar 
 that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw. Sheets 
 of mingled spray and rain were driven in our faces. 
 All round the isle of Aros the surf, with an incessant, 
 hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and beaches. 
 Row louder in one place, now lower in another, like 
 the combinations of orchestral music, the constant mass 
 of sound was hardly varied for a moment. And loud 
 above all this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful 
 voices of the Roost and the intermittent roaring of the 
 Merry Men. At that hour, there fiashed into my mind 
 the reason of the name that they were called. For the 
 noise of them seemed almost mirthful, as it out-topped 
 the other noises of the night; or if not mirthful, yet 
 instinct with a portentous joviality. Ray, and it seemed 
 even human. As when savage men have drunk away 
 their reason, and, discarding speech, bawl together in 
 their madness by the hour; so, to my ears,, these deadly 
 breakers shouted by Aros in the night. 
 
 Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, Rorie 
 and I won every yard of ground with conscious effort. 
 We slipped on the wet sod, we fell together sprawling 
 on the rocks. Bruised, drenched, beaten, and breathless, 
 it must have taken us near half an hour to get from 
 the house down to the Head that overlooks the Roost. 
 There, it seemed, was my uncle’s favorite observatory. 
 Right in the face of it, where the cliff is highest and 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ei> 
 
 119 
 
 most sheer, a hump of earth, like a parapet, makes a 
 place of shelter from the common winds, where a man 
 may sit in quiet and see the tide and mad billows con- 
 tending at his feet. As he might look down from the 
 window of a house upon some street disturbance, so, 
 from this post, he looks down upon the tumbling of 
 the Merry Men. On such a night, of course, he peers 
 upon a world of blackness, where the waters wheel and 
 boil, where the waves joust together with the noise 
 of an explosion, and the foam towers and vanishes 
 in the twinkling of an eye. Never before had I seen 
 the Merry Men thus violent. The fury, height, and 
 transiency of their spoutings was a thing to be seen 
 and not recounted. High over our heads on the cliff 
 rose their white columns in the darkness; and the same 
 instant, hke phantoms, they were gone. Sometimes three 
 at a time would thus aspire and vanish ; sometimes a 
 gust took them, and the spray would fall about us, 
 heavy as a wave. And yet the spectacle was rather 
 maddening in its levity than impressive by its force. 
 Thought was beaten down by the confounding uproar; 
 a gleeful vacancy possessed the brains of men, a state 
 akin to madness; and I found myself at times follow- 
 ing the dance of the Merry Men as it were a tune 
 upon a jigging instrument. 
 
 I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still 
 some yards away in one of the flying glimpses of twi- 
 light that checkered the pitch darkness of the night. 
 He was standing up behind the parapet, his head 
 thrown back and the bottle to his mouth. As he put 
 it down, he saw and recognized us with a toss of one 
 hand fleeringly above his head. 
 
120 Wor^s of f^obert Couis Steuepsoi? 
 
 “Has he been drinking?” shouted I to Rorie. 
 
 “He will ay be drunk when the wind blaws,” re- 
 turned Rorie in the same high key, and it was all that 
 I could do to hear him. 
 
 “Then — was he so — in February?” I inquired. 
 
 Rorie’s “Ay” was a cause of joy to me. The mur- 
 der, then, had not sprung in cold blood from calcula- 
 tion; it was an act of madness no more to be con- 
 demned than to be pardoned. My uncle was a dangerous 
 madman, if you will, but he was not cruel and base 
 as I had feared. Yet what a scene for a carouse, what 
 an incredible vice, was this that the poor man had 
 chosen! I have always thought drunkenness a wild and 
 almost fearful pleasure, rather demoniacal than human; 
 but drunkenness, out here in the roaring blackness, on 
 the edge of a cliff above that hell of waters, the man’s 
 head spinning like the Roost, his foot tottering on the 
 edge of death, his ear watching for the signs of ship- 
 wreck, surely that, if it were credible in any one, was 
 morally impossible in a man like my uncle, whose mind 
 was set upon a damnatory creed and haunted by the 
 darkest superstitions. Yet so it was; and, as we reached 
 the bight of shelter and could breathe again, I saw the 
 man’s eyes shining in the night with an unholy glim- 
 mer. 
 
 “Eh, Charlie, man, it’s grand!” he cried. “See to 
 them!” he continued, dragging me to the edge of the 
 abyss from whence arose that deafening clamor and 
 those clouds of spray; “see to them dancin’, man! Is 
 that no wicked?” 
 
 He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought 
 it suited with the scene. 
 
Xl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 m 
 
 “They’re yowlin’ for thon schooner,” he went on, his 
 thin, insane voice clearly audible in the shelter of the 
 bank, “an’ she’s cornin’ ay nearer, ay nearer, ay nearer, 
 an’ nearer an’ nearer; an’ they ken’t, the folk kens it, 
 they ken weel it’s by wi’ them. Charlie, lad, they’re 
 a’ drunk in yon schooner, a’ dozened wi’ drink. They 
 were a’ drunk in the ‘Christ- Anna,’ at the hinder end. 
 There’s nane could droon at sea wantin’ the brandy. 
 Hoot awa, what do you ken?” with a sudden blast of an- 
 ger. “I tell ye, it cannae be; they daurnae droon with- 
 oot it. “Ha’e,” holding out the bottle, “tak’ a sowp.” 
 I was about to refuse, but Rorie touched me as if 
 in warning; and indeed I had already thought better 
 of the movement. I took the bottle, therefore, and not 
 only drank freely myself, but contrived to spill even 
 more as I was doing so. It was pure spirit, and al- 
 most strangled me to swallow. My kinsman did not 
 observe the loss, but, once more throwing back his 
 head, drained the remainder to the dregs. Then, with 
 a loud laugh, he cast the bottle forth among the Merry 
 Men, who seemed to leap up, shouting to receive it. 
 
 “Ha’e, bairns!” he cried, “there’s your han’sel. 
 Ye’ll get bonnier nor that, or morning.” 
 
 Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and not 
 two hundred yards away, we heard, at a moment when 
 the wind was silent, the clear note of a human voice. 
 Instantly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, 
 and the Roost bellowed, and churned, and danced with 
 a new fury. But we had heard the sound, and we 
 knew, with agony, that this was the doomed ship now 
 close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the 
 voice of her master issuing his last command. Crouch- 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 21 
 
122 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Sfceueijsoij 
 
 ing together on the edge, we waited, straining every 
 sense, for the inevitable end. It was long, however, 
 and to us it seemed like ages, ere the schooner sud- 
 denly appeared for one brief instant, relieved against a 
 tower of glimmering foam. I still see her reefed main- 
 sail flapping loose, as the boom fell heavily across the 
 deck; I still see the black outline of the hull, and still 
 think I can distinguish the flgure of a man stretched 
 upon the tiller. Yet the whole sight we had of her 
 passed swifter than lightning; the very wave that dis- 
 closed her fell burying her forever; the mingled cry of 
 many voices at the point of death rose and was quenched 
 in the roaring of the Merry Men. And with that the 
 tragedy was at an end. The strong ship, with all her 
 gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in the cabin, 
 the lives of so many men, precious surely to others, 
 dear, at least, as heaven to themselves, had all, in 
 that one moment, gone down into the surging waters. 
 They were gone like a dream. And the wind still ran 
 and shouted, and the senseless waters in the Roost still 
 leaped and tumbled as before. 
 
 How long we lay there together, we three, speech- 
 less and motionless, is more than I can tell, but it 
 must have been for long. At length, one by one, and 
 almost mechanically, we crawled back into the shelter 
 of the bank. As I lay against the parapet, wholly 
 wretched and not entirely master of my mind, I could 
 hear my kinsman maundering to himself in an altered 
 and melancholy mood. Now he would repeat to himself 
 with maudlin iteration, “Sic a fecht as they had — sic 
 a sair fecht as they had, puir lads, puir lads I” and 
 anon he would bewail that “a’ the gear was as gude’s 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 123 
 
 •* 
 
 tint,” because the ship had gone down among the 
 Merry Men instead of stranding on the shore; and 
 throughout, the name — the “Christ- Anna” — would come 
 and go in his divagations, pronounced with shuddering 
 awe. The storm all this time was rapidly abating. In 
 half an hour the wind had fallen to a breeze, and the 
 change was accompanied or caused by a heavy, cold, 
 and plumping rain. I must then have fallen asleep, 
 and when I came to myself, drenched, stiff, and unre 
 freshed, day had already broken, gray, wet, discomfort- 
 able day; the wind blew in faint and shifting capfuls, 
 the tide was out, the Roost was at its lowest, and 
 only the strong beating surf round all the coasts of 
 Aros remained to witness of the furies of the night. 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 A MAN OUT OF THE SEA 
 
 Rorie set out for the house in search of warmth 
 and breakfast; but my uncle was bent upon examining 
 the shores of Aros, and I felt it a part of duty to 
 accompany him throughout. He was now docile and 
 quiet, but tremulous and weak in mind and body; and 
 it was with the eagerness of a child that he pursued 
 his exploration. He climbed far down upon the rocks; 
 on the beaches, he pursued the retreating breakers. The 
 merest broken plank or rag of cordage was a treasure 
 in his eyes to be secured at the peril of his life. To 
 see him, with weak and stumbling footsteps, expose 
 
124 U/orl^5 of F(obert Coui 5 Steuei> 50 ij 
 
 himself to the pursuit of the surf, or the snares and 
 pitfalls of the weedy rock, kept me in a perpetual 
 terror. My arm was ready to support him, my hand 
 clutched him by the skirt, I helped him to draw his 
 pitiful discoveries beyond the reach of the returning 
 wave; a nurse accompanying a child of seven would 
 have had no different experience. 
 
 Yet, weakened as he was by the reaction from his 
 madness of the night before, the passions that smol- 
 dered in his nature were those of a strong man. His 
 terror of the sea, although conquered for the moment, 
 was still undiminished ; had the sea been a lake of 
 
 living flames, he could not have shrunk more panically 
 from its touch; and once, when his foot slipped and 
 he plunged to the midleg into a pool of water, the 
 shriek that came up out of his soul was like the cry 
 of death. He sat still for a while, panting like a dog, 
 after that; but his desire for the spoils of shipwreck 
 triumphed once more over his fears; once more he tot- 
 tered among the curded foam; once more he crawled 
 upon the rocks among the bursting bubbles; once more 
 his whole heart seemed to be set on driftwood, fit, if 
 it was fit for anything, to throw upon the fire. Pleased 
 as he was with what he found, he still incessantly 
 
 grumbled at his ill-fortune. 
 
 “Aros,” he said, “is no a place for wrecks ava’ — 
 no ava’. A’ the years I’ve dwalt here, this ane maks 
 the second; and the best o’ the gear clean tint!” 
 
 “Uncle,” said I, for we were now on a stretch of 
 
 open sand, where there was nothing* to divert his mind, 
 
 “I saw you last night, as I never thought to see you 
 —you were drunk.” 
 
Tl?<? /T\erry /I\ep 
 
 125 
 
 “Na, na,” he said, “no as bad as that. I had been 
 drinking, though. And to tell ye the God’s truth, it’s 
 a thing I cannae mend. There’s nae soberer man than 
 me in my ordnar; but when I hear the wind blaw in 
 my lug, it’s my belief that I gang gyte.” 
 
 “You are a religious man,” I replied, “and this is 
 sin.” 
 
 “Ou,” he returned, “if it wasnae sin, I dinnae ken 
 that I would care for’t. Ye see, man, it’s defiance. 
 There’s a sair spang o’ the auld sin o’ the warld in 
 yon sea; it’s an unchristian business at the best o’t; 
 an’ whiles when it gets up, an’ the wind skreighs — the 
 wind an’ her are a kind of sib, I’m thinkin’ — an’ thae 
 Merry Men, the daft callants, blawin’ and lauchin’, and 
 puir souls in the deid thraws warstlin’ the leelang nicht 
 wi’ their bit ships — weel, it comes ower me like a 
 glamour. I’m a deil, I ken’t. But I think naething 
 o’ the puir sailor lads; I’m wi’ the sea, I‘m just like 
 ane o’ her ain Merry Men.” 
 
 I thought I should touch him in a joint of his 
 harness. I turned me toward the sea; the surf was 
 running gayly, wave after wave, with their manes 
 blowing behind them, riding one after another up the 
 beach, towering, curving, falling one upon another on 
 the trampled sand. Without, the salt air, the scared 
 gulls, the widespread army of the sea-chargers, neigh 
 ing to each other, as they gathered together to the as- 
 sault of Aros; and close before us, that line on the 
 flat sands that, with all their number and their fury, 
 they might never pass. 
 
 “Thus far shalt thou go,” said I, “and no farther.” 
 And then I quoted as solemnly as I was able a verse 
 
126 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steueijsoi? 
 
 that I had often before fitted to the chorus of the 
 breakers : 
 
 But yet the Lord that is on high, 
 
 Is more of might by far, 
 
 Than noise of many waters is. 
 
 As great sea billows are. 
 
 “Ay,” said my kinsman, “at the hinder end, the 
 Lord will triumph; I dinnae misdoobt that. But here 
 on earth, even silly men-folk daur Him to His face. 
 It is nae wise; I am nae sayin’ that it’s wise; but 
 it’s the pride o’ the eye, and it’s the lust o’ life, an’ 
 it’s the wale o’ pleesures.” 
 
 I said no more, for we had now begun to cross a 
 neck of land that lay between us and Sandag; and I 
 withheld my last appeal to the man’s better reason tiU 
 we should stand upon the spot associated with his 
 crime. Nor did he pursue the subject; but he walked 
 beside me with a firmer step. The call that I had 
 made upon his mind acted like a stimulant, and I 
 could see that he had forgotten his search for worthless 
 jetsam, in a profound, gloomy, and yet stirring train 
 of thought. In three or four minutes we had topped 
 the brae and begun to go down upon Sandag. The 
 wreck had been roughly handled by the sea; the stem 
 had been spun round and dragged a little lower down; 
 and perhaps the stern had been forced a little higher, 
 for the two parts now lay entirely separate on the 
 beach. When we came to the grave I stopped, uncov- 
 ered my head in the thick rain, and, looking my kins- 
 man in the face, addressed him. 
 
 “A man,” said I, “was in God’s providence suffered 
 to escape from mortal dangers; he was poor, he was 
 
TI?? /I\erry /I\ep 
 
 127 
 
 naked) he was wet, he was weary, he was a stranger; 
 he had every claim upon the bowels of your compas- 
 sion; it may be that he was the salt of the earth, 
 holy, helpful, and kind; it may be he was a man 
 laden with iniquities to whom death was the beginning 
 of torment. I ask you in the sight of Heaven: Gordon 
 Darnaway, where is the man for whom Christ died?” 
 
 He started visibly at the last words; but there came 
 no answer, and his face expressed no feeling but a 
 vague alarm. 
 
 “You were my father’s brother,” I continued; “you 
 have taught me to count your house as if it were my 
 father’s house; and we are both sinful men walking be- 
 fore the Lord among the sins and dangers of this life. 
 It is by our evil that God leads us into good; we sin, 
 I dare not say by His temptation, but I must say with 
 His consent; and to any but the brutish man his sins 
 are the beginning of wisdom. God has warned you by 
 this crime; He warns you still by the bloody grave 
 between our feet; and if there shall follow no repent- 
 ance, no improvement, no return to Him, what can we 
 look for but the following of some memorable judg- 
 ment?” 
 
 Even as I spoke the words, the eyes of my uncle 
 wandered from my face. A change fell upon his looks 
 that cannot be described; his features seemed to dwindle 
 in size, the color faded from his cheeks, one hand rose 
 waveringly and pointed over my shoulder into the dis- 
 tance, and the oft-repeated name fell once more from 
 his lips: “The ‘ Christ- Anna’ !” 
 
 I turned; and if I was not appalled to the same de- 
 gree, as I return thanks to Heaven that I had not the 
 
128 U/orl^5 of F^obert Couis Steuepjoij 
 
 cause, I was still startled by the sight that met my 
 eyes. The form of a man stood upright on the cabin- 
 hutch of the wrecked ship; his back was toward us; 
 he appeared to be scanning the offing with shaded eyes, 
 and his figure was relieved to its full height, which 
 was plainly very great, against the sea and sky. I 
 have said a thousand times that I am not superstitious; 
 but at that moment, with my mind running upon death 
 and sin, the unexplained appearance of a stranger on 
 that sea-girt, solitary island filled me with a surprise 
 that bordered close on terror. It seemed scarce possible 
 that any human soul should have come ashore alive in 
 such a sea as had raged last night along the coasts of 
 Aros; and the only vessel within miles had gone down 
 before our eyes among the Merry Men. I was assailed 
 with doubts that made suspense unbearable, and, to put 
 the matter to the touch at once, stepped forward and 
 hailed the figure like a ship. 
 
 He turned about, and I thought he started to be- 
 hold us. At this my courage instantly revived, and I 
 called and signed to him to draw near, and he, on his 
 part, dropped immediately to the sands, and began 
 slowly to approach, with many stops and hesitations. 
 At each repeated mark of the man’s uneasiness I grew 
 the more confident myself; and I advanced another step, 
 encouraging him as I did so with my head and hand. 
 It was plain the castaway had heard indifferent accounts 
 of our island hospitality; and indeed, about this time, 
 the people further north had a sorry reputation. 
 
 “Why,” I said, “the man is black!” 
 
 And just at that moment, in a voice that I could 
 scarce have recognized, my kinsman began swearing and 
 
Tl?^ /I\erry /Hep 
 
 129 
 
 praying in a mingled stream. I looked at him; he had 
 fallen on his knees, his face was agonized; at each 
 step of the castaway’s the pitch of his voice rose, the 
 volubility of his utterance and the fervor of his lan- 
 guage redoubled. I call it prayer, for it was addressed 
 to God; but surely no such ranting incongruities were 
 ever before addressed to the Creator by a creature : 
 surely if prayer can be a sin, this mad harangue was 
 sinful. I ran to my kinsman, I seized him by the 
 shoulders, I dragged him to his feet. 
 
 “Silence, man,” said I, “respect your God in words, 
 if not in action. Here, on the very scene of your trans- 
 gressions, He sends you an occasion of atonement. For- 
 ward and embrace it; welcome like a father yon creat- 
 ure who comes trembling to your mercy.” 
 
 With that, I tried to force him toward the black; 
 but he felled me to the ground, burst from my grasp, 
 leaving the shoulder of his jacket, and fled up the hill- 
 side toward the top of Aros like a deer. I staggered 
 to my feet again, bruised and somewhat stunned; the 
 negro had paused in surprise, perhaps in terror, some 
 halfway between me and the wreck; my uncle was al- 
 ready far away, bounding from rock to rock; and I 
 thus found myself torn for a time between two duties. 
 But I judged, and I pray Heaven that I judged rightly, 
 in favor of the poor wretch upon the sands; his mis- 
 fortune was at least not plainly of his own creation; it 
 was one, besides, that I could certainly relieve; and I 
 had begun by that time to regard my uncle as an in- 
 curable and dismal lunatic. I advanced accordingly to- 
 ward the black, who now awaited my approach with 
 folded arms, like one prepared for either destiny. As I 
 
130 U/orl^5 of Couis Steuepsor; 
 
 came nearer, he reached forth his hand with a great 
 gesture, such as I had seen from the pulpit, and spoke 
 to me in something of a pulpit voice, but not a word 
 was comprehensible. I tried him first in English, then 
 in Gaelic, both in vain; so that it was clear we must 
 rely upon the tongue of looks and gestures. Thereupon 
 I signed to him to follow me, which he did readily and 
 with a grave obeisance like a fallen king; all the while 
 there had come no shade of alteration in his face, 
 neither of anxiety while he was still waiting, nor of 
 relief now that he was reassured; if he were a slave, 
 as I supposed, I could not but judge he must have 
 fallen from some high place in his own country, and 
 fallen as he was, I could not but admire his bearing. 
 As we passed the grave, I paused and raised my hands 
 and eyes to heaven in token of respect and sorrow foi* 
 the dead; and he, as if in answer, bowed low and 
 spread his hands abroad; it was a strange motion, but 
 done like a thing of common custom; and I supposed 
 it was ceremonial in the land from which he came. 
 At the same time he pointed to my uncle, whom we 
 could just see perched upon a knoll, and touched his 
 head to indicate that he was mad. 
 
 We took the long way round the shore, for I feared 
 to excite my uncle if we struck across the island; and 
 as we walked, I had time enough to mature the little 
 dramatic exhibition by which I hoped to satisfy my 
 doubts. Accordingly, pausing on a rock, I proceeded to 
 imitate before the negro the action of the man whom 
 I had seen the day before taking bearings with the 
 compass at Sandag. He understood me at once, and, 
 taking the imitation out of my hands, showed me where 
 
/I\erry /I\ei? 
 
 131 
 
 the boat was, pointed out seaward as if to indicate the 
 position of the schooner, and then down along the edge 
 of the rock with the words “Espirito Santo,” strangely 
 pronounced, but clear enough for recognition. I had 
 thus been right in my conjecture; the pretended his- 
 torical inquiry had been but a cloak for treasure-hunt- 
 ing; the man who had played on Dr. Robertson was 
 the same as the foreigner who visited Grisapol in spring, 
 and now, with many others, lay dead under the Roost 
 of Aros: there had their greed brought them, there should 
 their bones be tossed for evermore. In the meantime 
 the black continued his imitation of the scene, now 
 looking up skyward as though watching the approach 
 of the storm; now, in the character of a seaman, wav- 
 ing the rest to come aboard; now as an officer, run- 
 ning along the rock and entering the boat; and anon 
 bending over imaginary oars with the air of a hurried 
 boatman; but all with the same solemnity of manner, 
 so that I was never even moved to smile. Lastly, he 
 indicated to me, by a pantomime not to be described 
 in words, how he himself had gone up to examine the 
 stranded wreck, and, to his grief and indignation, had 
 been deserted by his comrades; and thereupon folded 
 his arms once more, and stooped his head, like one 
 accepting fate. 
 
 The mystery of his presence being thus solved for 
 me, I explained to him by means of a sketch the fate 
 of the vessel and of all aboard her. He showed no 
 surprise nor sorrow, and, with a sudden lifting of his 
 open hand, seemed to dismiss his former friends or 
 masters (whichever they had been) into God’s pleasure. 
 Respect came upon me and grew stronger, the more I 
 
132 U/orl^5 of Couis Steueijjoij 
 
 observed him ; I saw he had a powerful mind and a 
 sober and severe character, such as I loved to commune 
 with; and before we reached the house of Aros I had 
 almost forgotten, and wholly forgiven him, his uncanny 
 color. 
 
 To Mary I told all that had passed without suppres- 
 sion, though I own my heart failed me; but I did 
 wrong to doubt her sense of justice. 
 
 “You did the right,” she said. “God’s will be 
 done.” And she set out meat for us at once. 
 
 As soon as I was satisfied, I bade Rorie keep an 
 eye upon the castaway, who was still eating, and set 
 forth again myself to find my uncle. I had not gone 
 far before I saw him sitting in the same place, upon 
 the very topmost knoll, and seemingly in the same at- 
 titude as when I had last observed him. From that 
 point, as I have said, the most of Aros and the neigh- 
 boring Ross would be spread below him like a map; 
 and it was plain that he kept a bright lookout in all 
 directions, for my head had scarcely risen above the 
 summit of the first ascent before he had leaped to his 
 feet and turned as if to face me. I hailed him at 
 once, as well as I was able, in the same tones and 
 words as I had often used before, when I had come 
 to summon him to dinner. He made not so much as 
 a movement in reply. I passed on a little further, and 
 again tried parley, with the same result. But when I 
 began a second time to advance, his insane fears blazed 
 up again, and still in dead silence, but with incredible 
 speed, he began to fiee from before me along the rocky 
 summit of the hill. An hour before, he had been dead 
 weary, and I had been comparatively active. But now 
 
/I\erry /I\eij 
 
 133 
 
 his strength was recruited by the fervor of insanity, 
 and it would have been vain for me to dream of pur- 
 suit. Nay, the very attempt, I thought, might have 
 inflamed his terrors, and thus increased the miseries of 
 our position. And I had nothing left but to turn home- 
 ward and make my sad report to Mary. 
 
 She heard it, as she had heard the first, with a 
 concerned composure, and, bidding me lie down and 
 take that rest of which I stood so much in need, set 
 forth herself in quest of her misguided father. At that 
 age it would have been a strange thing that put me 
 from either meat or sleep; I slept long and deep; and 
 it was already long past noon before I awoke and came 
 downstairs into the kitchen. Mary, Eorie, and the black 
 castaway were seated about the fire in silence; and I 
 could see that Mary had been weeping. There was 
 cause enough, as I soon learned, for tears. First she, 
 and then Rorie, had been forth to seek my uncle; each 
 in turn had found him perched upon the hilltop, and 
 from each in turn he had silently and swiftly fled. 
 Rorie had tried to chase him, but in vain; madness 
 lent a new vigor to his bounds; he sprang from rock to 
 rock over the widest gullies; he scoured like the wind 
 along the hilltops; he doubled and twisted like a hare 
 before the dogs; and Rorie at length gave in; and the 
 last that he saw, my uncle was seated as before upon 
 the crest of Aros. Even during the hottest excitement 
 of the chase, even when the fleet-footed servant had 
 come, for a moment, very near to capture him, the 
 poor lunatic had uttered not a sound. He fled, and he 
 was silent, like a beast; and this silence had terrified 
 his pursuer. 
 
134 U/orl^5 of F^obert Couis Steuei)50i> 
 
 There was something heart-breaking in the situation. 
 How to capture the madman, how to feed him in the 
 meanwhile, and what to do with him when he was 
 captured, were the three difficulties that we had to 
 solve. 
 
 “The black,” said I, “is the cause of this attack. 
 It may even be his presence in the house that keeps 
 my uncle on the hill. We have done the fair thing; 
 he has been fed and warmed under this roof; now I 
 propose that Rorie put him across the bay in the coble, 
 and take him through the Ross as far as Grisapol.” 
 
 In this proposal Mary heartily concurred; and bid- 
 ding the black follow us, we all three descended to the 
 pier. Certainly, Heaven’s will was declared against Gor- 
 don Darnaway; a thing had happened, never paralleled 
 before in Aros; during the storm, the coble had broken 
 loose, and, striking on the rough splinters of the pier, 
 now lay in four feet of water with one side' stove in. 
 Three days of work at least would be required to make 
 her float. But I was not to be beaten. I led the whole 
 party round to where the gut was narrowest, swam to 
 the other side, and called to the black to follow me. 
 He signed, with the same clearness and quiet as be- 
 fore, that he knew not the art; and there was truth 
 apparent in his signals, it would have occurred to none 
 of us to doubt his truth; and that hope being over, 
 we must all go back even as we came to the house of 
 Aros, the negro walking in our midst without embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 All we could do that day was to make one more 
 attempt to communicate with the unhappy madman. 
 Again he was visible on his perch; again he fled in 
 
Tl?^ /nerry 
 
 135 
 
 silence. But food and a great cloak were at least left 
 for his comfort; the rain, besides, had cleared away, 
 and the night promised to be even warm. We might 
 compose ourselves, we thought, until the morrow; rest 
 was the chief requisite, that we might be strengthened 
 for unusual exertions; and as none cared to talk, we 
 separated at an early hour. 
 
 I lay long awake, planning a campaign for the mor- 
 row. I was to place the black on the side of Sandag, 
 whence he should head my uncle toward the house ; 
 Rorie in the west, I on the east, were to complete the 
 cordon, as best we might. It seemed to me, the more 
 I recalled the configuration of the island, that it should 
 be possible, though hard, to force him down upon the 
 low ground along Aros Bay; and once there, even with 
 the strength of his madness, ultimate escape was hardly 
 to be feared. It was on his terror of the black that I 
 relied ; for I made sure, however he might run, it 
 would not be in the direction of the man whom he 
 supposed to have returned from the dead, and thus one 
 point of the compass at least would be secure. 
 
 When at length I fell asleep, it was to be awakened 
 shortly after by a dream of wrecks, black men, and 
 submarine adventure ; and I found myself so shaken 
 and fevered that I arose, descended the stair, and 
 stepped out before the house. Within, Rorie and the 
 black were asleep together in the kitchen; outside was 
 a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and there 
 a cloud still hanging, last stragglers of the tempest. It 
 was near the top of the fiood, and the Merry Men 
 were roaring in the windless quiet of the night. Never, 
 not even in the height of the tempest, had I heard 
 
136 U/orKs of F^obert Couis Stcuepsoij 
 
 their song with greater awe. Now, when the winds 
 were gathered home, when the deep was dandling itself 
 back into its summer slumber, and when the stars 
 rained their gentle light over land and sea, the voice 
 of these tide-breakers was still raised for havoc. They 
 seemed, indeed, to be a part of the world’s evil and 
 
 the tragic side of life. Nor were their meaningless vo- 
 ciferations the only sounds that broke the silence of the 
 night. For I could hear, now shrill and thrilling and 
 now almost drowned, the note of a human voice that 
 accompanied the uproar of the Roost. I knew it for 
 my kinsman’s; and a great fear fell upon me of God’s 
 judgments, and the evil in the world. I went back 
 
 again into the darkness of the house as into a place 
 
 of shelter, and lay long upon my bed, pondering these 
 mysteries. 
 
 It was la^-e when I again woke, and I leaped into 
 my clothes and hurried to the kitchen. No one was 
 
 there; Rorie and the black had both stealthily departed 
 long before; and my heart stood still at the discovery. 
 I could rely on Rorie’s heart, but I placed no trust in 
 his discretion. If he had thus set out without a word, 
 he was plainly bent upon some service to my uncle. 
 But what service could he hope to render even alone, 
 far less in the company of the man in whom my uncle 
 found his fears incarnated? Even if I were not already 
 too late to prevent some deadly mischief, it was plain 
 I must delay no longer. With the thought I was out 
 of the house; and often as I have run on the rough 
 sides of Aros, I never ran as I did that fatal morn- 
 ing. I do not believe I put twelve minutes to the 
 whole ascent. 
 
Jl?^ /I\erry /T\eij 
 
 137 
 
 My uncle was gone from his perch. The basket had 
 indeed been torn open and the meat scattered on the 
 turf; but, as we found afterward, no mouthful had been 
 tasted; and there was not another trace of human exist- 
 ence in that wide field of view. Day had already filled 
 the clear heavens; the sun already lighted in a rosy 
 bloom upon the crest of Ben Kyaw; but all below me 
 the rude knolls of Aros and the shield of sea lay steeped 
 in the clear darkling twilight of the dawn. 
 
 “Rorie!” I cried; and again “Rorie!” My voice died 
 in the silence, but there came no answer back. If 
 there were indeed an enterprise afoot to catch my 
 uncle, it was plainly not in fleetness of foot, but in 
 dexterity of stalking, that the hunters placed their 
 trust. I ran on further, keeping the higher spurs, and 
 looking right and left, nor did I pause again till I was 
 on the mount above Sandag. I could see the wreck, 
 the uncovered belt of sand, the waves idly beating, the 
 long ledge of rocks, and on either hand the tumbled 
 knolls, bowlders, and gullies of the island. But still no 
 human thing. 
 
 At a stride the sunshine fell on Aros, and the 
 shadows and colors leaped into being. Not half a mo- 
 ment later, below me to the west, sheep began to 
 scatter as in a panic. There came a cry. I saw my 
 
 uncle running. I saw the black jump up in hot pur- 
 suit; and before I had time to understand, Rorie also 
 had appeared, calling directions in Gaelic as to a dog 
 herding sheep. 
 
 I took to my heels to interfere, and perhaps I had 
 done better to have waited where I was, for I was 
 
 the means of cutting off the madman’s last escape. 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 28 
 
138 \I/or^8 of f^obert Couis Steuerjsoij 
 
 There was nothing before him from that moment but 
 the grave, the wreck, and the sea in Sandag Bay. 
 And yet Heaven knows that what I did was for the 
 best. 
 
 My uncle Gordon saw in what direction, horrible to 
 him, the chase was driving him. He doubled, darting 
 to the right and left; but high as the fever ran in his 
 veins, the black was still the swifter. Turn where he 
 would, he was still forestalled, still driven toward the 
 scene of his crime. Suddenly he began to shriek aloud, 
 so that the coast re-echoed; and now both I and Rorie 
 were calling on the black to stop. But all was vain, 
 for it was written otherwise. The pursuer still ran, 
 the chase still sped before him screaming; they avoided 
 the grave, and skimmed close past the timbers of the 
 wreck; in a breath they had cleared the sand; and 
 still my kinsman did not pause, but dashed straight 
 into the surf; and the black, now almost within reach, 
 still followed swiftly behind him. Rorie and I both 
 stopped, for the thing was now beyond the hands of 
 men, and these were the decrees of God that came to 
 pass before our eyes. There was never a sharper end- 
 ing. On that steep beach they were beyond their depth 
 at a bound; neither could swim; the black rose once for 
 a moment with a throttling cry; but the current had 
 them, racing seaward; and if ever they came up again, 
 which God alone can tell, it would be ten minutes 
 after, at the far end of Aros Roost, where the seabirds 
 hover fishing. 
 
/T\ar^l?(^I/n 
 
 139 
 
 MARKHEIM 
 
 “Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of vari- 
 ous kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I 
 touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are 
 dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so that 
 the light fell strongly on his visitor, “and in that 
 case,” he continued, “I profit by my virtue.” 
 
 Markheim had but just entered from the daylight 
 streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with 
 the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these 
 pointed words, and before the near presence of the 
 flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside. 
 
 The dealer chuckled. “You come to me on Christ- 
 mas Day,” he resumed, “when you know that I am 
 alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a 
 point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay 
 for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, 
 when I should be balancing my books; you will have 
 to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark 
 in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of dis- 
 cretion, and ask no awkward questions ; but when a 
 customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for 
 it.” The dealer once more chuckled; and then, chang- 
 ing to his usual business voice, though still with a note 
 of irony, “You can give, as usual, a clear account of 
 how you came into the possession of the object?” he 
 
140 U/orl^5 of f^obert Coaij Steueijjoij 
 
 continued. “Still your uncle’s cabinet? A remarkable 
 collector, sir!” 
 
 And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood 
 almost on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold 
 spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of 
 disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of 
 infinite pity, and a touch of horror. 
 
 “This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have 
 not come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dis- 
 pose of; my uncle’s cabinet is bare to the wainscot; 
 even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock 
 Exchange, and should more likely add to it than other- 
 wise, and my errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek 
 a Christmas present for a lady,” he continued, waxing 
 more fluent as he struck into the speech he had pre- 
 pared; “and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus 
 disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing 
 was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little 
 compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a 
 rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected.” 
 
 There followed a pause, during which the dealer 
 seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The tick- 
 ing of many clocks among the curious lumber of the 
 shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near 
 thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. 
 
 “Well, sir,” said the dealer, “be it so. You are an 
 old customer after all; and if, as you say, you have 
 the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to 
 be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now,” 
 he went on, “this hand glass — fifteenth century, war- 
 ranted; comes from a good collection, too; but I re- 
 serve the name, in the interests of my customer, who 
 

 141 
 
 was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and 
 sole heir of a remarkable collector.” 
 
 The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and 
 biting voice, had stooped to take the object from its 
 place; and, as he had done so, a shock had passed 
 through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a 
 sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. 
 It passed as swiftly as it came, and left no trace be- 
 yond a certain trembling of the hand that now received 
 the glass. 
 
 “A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused, and 
 repeated it more clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? 
 Surely not?” 
 
 “And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?” 
 Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable 
 expression. “You ask me why not?” he said. “Why, 
 look here — look in it — look at yourself! Do you like to 
 see it? No! nor I — nor any man.” 
 
 The little man had jumped back when Markheim had 
 so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, 
 perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he 
 chuckled. “Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard 
 favored, ’ ’ said he. 
 
 “I ask you,” said Markheim, “for a Christmas 
 present, and you give me this — this damned reminder of 
 years, and sins and follies — this hand-conscience! Did 
 you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell 
 me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell 
 me about yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you 
 are in secret a very charitable man?” 
 
 The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was 
 very odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing; 
 
142 U/orl^s of P^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 there was something in his face like an eager sparkle 
 of hope, but nothing of mirth. 
 
 “What are you driv^iug aty” the dealer asked. 
 
 “Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. “Not 
 charitable; not pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbe- 
 loved ; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is 
 that all? Dear God, man, is that all?” 
 
 “I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with 
 some sharpness, and then broke off again into a 
 chuckle. “But I see this is a love match of yours, and 
 you have been drinking the lady’s health.” 
 
 “Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. 
 “Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that.” 
 “I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the 
 time, nor have I the time to-day for ail this nonsense. 
 Will you take the glass?” 
 
 “Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It is 
 very pleasant to stand here talking; and life is so short 
 and insecure that I would not hurry away from any 
 pleasure — no, not even from so mild a one as this. We 
 should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, 
 like a man at a cliff’s edge. Every second is a cliff, 
 if you think upon it — a cliff a mile high — high enough, 
 if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. 
 Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each 
 other: why should we wear this mask? Let us be con- 
 fidential. Who knows, we might become friends?” 
 
 “I have just one word to say to you,” said the 
 dealer. “Either make your purchase, or walk out of 
 my shop!” 
 
 “True, true,” said Markheim. “Enough fooling. To 
 business. Show me something else.” 
 
/T\arKl?^i/n 
 
 143 
 
 The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace 
 the glass upon the shelf, his thin blonde hair falling 
 over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little 
 nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; 
 he drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same 
 time many different emotions were depicted together on 
 his face — terror, horror, and resolve, fascination and a 
 physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his 
 upper lip, his teeth looked out. 
 
 “This, perhaps, may suit,” observed the dealer: and 
 then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from 
 behind upon his victim. The long, skewerlike dagger 
 fiashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, 
 striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on 
 the fioor in a heap. 
 
 Time had some score of small voices in that shop, 
 some stately and slow as was becoming to their great 
 age; others garrulous and hurried. All these told out 
 the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then 
 the passage of a lad’s feet, heavily running on the 
 pavement, broke in upon these smaller voices and 
 startled Markheim into the consciousness of his sur- 
 roundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle 
 stood on the counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a 
 draught; and by that inconsiderable movement, the 
 whole room was filled with noiseless bustle and kept 
 heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross 
 blots of darkness swelling and dwindling as with res- 
 piration, the faces of the portraits and the china gods 
 changing and wavering like images in water. The inner 
 door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows 
 with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. 
 
14:4 U/orl ^5 of C0U15 Steuei?50i> 
 
 From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes 
 returned to the body of his victim, where it lay both 
 humped and sprawling, incredibly small and strangely 
 meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in 
 that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much saw- 
 dust. Markheim had feared to see it, and lo! it was 
 nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this bundle of old 
 clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent voices. 
 There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning 
 hinges or direct the miracle of locomotion — there it must 
 lie till it was found. Found ! ay, and then? Then 
 would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring 
 over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pur- 
 suit. Ay, dead or not, this was still the enemy. “Time 
 was that when the brains were out,” he thought; and 
 the first word struck into his mind. Time, now that 
 the deed was accomplished — time^ which had closed for 
 the victim, had become instant and momentous for the 
 slayer. 
 
 The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one 
 and then another, with every variety of pace and voice 
 ■ — one deep as the bell from a cathedral turret, another 
 ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz — the 
 clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. 
 
 The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that 
 dumb chamber staggered him. He began to bestir him- 
 self, going to and fro with the caudle, beleaguered by 
 moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance 
 reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home de- 
 sign, some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face 
 repeated and repeated, as it were an army of spies; his 
 own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of his 
 
/I\arKl?<?i/n 
 
 145 
 
 own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding 
 quiet. And still, as he continued to fill his pockets, 
 his mind accused him with a sickening iteration of the 
 thousand faults of his design. He should have chosen 
 a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; 
 he should not have used a knife; he should have been 
 more cautious, and only bound and gagged the dealer, 
 and not killed him; he should have been more bold, 
 and killed the servant also; he should have done all 
 things otherwise: poignant regrets, weary, incessant toil- 
 ing of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to 
 plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the 
 irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, 
 brute terrors, hke the scurrying of rats in a deserted 
 
 attic, filled the more remote chambers of his brain with 
 riot; the hand of the constable would fall heavy on 
 his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked 
 fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the 
 prison, the gallows, and the black coffin. 
 
 Terror of the people in the street sat down before 
 his mind like a besieging army. It was impossible, he 
 thought, but that some rumor of the struggle must 
 
 have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; 
 
 and now, in all the neighboring houses, he divined 
 
 them sitting motionless and with uplifted ear — solitary 
 people, condemned to spend Christmas dwelling alone 
 on memories of the past, and now startingly recalled 
 from that tender exercise; happy family parties, struck 
 into silence round the table, the mother still with raised 
 finger: every degree and age and humor, but all, by 
 their own hearths, prying and hearkening and weaving 
 the rope that was to hang him. Sometimes it seemed to 
 
146 U/orl^5 of Robert Couis Steuei?5op 
 
 him he could not move too softly; the clink of the 
 tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and 
 alarmed by the bigness of the tickiug, he was tempted 
 to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift 
 transition of his terrors, the very silence of the place 
 appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and 
 freeze the passer-by; and he would step more boldly 
 and bustle aloud among the contents of the shop, and 
 imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements of a 
 busy man at ease in his own house. 
 
 But he was now so pulled about by different alarms 
 that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and 
 cunning, another trembled on the brink of lunacy. One 
 hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his 
 credulity. The neighbor hearkening with white face be- 
 side his window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible 
 surmise on the pavement — these could at worst suspect, 
 they could not know ; through the brick walls and 
 
 shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But 
 here, within the house, was he alone? He knew he 
 was; he had watched the servant set forth sweet-heart- 
 ing, in her poor best, “out for the day” written in 
 
 every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; 
 
 and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he 
 could surely hear a stir of delicate footing — he was 
 surely conscious, inexplicably conscious, of some presence. 
 Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his 
 imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless 
 thing, and yet had eyes to see with; and again it was 
 a shadow of himself; and yet again behold the image 
 of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred. 
 
 At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at 
 

 147 
 
 the open door which still seemed to repel his eyes. 'The 
 house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the day 
 blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the 
 ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly 
 on the threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip 
 of doubtful brightness, did there not hang wavering a 
 shadow? 
 
 Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial 
 gentleman began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, 
 accompanying his blows with shouts and railleries in 
 which the dealer was continually called upon by name. 
 Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. 
 But no! he lay quite still; he was fled away far be- 
 yond earshot of these blows and shoutings; he was sunk 
 beneath seas of silence; and his name, which would 
 once have caught his notice above the howling of a 
 storm, had become an empty sound. And presently the 
 jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and de- 
 parted. 
 
 Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to 
 be done, to get forth from this accusing neighborhood, 
 to plunge into a bath of London multitudes, and to 
 reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety 
 and apparent innocence — his bed. One visitor had come; 
 at any moment another might follow and be more ob- 
 stinate. To have done the deed, and yet not to reap 
 the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The 
 money, that was now Markheim’s concern; and as a 
 means to that, the keys. 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, 
 where the shadow was still lingering and shivering; and 
 with no conscious repugnance of the mind, yet with a 
 

 149 
 
 He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee 
 from these considerations; looking the more hardily in 
 the dead face, bending his mind to realize the nature 
 and greatness of his crime. So little a while ago that 
 face had moved with every change of sentiment, that 
 pale mouth had spoken, that body had been all on fire 
 with governable energies; and now, and by his act, 
 that piece of life had been arrested, as the horologist, 
 with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. 
 So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more re- 
 morseful consciousness; the same heart which had 
 shuddered before the painted efligies of crifne, looked 
 on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a gleam of 
 pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all 
 those faculties that can make the world a garden of 
 enchantment, one who had never lived and who was 
 low dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor. 
 
 "With that, shaking himself clear of these considera- 
 tions, he found the keys and advanced toward the open 
 door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain smartly; 
 and the sound of the shower upon the roof had ban' 
 ished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers 
 of the house were haunted by an incessant echoing, 
 which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking of 
 the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he 
 seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, 
 the steps of another foot withdrawing up the stair. The 
 shadow still palpitated loosely on the threshold. He 
 threw a ton’s weight of resolve upon his muscles, and 
 drew back the door. 
 
 The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the 
 bare floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armor 
 
150 U/orKs of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; and on the 
 dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung 
 against the yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was 
 the beating of the rain through all the house that, in 
 Markheim’s ears, it began to be distinguished into many 
 different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regi- 
 ments marching in the distance, the chink of money in 
 the counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily 
 ajar, appeared to mingle with the patter of the drops 
 upon the cupola and the gushing of the water in the 
 pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him 
 to the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted 
 and begirt by presences. He heard them moving in the 
 upper chambers; from the shop, he heard the dead man 
 getting to his legs; and as he began with a great effort 
 to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and 
 followed stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he 
 thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul! And 
 then again, and hearkening with ever fresh attention, 
 he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held 
 the outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. 
 His head turned continually oh his neck ; his eyes, 
 which seemed starting from their orbits, scouted on 
 every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as 
 with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The 
 four-and- twenty steps to the first floor were four-and- 
 twenty agonies. 
 
 On that first story, the doors stood ajar, three of 
 them like three ambushes, shaking his nerves like the 
 throats of cannon. He could never again, he felt, be 
 sufficiently immured and fortified from men’s observing 
 eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried 
 
/T\arI^I?^im 
 
 151 
 
 among bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And 
 at that thought he wondered a little, recollecting tales 
 of other murderers and the fear they were said to en 
 tertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at least, 
 with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their 
 callous and immutable procedure, they should preserve 
 some damning evidence of his crime. He feared tenfold 
 more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, some scission 
 in the continuity of man’s experience, some willful il- 
 legality of nature. He played a game of skill, depend- 
 ing on the rules, calculating consequence from cause; 
 and what if nature, as the defeated tyrant overthrew 
 the chess-board, should break the mold of their succes- 
 sion? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) 
 when the winter changed the time of its appearance. 
 The like might befall Markheim: the solid walls might 
 become transparent and reveal his doings like those of 
 bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield un- 
 der his foot like quicksands and detain him in their 
 clutch; ay, and there were soberer accidents that might 
 destroy him: if, for instance, the house should fall and 
 imprison him beside the body of his victim; or the 
 house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen in- 
 vade him from all sides. These things he feared; and, 
 in a sense, these things might be called the hands of 
 God reached forth against sin. But about God Himself 
 he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but 
 so were his excuses, which God knew; it was there, 
 and not among men, that he felt sure of justice. 
 
 When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and 
 shut the door behind him, he was aware of a respite 
 from alarms. The room was quite dismantled, uncar- 
 
162 U/ort^s of F^obert Couis Sfceuepsop 
 
 peted besides, and strewn with, packing cases and in- 
 congruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which 
 he beheld himself at various angles, like an actor on a 
 stage; many pictures, framed and unframed, standing, 
 with their faces to the wall; a fine Sheraton sideboard^ 
 a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with 
 
 tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; 
 but by great good fortune the lower part of the shut- 
 ters had been closed, and this concealed him from the 
 neighbors. Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing 
 case before the cabinet, and began to search among the 
 keys. It was a long business, for there were many ; 
 and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, there might 
 be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on the wing. 
 But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With 
 the tail of his eye he saw the door — even glanced at 
 it from time to time directly, like a besieged com- 
 
 mander pleased to verify the good estate of his de- 
 fenses. But in truth he was at peace. The rain fall- 
 ing in the street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, 
 on the other side, the notes of a piano were wakened 
 
 to the music of a hymn, and the voices of many chil- 
 dren took up the air and words. How stately, how 
 
 comfortable was the melody! How fresh the youthful 
 voices! Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he sorted 
 out the keys; and his mind was thronged with answer- 
 able ideas and images ; church-going children and the 
 pealing of the high organ; children afield, bathers by 
 the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common, kite- 
 flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; and then, 
 at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, 
 and the somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high 
 

 153 
 
 genteel voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to 
 recall), and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim 
 lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. 
 
 And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he 
 was startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, 
 a bursting gush of blood, went over him, and then he 
 stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the stair 
 slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon 
 the knob, and the lock clicked, and the door opened. 
 
 Fear held Markheim in a vise. What to expect he 
 knew not, whether the dead man walking, or the official 
 ministers of human justice, or some chance witness 
 blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. 
 But when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced 
 round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled as 
 if in friendly recognition, and then withdrew again, and 
 the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from his 
 control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visi- 
 tant returned. 
 
 “Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with 
 that he entered the room and closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. 
 Perhaps there was a film upon his sight, but the out- 
 lines of the new comer seemed to change and waver 
 like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of 
 the shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and 
 at times he thought he bore a likeness to himself; and 
 always, like a lump of living terror, there lay in his 
 bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the 
 earth and not of God. 
 
 And yet the creature had a strange air of the 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 29 
 
 com- 
 
154 U/orKs of F^obert Couig Steueijsop 
 
 monplace, as he stood looking on Markheim with a 
 smile; and when he added: “You are looking for the 
 money, I believe?” it was in the tones of everyday 
 politeness. 
 
 Markheim made no answer. 
 
 “I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the 
 maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will 
 soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this house, 
 I need not describe to him the consequences.” 
 
 “You know me?” cried the murderer. 
 
 The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favorite 
 of mine,” he said; “and I have long observed and 
 often sought to help you.” 
 
 “What are you?” cried Markheim: “the devil?” 
 “What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot 
 affect the service I propose to render you.” 
 
 “It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by 
 you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me 
 yet; thank God, you do not know me!” 
 
 “I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of 
 kind severity or rather firmness. “I know you to the 
 soul.” 
 
 “Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? 
 My life is but a travesty and slander on myself. I 
 have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men 
 are better than this disguise that grows about and 
 stifles them. You see each dragged away by life, like 
 one whom bravos have seized and muffled in a cloak. 
 If they had their own control — if you could see their 
 faces, they would be altogether different, they woulf 
 shine out for heroes and saints! I am worse than 
 most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known to 
 
/l\arKI?^im 155 
 
 me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose 
 myself.” 
 
 “To me?” inquired the visitant. 
 
 “To you before all,” returned the murderer. “I sup- 
 posed you were intelligent. I thought — since you exist 
 — you would prove a reader of the heart. And yet you 
 would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it; 
 my acts ! I was born and I have lived in a land of 
 giants; giants have dragged me by the wrists since I 
 was born out of my mother — the giants of circumstance. 
 And you would judge me by my acts! But can you 
 not look within? Can you not understand that evil is 
 hateful to me? Can you not see within me the clear 
 writing of conscience, never blurred by any willful soph- 
 istry, although too often disregarded? Can you not read 
 me for a thing that surely must be common as human- 
 ity — the unwilling sinner?” 
 
 “All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the re- 
 ply, “but it regards me not. These points of consist- 
 ency are beyond my province, and I care not in the 
 least by what compulsion you may have been dragged 
 away, so as you are but carried in the right direction. 
 But time flies; the servant delays, looking in the faces 
 of the crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings, but 
 still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as 
 if the gallows itself was striding toward you through 
 the Christmas streets! Shall I help you; I, who know 
 all? Shall I tell you where to find the money?” 
 
 “For what price?” asked Markheim. 
 
 “I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” re* 
 turned the other. 
 
 Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind 
 
156 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 of bitter triumph. “No,” said he, “I will take noth- 
 ing at your hands; if I were dying of thirst, and it 
 was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I 
 should find the courage to refuse. It may be credu- 
 lous, but I will do nothing to commit myself to evil.” 
 
 “I have no objection to a deathbed repentance,” 
 observed the visitant. 
 
 “Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim 
 cried. 
 
 “I do not say so,” returned the other; “but I look 
 on these things from a different side, and when the life 
 is done my interest falls. The man has lived to serve 
 me, to spread black looks under color of religion, or to 
 sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of 
 weak compliance with desire. Now that he draws so 
 near to his deliverance, he can add but one act of 
 service — to repent, to die smiling, and thus to build up 
 in confidence and hope the more timorous of my sur- 
 viving followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. 
 Accept my help. Please yourself in life as you have 
 done hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your 
 elbows at the board ; and when the night begins to 
 fall and the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your 
 greater comfort, that you will find it even easy to com- 
 pound your quarrel with your conscience, and to make 
 a truckling peace with God. I came |j^ut now from 
 such a deathbed, and the room was full of sincere 
 mourners, listening to the man’s last words: and when 
 I looked into that face, which had been set as a flint 
 against mercy, I found it smiling with hope.” 
 
 “And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?” 
 asked Markheim. “Do you think I have no more gen- 
 
/I\arm?^i/n 
 
 157 
 
 erous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, and, at 
 the last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the 
 thought. Is this, then, your experience of mankind? or 
 is it because you find me with red hands that you pre- 
 sume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed 
 so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?” 
 “Murder is to me no special category,” replied the 
 other. “All sins are murder, even as all life is war. 
 I behold your race, like starving mariners on a raft, 
 plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding 
 on each other’s lives. I follow sins beyond the moment 
 of their acting; I find in all that the last consequence 
 is death; and to my eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts 
 her mother with such taking graces on a question of 
 a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such 
 a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? 
 I follow virtues also; they differ not by the thickness 
 of a nail, they are both scythes for the reaping angel 
 of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in ac- 
 tion but in character. The bad man is dear to me; 
 not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow them 
 far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, 
 might yet be found more blessed than those of the 
 rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed 
 a dealer, but because you are Markheim, that I offer 
 to forward your escape.” 
 
 “I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Mark- 
 heim. “This crime on which you find me is my last. 
 On my way to it I have learned many lessons; itself 
 is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been 
 driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond- 
 slave to poverty, driven and scourged. There are robust 
 
158 U/orl^5 of F^obert C 0 U 15 Steuei)$oij 
 
 ■\"irtues that can stand in these temptations; mine was 
 not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, and 
 out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches — 
 both the power and a fresh resolve to be myself. I 
 become in all things a free actor in the world; I be- 
 gin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents 
 of good, this heart at peace. Something comes over 
 me out of the past; something of what I have dreamed 
 on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the church organ, 
 of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, 
 or talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There 
 lies my life; I have wandered a few years, but now I 
 see once more my city of destination.” 
 
 “You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, 
 I think?” remarked the visitor; “and there, if I mis- 
 take not, you have already lost some thousands?” 
 
 “Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a 
 sure thing.” 
 
 “This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor 
 quietly. 
 
 “Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim. 
 
 “That also you vdll lose,” said the other. 
 
 The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well, 
 then, what matter?” he exclaimed. “Say it be lost, 
 say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one part of 
 me, and that the worst, continue until the end to over- 
 ride the better? Evil and good run strong in me, 
 haling .me both ways. I do not love the one thing, 
 
 I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renunciations, 
 martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime 
 as murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity 
 the poor; who knows their trials better than myself? I 
 

 159 
 
 pity and help them; I prize love, I love honest laugh- 
 ter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth 
 but I love it from my heart. And are my vices only 
 to direct my life, and my virtues to lie without effect, 
 like some passive lumber of the mind? Not so; good, 
 also, is a spring of acts.” 
 
 But the visitant raised his finger. “For six-and- 
 thirty years that you have been in this world,” said 
 he, “through many changes of fortune and varieties of 
 humor, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years 
 ago you would have started at a theft. Three years 
 back you would have blanched at the name of murder. 
 Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or meanness, 
 from which you still recoil? — five years from now I 
 shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, 
 lies your way; nor can anything but death avail to 
 stop you.” 
 
 “It is true,” Markheim said huskily, “I have in 
 some degree complied with evil. But it is so with all; 
 the very saints, in the mere exercise of living, grow 
 less dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings.” 
 
 “I will propound to you one simple question,” said 
 the other; “and as you answer, I shall read to you 
 your moral horoscope. You have grown in many things 
 more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any 
 account, it is the same with all men. But granting 
 that, are you in any one particular, however trifling, 
 more difficult to please with your own conduct, or do 
 you go in all things with a looser rein?” 
 
 “In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish 
 of consideration. “No,” he added, with despair, “in 
 none! I have gone down in all.” 
 
160 Worlds of Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 “Then,” said the visitor, “content yourself with what 
 you are, for you will never change; and the words of 
 your paii; on this stage are irrevocably written down.” 
 
 Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed 
 it was the visitor who first broke the *silence. “That 
 being so,” he said, “shall I show you the money?” 
 
 “And grace?” cried Markheim. 
 
 “Have you not tried it?” returned the other. “Two 
 or three years ago, did I not see you on the platform 
 of revival meetings, and was not your voice the loudest 
 in the hymn?” 
 
 “It is true,” saM Markheim; “and I see clearly 
 what remains for me by way of duty. I thank you 
 for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are opened, 
 and I behold myself at last for what I am.” 
 
 At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang 
 through the house; and the visitant, as though this 
 were some concerted signal for which he had been wait- 
 ing, changed at once in his demeanor. 
 
 “The maid!” he cried. “She has returned, as I 
 forewarned you, and there is now before you one more 
 difficult passage. Her master, you must say, is ill; you 
 must let her in, with an assured but rather serious 
 countenance — no smiles, no overacting, and I promise 
 you success! Once the girl within, and the door closed, 
 the same dexterity that has already rid you of the 
 dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your path. 
 Thenceforward you have the whole evening — the whole 
 night, if needful — to ransack the treasures of the house and 
 to make good your safety. This is help that comes to you 
 with the mask of danger. Up!” he cried; “up, friend; 
 your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and act!” 
 

 161 
 
 MarKheim steadily regarded his counselor. “If I bo 
 condemned to evil acts,” he said, “there is still one 
 door of freedom open — I can cease from action. If my 
 life be an ill thftig, I can lay it down. Though I be, 
 as you say truly, . at the beck of every small tempta- 
 tion, I can yet, by one decisive gesture, place myself 
 beyond the reach of all. My love of good is damned 
 to barrenness; it may, and let it be I But I have still 
 my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling dis- 
 appointment, you shall see that I can draw both energy 
 and courage.” 
 
 The features of the visitor began to undergo a won- 
 derful and lovely change; they brightened and softened 
 with a tender triumph, and, even as they brightened, 
 faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to 
 watch or understand the transformation. He opened the 
 door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to him- 
 self. His past went soberly before him; he beheld it 
 as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random 
 as chance-medley — a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus 
 reviewed it, tempted him no longer; but on the further 
 side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. He 
 paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, where 
 the candle still burned by the dead body. It was 
 strangely silent. Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into 
 his mind, as he stood gazing. And then the , bell once 
 more broke out into impatient clamor. 
 
 He confronted the maid upon the threshold with 
 something like a smile. 
 
 “You had better go for the police,” said he: “I 
 have killed your master.” 
 
162 
 
 U/orl^5 of Couij Steueijsop 
 
 THRAWN JANET 
 
 The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of 
 the moorland parish of Bal weary, in the vale of Dule. 
 A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, 
 he dwelt in the last years of his life, without relative 
 or servant or any human company, in the small and 
 lonely manse under the Hanging Shaw. In spite of 
 the iron composure of his features, his eye was wild, 
 scared, and uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private 
 admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it seemed 
 as if his eye pierced through the storms of time to the 
 ^errors of eternity. Many young persons, coming to 
 prepare themselves against the season of the Holy Com- 
 munion, were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had 
 a sermon on 1st Peter, v. and 8th, “The devil as a 
 roaring lion,” on the Sunday after every seventeenth 
 of August, and he was accustomed to surpass himself 
 upon that text both by the appalling nature of the 
 matter and the terror of his bearing in the pulpit. The 
 children were frightened into fits, and the old looked 
 more than usually oracular, and were, all that day, 
 full of those hints that Hamlet deprecated. The manse 
 itself, where it stood by the water of Dule among some 
 thick trees, with the Shaw overnanging it on the one 
 side, and on the other many cold, moorish hilltops ris- 
 ing toward the sky, had begun, at a very early period 
 
Xl?rau/i? 
 
 163 V 
 
 of Mr. Soulis’s ministry, to be avoided in the dusk 
 hours by all who valued themselves upon their prudence; 
 and guidmen sitting at the clachan alehouse shook their 
 heads together at the thought of passing late by that 
 uncanny neighborhood. There was one spot, to be more 
 particular, which was regarded with especial awe. The 
 manse stood between the high road and the water of 
 Dule, with a gable to each; its back was toward the 
 kirktown of Bal weary, nearly half a mile away; in 
 front of it, a bare garden, hedged with thorn, occu- 
 pied the land between the river and the road. The 
 house was two stories high, with two large rooms on 
 each. It opened not directly- on the garden, but on a 
 causewayed path, or passage, giving on the road on 
 the one hand, and closed on the other by the tall wil- 
 lows and elders that bordered on the stream. And it 
 was this strip of causeway that enjoyed among the 
 young parishioners of Balweary so infamous a reputa- 
 tion. The minister walked there often after dark, some- 
 times groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken 
 prayers; and when he was from home, and the manse 
 door was locked, the more daring schoolboys ventured, 
 with beating hearts, to “follow my leader” across that 
 legendary spot. 
 
 This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it didj a 
 man of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a 
 common cause of wonder and subject of inquiry among 
 the few strangers who were led by chance or business 
 into that unknown, outlying country. But many even 
 of the people of the parish were ignorant of the strange 
 events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis’s 
 ministrations; and among those who were better in- 
 
164 U/orl^s of F^obert C0U15 Steuep50i> 
 
 formed, some were naturally reticent, and others shy 
 of that particular topic. 'N’ow and again, only, one of 
 the older folk would warm into courage over his third 
 tumbler, and recount the cause of the minister’s strange 
 looks and solitary life. 
 
 Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam’ first into 
 Ba’weary, he was still a young man— a callant, the 
 folk said — fu’ o’ book learnin’ and grand at the expo- 
 sition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi’ 
 nae leevin’ experience in religion. The younger sort 
 were greatly taken wi’ his gifts and his gab; but auld, 
 concerned, serious men and women were moved even 
 to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a 
 self-deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae 
 ill-supplied. It was before the days o’ the moderates — 
 weary fa’ them; but ill things are like guid — they baith ' 
 come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there were 
 folk even then that said the Lord had left the college 
 professors to their ain devices, an’ the lads that went 
 to study wi’ them wad hae done mair and better sittin’ 
 in a peat-bog, like their forebears of the nersecution, 
 wi’ a Bible under their oxter and a speerit o’ prayer 
 in their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, but that 
 Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the college. He 
 
 was careful and troubled for mony things besides the 
 ae thing needful. He had a feck o’ books wi’ him — 
 mair than had ever been seen before in a’ that presby- 
 tery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi’ them, for 
 they were a’ like to have smoored in the Deil’s Hag 
 between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o’ 
 divinity, to be sure, or so they ca’d them; but the 
 
Jl^rau/p Jap^t ^ 
 
 165 
 
 serious were o’ opinion there was little service for sae 
 mony, when the hail o’ God’s Word would gang in 
 
 the neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day 
 
 and half the nicht forbye, which was scant decent — 
 writin’, nae less; and first, they were feared he wad 
 read his sermons; and syne it proved he was writin* 
 a book himsel’, which was surely no fittin’ for ane of 
 his years an’ sma’ experience. 
 
 Onyway it behooved him to get an auld, decent wife 
 to keep , the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners; 
 and he was recommended to an &.uld limmer — Janet 
 M' Clour, they ca’d her — and sae far left to himsel’ as 
 to be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to 
 the contrar, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the 
 
 best folk in Ba’weary. Lang or that, she had had a 
 
 wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit* for maybe 
 thretty year; and bairns had seen her mumblin’ to 
 hersel’ up on Key’s Loan in the gloamin’, whilk was 
 an unco time an’ place for a God-fearin’ woman. How- 
 soever, it was the laird himsel’ that had first tauld the 
 minister o’ Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane 
 a far gate to pleesure the laird. When folk tauld him 
 that Janet was sib to the deil, it was a’ superstition 
 by his way of it; an’ when they cast up the Bible to 
 him an’ the witch of Endor, he wad threep it doun 
 their thrapples that thir days were a’ gane by, and 
 the deil was mercifully restrained. 
 
 Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet 
 M‘ Clour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were 
 fair mad wi’ her an’ him thegether; and some o’ the 
 
 * To come forrit — to offer one’s self as a communicant. 
 
166 U/orl^s of r^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 guidwives had nae better to dae than get round hei 
 door cheeks and chairge her wi’ a’ that was ken’t 
 again her, frae the sodger’s bairn to John Tamson’s 
 twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folk usually let 
 her gang her ain gate, an’ she let them gang theirs, 
 wi’ neither Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day ; but when 
 she buckled to she had a tongue to deave the miller. 
 Up she got, an’ there wasnae an auld story in Ba’ weary 
 but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they 
 couldnae say ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, 
 at the hinder end, the guidwives up and claught hand 
 of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu’d 
 her doun the clachan to the water o’ Dule, to see if 
 she were a witch or no, soum or droun. The carline 
 skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin’ Shaw, 
 and she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife 
 bure the mark of her neist day, an’ mony a lang day 
 after; and just in the hettest o’ the collieshangie, wha 
 suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister. 
 
 “Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), 
 “I charge you in the Lord’s name to let her go.” 
 Janet ran to him — she was fair wud wi’ terror — an* 
 clang to him an’ prayed him, for Christ’s sake, save 
 her frae the cummers; an’ they, for their pairt, tauld 
 him a’ that was ken’t, and maybe mair. 
 
 “Woman,” says he to Janet, “is this true?” 
 
 “As the Lord sees me,” says she, “as the Lord 
 made me, no a word o’t. Forbye the bairn,” says she, 
 “I’ve been a decent woman a’ my days.” 
 
 “Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “in the name of God, 
 and before me. His unworthy minister, renounce the 
 devil and his works?” 
 
Jlpraunj Jap^t 
 
 167 
 
 Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she 
 gave a girn that fairly frichtit them that saw her, an’ 
 they could hear her teeth play dirl thegether in her 
 chaftsj but there was naething for it but the ae way oi 
 the ither; an’ Janet lifted up her hand and renounced 
 the deil before them a’. 
 
 “And now,” said Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, 
 “home with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His 
 forgiveness.” 
 
 And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little 
 on her but a sark, and took her up the clachan to her 
 ain door like a leddy of the land; an’ her scrieghin* 
 and laughin’ as was a scandal to be heard. 
 
 There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers 
 that nicht; but when the mom cam’ there was sic a 
 fear fell upon a’ Ba’weary that the bairns hid theirsels, 
 and even the menfolk stood and keekit frae their 
 doors. For there was Janet cornin’ doun the clachan — 
 her or her likeness, nane could tell — wi’ her neck 
 thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body that has 
 been hangit, and a gim on her face like an unstreakit 
 corp. By an’ by they got used wi’ it, and even speered 
 at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that day forth 
 she couldnae speak like a Christian woman, but slavered 
 and played click wi’ her teeth like a pair o’ shears; 
 and frae that day forth the name o’ God cam never 
 on her lips. Whiles she wad try to say it, but it 
 michtnae be. Them that kenned best said least; but 
 they never gied that Thing the name o’ Janet M‘ Clour; 
 for the auld Janet, by their way o’t, was in muckle 
 hell that day. But the minister was neither to baud 
 nor to bind; he preached about naething but the folk’s 
 
168 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 cruelty that had gi’en her a stroke of the palsy; he 
 skelpt the bairns that meddled her; and he had her 
 up to the manse that same nicht and dwalled there a* 
 his lane wi’ her under the Hangin’ Shaw. 
 
 Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced 
 to think mair lichtly o’ that black business. The min- 
 ister was weel thocht o’; he was aye late at the writ- 
 ing, folk wad see his can’le doon by the Dule water 
 after twal’ at e’en; and he seemed pleased wi’ himsel’ 
 and upsitten as at first, though a’ body could see that 
 he was dwining. As for Janet she cam an’ she gaed; 
 if she didnae speak muckle afore, it was reason she 
 should speak less then ; she meddled naebody ; but she 
 was an eldritch thing to see, an’ nane wad hae mis- 
 trysted wi’ her for Ba’ weary glebe. 
 
 About the end o’ July there cam’ a spell o’ weather, 
 the like o’t never was in that country side; it was lown 
 an’ het an’ heartless; the herds couldnae win up the 
 Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an* 
 yet it was gousty too, wi’ claps o’ het wund that rum- 
 m’led in the glens, and bits o’ shouers that slockened 
 naething. We aye thocht it but to thun’er on the morn; 
 but the morn cam’, an’ the morn’s morning, and it was 
 aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial. 
 Of a’ that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; 
 he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an* 
 when he wasnae writin’ at his weary book, he wad be 
 stravaguin’ ower a’ the countryside like a man pos- 
 sessed, when a’ body else was blythe to keep caller 
 ben the house. 
 
 Abune Rangin’ Shaw, in the bield, o’ the Black 
 Hill, there’s a bit inclosed grund wi’ an iron yett; and 
 
Xl?rau/i7 Jap^t 
 
 169 
 
 it seems, in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird o* 
 
 Ba’ weary, and consecrated by the Papists before the 
 blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great 
 howff o’ Mr. Soulis’s, onyway; there he would sit an’ 
 
 consider his sermons ; and indeed it’s a bieldy bit. 
 
 Weel, as he cam’ ower the wast end o’ the Black Hill, 
 ae day, he saw first twa, an’ syne fewer, an’ syne 
 
 seeven corbie craws fleein’ round an’ round abune the 
 auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh and heavy, an’ squawked 
 to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis 
 that something had put them frae their ordinar. He 
 
 wasnae easy fleyed, an’ gaed straucht up to the wa’s; 
 
 an’ what suld he find there but a man, or the appear- 
 ance of a man, sittin’ in the inside upon a grave. He 
 was of a great stature, an’ black as hell, and his e’en 
 were singular to see.* Mr. Soulis had heard tell o’ 
 black men, mony’s the time; but there was something 
 unco about this black man that daunted him. Het as 
 he was, he took a kind o’ cauld grue in the marrow 
 o’ his banes; but up he spak for a’ that; an’ says he: 
 “My- friend, are you a stranger in this place?” The 
 black man answered never a word; he got upon his 
 feet, an’ begude to hirsle to the wa’ on the far side; 
 
 but he aye lookit at the minister; an’ the minister stood 
 
 an’ lookit back; till a’ in a meenute the black man 
 was ower the wa’ an’ rinnin’ for the bield o’ the trees. 
 Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but 
 
 * It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil ap- 
 peared as a black man. This appears in several witch trials 
 and I think in Law’s “Memorials,” that delightful store- 
 house of the quaint and grisly. 
 
 STEVENSON. VOL. I. — ^30 
 
170 U/orKs of F^obert C 0 U 15 Steuepjoi; 
 
 he was sair forjaskit wi* his walk an’ the hefc, unhale* 
 some weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair 
 than a glisk o’ the black man amang the birks, till he 
 won doun to the foot o’ the hillside, an’ there he saw 
 him ance mair, gaun, hap, step, an’ lowp, ower Dule 
 water to the manse. 
 
 Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome 
 gangrel suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’ weary manse; an’ 
 he ran the harder, an’, wet shoon, ower the burn, an* 
 up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to 
 see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was nae- 
 body there; he gaed a’ ower the gairden, but na, nae 
 black man. At the hinder end, and a bit feared as 
 was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; 
 and there was Janet M‘ Clour before his een, wi’ her 
 thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to see him. And 
 he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon 
 her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue. 
 
 “Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?” 
 
 “A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye’re no 
 wise, minister. There’s nae black man in a’ Ba’weary.” 
 
 But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; 
 but yam-yammered, like a powney wi’ the bit in its 
 moo. 
 
 “Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black 
 man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.” 
 
 And he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth 
 chittered in his heid. 
 
 “Hoots,” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minis- 
 ter;” an’ gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye 
 by her. 
 
 Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a* his 
 

 171 
 
 books. It’s a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin’ cauld 
 in winter, an’ no very dry even in the tap o’ the sim- 
 mer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun 
 he sat, and thocht of a’ that had come an’ gane since 
 he was in Ba’weary, an’ his hame, an’ the days when 
 he was a bairn an’ ran daffin’ on the braes; and that 
 black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome of a 
 sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o’ 
 the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words 
 wouldnae come to him; an’ he tried, they say, to write 
 at his book, but he couldnae mak’ nae mair o’ that. 
 There was whiles he thocht the black man was at his 
 oxter, an’ the swat stood upon him cauld as well- 
 water; and there was other whiles, when he cam’ to 
 himsel’ like a christened bairn and minded naething. 
 
 The upshot was that he gaed to the window an’ 
 stood glowrin’ at Dule water. The trees are unco thick, 
 an’ the water lies deep an’ black under the manse; an’ 
 there was Janet washin’ the cla’es wi’ her coats kilted. 
 She had her back to the minister, an’ he, for his 
 pairt, hardly kenned what he was lookin’ at. Syne she 
 turned round, an’ shawed her face; Mr. Soulis had the 
 same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an’ it was 
 borne in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid 
 lang syne, an’ this was a bogle in her clay cauld flesh. 
 He drew back a pickle and he scanned her narrowly. 
 She was tramp-trampin’ in the cla’es, croonin’ to her- 
 sel’; and eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome 
 face. Whiles she sang louder, but there was nae man 
 born o’ woman that could tell the words o’ her sang; 
 an’ whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was 
 naething there for her to look at. There gaed a 
 
172 Worlds of F^obert Couis Steuepsoij 
 
 scunner through the flesh upon his banes ; and that 
 was Heeven’s advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed 
 himsel’, he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted 
 wife that hadnae a freend forby himsel’; an’ he put 
 up a bit prayer for him and her, an’ drank a little 
 caller water — for his heart rose again the meat — an’ 
 gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming. 
 
 That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in 
 Ba’weary, the nicht o’ the seeventeenth of August, 
 seventeen hun’er’ an’ twal’. It had been bet afore, as 
 I hae said, but that nicht it was better than ever. The 
 sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin’ clouds; it fell as 
 mirk as the pit; no a star, no a breath o’ wund; ye 
 couldnae see your ban’ afore your face, and even the 
 auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds and lay pech- 
 in’ for their breath. Wi’ a’ that he had upon his 
 mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get 
 muckle sleep. He lay an’ he tummled; the gude, caller 
 bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he 
 slept, and whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the 
 time o’ nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin’ up the muir, 
 as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard 
 bogles claverin’ in his lug, an’ whiles he saw spunkies 
 in the room. He behooved, he judged, to be sick; an’ 
 sick he was — ^little he jaloosed the sickness. 
 
 At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, 
 sat up in his sark on the bedside, and fell thinkin’ 
 ance mair o’ the black man an’ Janet. He couldnae 
 weel tell how — maybe it was the cauld to his feet — but 
 it cam’ in upon him wi’ a spate that there was some 
 connection between thir twa, an’ that either or baith 
 o’ them were bogles. And just at that moment, in Ja- 
 
Jljrau/i? Jap<?t 
 
 173 
 
 net’s room, which was neist to his, there cam’ a stramp 
 o’ feet as if men were wars’lin’, an’ then a loud bang; 
 an’ then a wund gaed reishling round the fower quar- 
 ters of the house; an’ then a’ was aince mair as see- 
 lent as the grave. 
 
 Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. 
 He got his tinder box, an’ lighted a can’le, an’ made 
 three steps o’t ower to Janet’s door. It was on the 
 hasp, an’ he pushed it open, an’ keeked bauldly in. It 
 was a big room, as big as the minister’s ain, an’ plen- 
 ished wi’ grand, auld, solid gear, for he had naething 
 else. There was a fower-posted bed wi’ auld tapestry; 
 and a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu’ o’ the minis- 
 ter’s divinity books, an’ put there to be out o’ the 
 gate; an’ a wheen duds o’ Janet’s lying here and there 
 about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see; 
 nor ony sign of a contention. In he gaed (an’ there’s 
 few that wad ha’e followed him) an’ lookit a’ round, 
 an’ listened. But there was nae thin’ to be heard, neither 
 inside the manse nor in a’ Ba’weary parish, an’ naeth- 
 in’ to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin’ round 
 the can’le. An’ then a’ at aince, the minister’s heart 
 played dunt an’ stood stock-still; an’ a cauld wund 
 blew amang the hairs o’ his heid. Whaten a weary 
 sicht was that for the puir man’s een! For there was 
 Janet hangin’ frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: 
 her heid aye lay on her shoother, her een were steeked, 
 the tongue projekit frae her mouth, and her heels were 
 twa feet clear abune the floor. 
 
 “God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Soulis; “poor 
 Janet’s dead.” 
 
 He cam’ a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his 
 
174 U/or^S of F^obert Coui$ Steueijsop 
 
 heart fair whammled in his inside. For by what can^ 
 trip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she was hingin’ 
 frae a single nail an’ by a single wursted thread for 
 darnin’ hose. 
 
 It’s an awfu’ thing to be your lane at nicht wi’ 
 siccan prodigies o’ darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong 
 in the Lord. He turned an’ gaed his ways oot o’ that 
 room, and lockit the door ahint him; and step by step, 
 doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the 
 
 can’le on the table at the stairfoot. He couldnae pray, 
 
 he couldnae think, he was dreepin’ wi’ caul’ swat, an’ 
 nae thing could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin’ o’ his 
 ain heart. He micht maybe have stood there an hour, 
 or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a’ o’ a sud- 
 den he heard a laigh, uncanny steer upstairs ; a foot 
 gaed to an’ fro in the cha’mer whaur the corp was 
 hingin’; syne the door was opened, though he minded 
 weel that he had lockit it; an’ syne there was a step 
 
 upon the landin’, an’ it seemed to him as if the corp 
 
 was lookin’ ower the rail and doun upon him whaur he 
 stood. 
 
 He took up the can’le again (for he couldnae want 
 the licht) and, as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht 
 out o’ the manse an’ to the far end o’ the causeway. 
 It was aye pit^mirk; the flame o’ the can’le, when he 
 set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a 
 room; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin’ and 
 sabbin’ doon the glen, an’ yon unhaly footstep that 
 cam’ ploddin’ doun the stairs inside the manse. He 
 kenned the foot over weel, for it was Janet’s; and at 
 ilka step that cam’ a wee thing nearer, the cauld got 
 deeper in his vitals. He commended his soul to Him 
 
71 ?raunj Jap^t 
 
 175 
 
 that made an’ keepit him; “and 0 Lord,” said he, 
 “give me strength this night to vrar against the powers 
 of evil.” 
 
 By this time the foot was cornin’ through the pas- 
 sage for the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang 
 the wa’, as if the fearsome thing was feelin’ for its 
 way. The saughs tossed an’ maned thegether, a lang 
 sigh cam’ ower the hills, the flame o’ the can’le was 
 blawn aboot; an’ there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, 
 wi’ her grogram goun an’ her black mutch, wi’ the 
 heid aye upon the shouther, an’ the girn still upon the 
 face o’t — leevin’, ye wad hae said — deid, as Mr. Soulis 
 weel kenned — upon the threshold o’ the manse. 
 
 It’s a strange thing that the saul of man should be 
 that thirled into his perishable body; but the minister 
 saw that, an’ his heart didnae break. 
 
 She didnae stand there lang; she began to move 
 again an’ cam’ slowly toward Mr. Soulis whaur he 
 stood under the saughs. A’ the life o’ his body, a’ 
 the strength o’ his speerit, were glowerin’ frae his een. 
 It seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, 
 an’ made a sign wi’ the left hand. There cam’ a clap 
 o’ wund, like a cat’s fuff; oot gaed the can’le, the 
 saughs skrieghed like folk; an’ Mr. Soulis kenned that, 
 live or die, this was the end o’t. 
 
 “Witch, beldame, devil!” he cried, “I charge you, 
 by the power of God, begone — if you be dead, to the 
 grave — if you be damned, to hell.” 
 
 An’ at that moment the Lord’s ain hand out o’ the 
 Heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood; the auld, 
 deid, desecrated corp o’ the witch-wife, sae lang keepit 
 frae the grave and hirsled round by deils, lowed up 
 
176 \I/orJ^5 of F^obert Coui5 Steueijjoij 
 
 like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; 
 the thunder followed, peal on dirling peal, the rairing 
 rain upon the back o’ that; and Mr. Soulis lowped 
 through the garden hedge, and ran, wi’ skelloch upon 
 skelloch, for the clachan. 
 
 That same mornin’, John Christie saw the Black 
 Man pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin’ six; 
 before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at Knock- 
 dow; an’ no lang after, Sandy M‘Lellan saw him gaun 
 linkin’ doun the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There’s little 
 doubt but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet’s 
 bodj^; but he was awa’ at last; and sinsyne the deil 
 has never fashed us in Ba’ weary. 
 
 But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, 
 lang he lay ravin’ in his bed; and frae that hour to 
 this, he was the man ye ken the day. 
 
 OLALLA 
 
 “Now,” said the doctor, “my part is done, and, I 
 may say, with some vanity, well done. It remains 
 only to get you out of this cold and poisonous city, 
 and to give you two months of a pure air and an 
 easy conscience. The last is your affair. To the first 
 I think I can help you. It falls indeed rather oddly; 
 it was but the other day the Padre came in from the 
 country; and as he and I are old friends, although of 
 contrary professions, he applied to me in a matter of 
 distress among some of his parishioners. This was a 
 family — ^but you are ignorant of Spain, and even the 
 
Olalla 
 
 177 
 
 names of our grandees are hardly known to you; suffice 
 it, then, that they were once great people, and are now 
 fallen to the brink of destitution. Nothing now belongs 
 to them but the residencia, and certain leagues of desert 
 mountain, in the greater part of which not even a goat 
 could support life. But the house is a fine old place, 
 and stands at a great height among the hills, and most 
 salubriously; and I had no sooner heard my friend’s 
 tale, than I remembered you. I told him I had a 
 wounded officer, wounded in the good cause, who was 
 now able to make a change; and I proposed that his 
 friends should take you for a lodger. Instantly the 
 Padre’s face grew dark, as I had maliciously foreseen 
 it would. It was out of the question, he said. Then 
 let them starve, said I, for I have no sympathy with 
 tatterdemalion pride. Thereupon we separated, not very 
 content with one another; but yesterday, to my wonder, 
 the Padre returned and made a submission: the diffi- 
 culty, he said, he had found upon inquiry to be less 
 than he had feared; or, in other words, these proud peo- 
 ple had put their pride in their pocket. I closed with 
 the offer; and, subject to your approval, I have taken 
 rooms for you in the residencia. The air of these 
 
 mountains will renew your blood ; and the quiet in 
 which you will there live is worth all the medicines in 
 the world.” 
 
 “Doctor,” said I, “you have been throughout my 
 good angel, and your advice is a command. But tell 
 me, if you please, something of the family with which 
 I am to reside.” 
 
 “I am coming to that,” replied my friend; “and, 
 indeed, there is a difficulty in the way. These beggars 
 
178 U/orl^5 of F^obert Coui$ Steuepjoi) 
 
 are, as I have said, of very high descent and swollen 
 with the most baseless vanity ; they have lived for 
 some generations in a growing isolation, drawing away, 
 on either hand, from the rich who had now become too 
 high for them, and from the poor, whom they still 
 regarded as too low ; and even to-day, when poverty 
 forces them to unfasten their door to a guest, they 
 cannot do so without a most ungracious stipulation. 
 You are to remain, they say, a stranger; they will 
 give you attendance, but they refuse from the first the 
 idea of the smallest intimacy.” 
 
 I will not deny that I was piqued, and perhaps the 
 feeling strengthened my desire to go, for I was confi- 
 dent that I could break down that barrier if I desired. 
 “There is nothing offensive in such a stipulation,” said 
 I; “and I even sympathize with the feeling that 
 inspired it.” 
 
 “It is true they have never seen you,” returned the 
 doctor politely; “and if they knew you were the hand- 
 somest and the most pleasant man that ever came from 
 England (where I am told that handsome men are 
 common, but pleasant ones not so much so), they would 
 doubtless make you welcom^e with a better grace. But 
 since you take the thing so well, it matters not. To 
 me, indeed, it seems discourteous. But you will find 
 yourself the gainer. The family will not much tempt 
 you. A mother, a son, and a , daughter ; an old woman 
 said to be half-witted, a country lout, and a country 
 girl, who stands very high with her confessor, and is, 
 therefore,” chuckled the physician, “most likely plain; 
 there is not much in that to attract the fancy of a 
 dashing officer.” 
 
Olalla 
 
 179 
 
 “And yet you say they are high-born,” I objected. 
 “Well, as to that, I should distinguish,” returned 
 the doctor. “The mother is; not so the children. The 
 mother was the last representative of a princely stock, 
 degenerate both in parts and fortune. Her father was 
 not only poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about 
 the residencia till his death. Then, much of the for- 
 tune having died with him, and the family being quite 
 extinct, the girl ran wilder than ever, until at last she 
 married. Heaven knows whom, a muleteer some say, 
 others a smuggler; while there are some who uphold 
 there was no marriage at all, and that Felipe and 
 Olalla are bastards. The union, such as it was, was 
 tragically dissolved some years ago; but they live in 
 such seclusion, and the country at that time was in so 
 much disorder, that the precise manner of the man’s 
 end is known only to the priest — if even to him.” 
 
 “I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,” 
 said I. 
 
 “I would not romance, if I were you,” replied the 
 doctor; “you will find, I fear, a very groveling and 
 commonplace reality. Felipe, for instance, I have seen. 
 And what am I to say? He is very rustic, very cun- 
 ning, very loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the 
 others are probably to match. No, no, senor comman- 
 dante, you must seek congenial society among the great 
 sights of our mountains; and in these at least, if you 
 are at all a lover of the works of nature, I promise 
 you will not be disappointed.” 
 
 The next day Felipe came for me in a rough country 
 cart, drawn by a mule; and a little before the stroke 
 of noon, after I had said farewell to the doctor, the 
 
180 U/orKs of I^obert Couis Steuepsoi) 
 
 innkeeper, and different good souls who had befriended 
 me during my sickness, we set forth out of the city 
 by the Eastern gate, and began to ascend into the 
 Sierra. I had been so long a prisoner, since I was 
 left behind for dying after the loss of the convoy, that 
 the mere smell of the earth set me smiling. The 
 country through which we went was wild and rocky, 
 partially covered with rough woods, now of the cork- 
 tree, and now of the great Spanish chestnut, and fre- 
 quently intersected by the beds of mountain torrents. 
 The sun shone, the wind rustled joyously; and we had 
 advanced some miles, and the city had already shrunk 
 into an inconsiderable knoll upon the plain behind us, 
 before my attention began to be diverted to the com- 
 panion of my drive. To the eye, he seemed but a 
 diminutive, loutish, well-made country lad, such as the 
 doctor had described, mighty quick and active, but de- 
 void of any culture; and this first impression was with 
 most observers final. What began to strike me was his 
 familiar, chattering talk; so strangely inconsistent with 
 the terms on which I was to be received; and partly 
 from his imperfect enunciation, partly from the sprightly 
 incoherence of the matter, so very difficult to follow 
 clearly without an effort of the mind. It is true I had 
 before talked with persons of a similar mental constitu- 
 tion; persons who seemed to live (as he did) by the 
 senses, taken and possessed by the visual object of the 
 moment and unable to discharge their minds of that 
 impression. His seemed to me (as I sat, distantly giv- 
 ing ear) a kind of conversation proper to drivers, who 
 pass much of their time in a great vacancy of the 
 intellect and threading the sights of a familiar country. 
 
Olalla 
 
 181 
 
 But this was not the case of Felipe; by his own ac- 
 count, he was a home-keeper; “I wish I was there 
 now,’* he said; and then, spying a tree by the way- 
 side, he broke off to tell me that he had once seen a 
 crow among its branches. 
 
 “A crow?” I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of 
 the remark, and thinking I had heard imperfeptly. 
 
 But by this time he was already filled with a new 
 idea; hearkening with a rapt intentness, his head on 
 one side, his face puckered; and he struck me rudely, 
 to make me hold my peace. Then he smiled and shook 
 his head. 
 
 “What did you hear?” I asked. 
 
 “Oh, it is all right,” he said; and began encourag 
 ing his mule with cries that echoed unhumanly up the 
 mountain walls. 
 
 I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively 
 well-built, light, and lithe and strong; he was well-feat- 
 ured; his yellow eyes were very large, though, perhaps, 
 not very expressive ; take him altogether, he was a 
 pleasant-looking lad, and I had no fault to find with 
 him, beyond that he was of a dusky hue, and inclined 
 to hairiness; two characteristics that I disliked. It was 
 his mind that puzzled, and yet attracted me. The doc- 
 tor’s phrase — an innocent — came back to me; and I was 
 wondering if that were, after all, the true description, 
 when the road began to go down into the narrow and 
 naked chasm of a torrent. The waters thundered tu- 
 multuously in the bottom; and the ravine was filled 
 full of the sound, the thin spray, and the claps of 
 wind, that accompanied their descent. The scene was 
 certainly impressive ; but the road was in that part 
 
182 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 very securely walled in; the mule went steadily for-, 
 ward; and I was astonished to perceive the paleness of 
 terror in the face of my companion. The voice of that 
 wild river was inconstant, now sinking lower as if in 
 weariness, now doubling its hoarse tones; momentary 
 freshets seemed to swell its volume, sweeping down the 
 gorge, raving and booming against the barrier walls ; 
 and I observed it was at each of these accessions to 
 the clamor that my driver more particularly winced 
 and blanched. Some thoughts of Scottish superstition 
 and the river Kelpie passed across my mind; I won- 
 dered if perchance the like were prevalent in that part 
 of Spain; and turning to Felipe, sought to draw him 
 out. 
 
 ‘‘What is the matter?” I asked. 
 
 “Oh, I am afraid,” he replied. 
 
 “Of what are you afraid?” I returned. “This seems 
 one of the safest places on this very dangerous road.” 
 
 “It makes a noise,” he said, with a simplicity of 
 awe that set my doubts at rest. 
 
 The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was 
 like his body, active and swift, but stunted in develop- 
 ment; and I began from that time forth to regard him 
 with a measure of pity, and to listen at first with in- 
 dulgence, and at last even with pleasure, to his dis- 
 jointed babble. 
 
 By about four in the afternoon we had crossed the 
 summit of the mountain line, said farewell to the west- 
 ern sunshine, and began to go down upon the other 
 side, skirting the edge of many ravines and moving 
 through the shadow of dusky woods. There rose upon 
 all sides the voice of falling water, not condensed and 
 
Olalla 
 
 183 
 
 formidable as in the gorge of the river, but scattered 
 and sounding gayly and musically from glen to glen. 
 Here, too, the spirits of my driver mended, and he be- 
 gan to sing aloud in a falsetto voice, and with a sin- 
 gular bluntness of musical perception, never true either 
 to melody or key, but wandering at will, and yet 
 somehow with an effect that was natural and pleasing, 
 like that of the song of birds. As the dusk increased, 
 I fell more and more under the spell of this artless 
 warbling, listening and waiting for some articulate air, 
 and still disappointed; and when at last I asked him 
 what it was he sang — “Oh,” cried he, “I am just 
 singing!” Above all, I was taken with a trick he had 
 of unweariedly repeating the same note at little inter- 
 vals; it was not so monotonous as you would think, 
 or, at least, not disagreeable; and it seemed to breathe 
 a wonderful contentment with what is, such as we 
 love to fancy in the attitude of trees, or the quiescence 
 of a pool. 
 
 Night had fallen dark before we came out upon a 
 plateau, and drew up, a little after, before a certain 
 lump of superior blackness which I could only conject- 
 ure to be the residencia. Here, my guide, getting down 
 from the cart, hooted and whistled for a long time in 
 vain; until at last an old peasant man came toward 
 us from somewhere in the surrounding dark, carrying 
 a candle in his hand. By the light of this I .was able 
 to perceive a great arched doorway of a Moorish char- 
 acter: it was closed by iron-studded gates, in one of 
 the leaves of which Felipe opened a wicket. The peas- 
 ant carried off the cart to some outbuilding; but my 
 guide and I passed through the wicket, which was 
 
184 Worlds of r^oberfc Couis Steuepsop 
 
 closed again behind us; and, by the glimmer of the 
 candle, passed through a court, up a stone stair, along 
 a section of an open gallery, and up more stairs again, 
 until we came at last to the door of a great and some- 
 what bare apartment. This room, which I understood 
 was to be mine, was pierced by three windows, lined 
 with some lustrous wood disposed in panels, and cai*- 
 peted with the skins of many savage animals. A bright 
 fire burned in the chimney, and shed abroad a change- 
 ful flicker; close up to the blaze there was drawn a 
 table, laid for supper ; and in the far end a bed stood 
 ready. I was pleased by these preparations, and said 
 so to Felipe; and he, with the same simplicity of dis- 
 position that I had already remarked in him, warmly 
 re-echoed my praises. “A fine room,” he said; ‘‘a very 
 fine room. And fire, too; fire is good; it melts out 
 the pleasure in your bones. And the bed,” he con- 
 tinued, carrying over the candle in that direction — “see 
 what fine sheets — how soft, how smooth, smooth;” and 
 he passed his hand again and again over their texture, 
 and then laid down his head and rubbed his cheeks 
 among them with a grossness of content that somehow 
 offended me. I took the candle from his hand (for I 
 feared he would set the bed on fire) and walked back 
 to the supper-table, where, perceiving a measure of 
 wine, I poured out a cup and called to him to come 
 and drink of it. He started to his feet at once and 
 ran to me with a strong expression of hope; but when 
 he saw the wine, he visibly shuddered. 
 
 “Oh, no,” he said, “not that; that is for you. I 
 hate it.” 
 
 “Very well, Senor,” said I; “then I will drink to 
 
Olalla 
 
 185 
 
 your good health, and to the prosperity of your house 
 and family. Speaking of which,” I added, after I had 
 drunk, “shall I not have the pleasure of laying my 
 salutations in person at the feet of the Senora, your 
 mother?” 
 
 But at these words all the childishness passed out 
 of his face, and was succeeded by a look of indescrib- 
 able cunning and secrecy. He backed away from me 
 at the same time, as though I were an animal about 
 to leap, or some dangerous fellow with a weapon, and 
 when he had got near the door, glowered at me sul- 
 lenly with contracted pupils. “No,” he said at last, 
 and the next moment was gone noiselessly out of the 
 room; and I heard his footing die away downstairs as 
 light as rainfall, and silence closed over the house. 
 
 After I had supped I drew up the table nearer to 
 the bed and began to prepare for rest; but in the new 
 position of the light, I was struck by a picture on the 
 wall. It represented a woman, still young. To judge 
 by her costume and the mellow unity which reigned 
 over the canvas, she had long been dead; to judge by 
 the vivacity of the attitude, the eyes and the features, 
 I might have been beholding in a mirror the image of 
 life. Her figure was very slim and strong, and of a 
 just proportion; red tresses lay like a crown over her 
 brow; her eyes, of a very golden brown, held mine 
 with a look; and her face, which was perfectly shaped, 
 was yet marred by a cruel, sullen, and sensual expres- 
 sion. Something in both face and figure, something ex- 
 quisitely intangible, like the echo of an echo, suggested 
 the features and bearing of my guide; and I stood a 
 
 while, unpleasantly attracted and wondering at the odd- 
 
 Stevenson. Yol. I. — 3^ 
 
186 Worlds of l^obert Couis Steue^sop 
 
 •% 
 
 ity of the resemblance. The common, carnal stock of 
 that race, which had been originally designed for such 
 high dames as the one now looking on me from the 
 canvas, had fallen to baser uses, wearing country 
 clothes, sitting on the shaft and holding the reins of 
 a mule cart, to bring home a lodger. Perhaps an act- 
 ual link subsisted; perhaps some scruple of the delicate 
 flesh that was once clothed upon with the satin and 
 brocade of the dead lady, now winced at the rude con- 
 tact of Felipe’s frieze. 
 
 The first light of the morning shone full upon the 
 portrait, and, as I lay awake, my eyes continued to 
 dwell upon it with growing complacency; its beauty 
 crept about my heart insidiously, silencing my scruples 
 one after another; and while I knew that to love such 
 a woman were to sign and seal one’s own sentence of 
 degeneration, I still knew that, if she were alive, I 
 should love her. Day after day the double knowledge 
 of her wickedness and of my weakness grew clearer. 
 She came to be the heroine of many day-dreams, in 
 which her eyes led on to, and sufficiently rewarded, 
 crimes. She cast a dark shadow on my fancy; and 
 when I was out in the free air of heaven, taking vigor- 
 ous exercise and healthily renewing the current of my 
 blood, it was often a glad thought to me that my en- 
 chantress was safe in the grave, her wand of beauty 
 broken, her lips closed in silence, her philter spilled. 
 And yet I had a half-lingering terror that she might 
 not be dead after all, but rearisen in the body of some 
 descendant. 
 
 Felipe served my meals in my own apartment; and 
 his resemblance to the portrait haunted me. ^At times 
 
Olaila 
 
 187 
 
 It was not; at times, upon some change of attitude or 
 flash of expression, it would leap out upon me like a 
 ghost. It was above all in his ill tempers that the 
 likeness triumphed. He certainly liked me; he was 
 proud of my notice, which he sought to engage by 
 many simple and childlike devices ; he loved to sit 
 close before my fire, talking his broken talk or singing 
 his odd, endless, wordless songs, and sometimes draw- 
 ing his hand over my clothes with an affectionate man- 
 ner of caressing that never failed to cause in me an 
 embarrassment of which I was ashamed. But for all 
 that, he was capable of flashes of causeless anger and 
 fits of sturdy sullenness. At a word of reproof, I have 
 seen him upset the dish of which I was about to eat, 
 and this not surreptitiously, but with defiance ; and 
 similarly at a hint of inquisition. I was not unnatu- 
 rally curious, being in a strange place and surrounded 
 by strange people; but at the shadow of a question, he 
 shrank back, lowering and dangerous. Then it was 
 that, for a fraction of a second, this rough lad might 
 have been the brother of the lady in the frame. But 
 these humors were swift to pass; and the resemblance 
 died along with them. 
 
 In these first days I saw nothing of any one but 
 Felipe, unless the portrait is to be counted; and since 
 the lad was plainly of weak mind, and had moments 
 of passion, it may be wondered that I bore his dan- 
 gerous neighborhood with equanimity. As a matter of 
 fact, it was for some time irksome; but it happened 
 before long that I obtained over him so complete a 
 mastery as set my disquietude at rest. 
 
 It fell in this way. He was by nature slothful, and 
 
188 U/orKs of Hubert C0U15 Steuei^50i> 
 
 much of a vagabond, and yet he kept by the house, 
 and not only waited upon my wants, but labored every 
 day in the garden or small farm to the south of the 
 residencia. Here he would be joined by the peasant 
 whom I had seen on the night of my arrival, and who 
 dwelt at the far end of the inclosure, about half a 
 mile away, in a rude outhouse; but it was plain to 
 me that, of these two, it was Felipe who did most; 
 and though I would sometimes see him throw down 
 his spade and go to sleep among the very plants he 
 had been digging, his constancy and energy were ad- 
 mirable in themselves, and still more so since I was 
 well assured they were foreign to his disposition and 
 the fruit of an ungrateful effort. But while I admired, 
 I wondered what had called forth in a lad so shuttle- 
 witted this enduring sense of duty. How was it sus- 
 tained? I asked myself, and to what length did it pre- 
 vail over his instincts? The priest was possibly his 
 inspirer; but the priest came one day to the residencia. 
 I saw him both come and go after an interval of close 
 upon an hour, from a knoll where I was sketching, 
 and all that time Felipe continued to labor undisturbed 
 in the garden. 
 
 At last, in a very unworthy spirit, I determined to 
 debauch the lad from his good resolutions, and, way- 
 laying him at the gate, easily pursuaded him to join 
 me in a ramble. It was a fine day, and the woods to 
 which I led him were green and pleasant and sweet- 
 smelling and alive with the hum of insects. Here he 
 discovered himself in a fresh character, mounting up 
 to heights of gayety that abashed me, and displaying 
 an energy and grace of movement that delighted the 
 
Olalla 
 
 18 ft 
 
 eye. He leaped, he ran round me in mere glee; he 
 would stop, and look and listen, and seem to drink in 
 the world like a cordial; and then he would suddenly 
 spring into a tree with one bound, and hang and 
 gambol there like one at home. Little as he said to 
 me, and that of not much import, I have rarely en- 
 joyed more stirring company; the sight of his delight 
 was a continual feast; the speed and accuracy of his 
 movements pleased me to the heart; and I might have 
 been so thoughtlessly unkind as to make a habit of 
 these walks, had not chance prepared a very rude con- 
 clusion to my pleasure. By some swiftness or dexterity 
 the lad captured a squirrel in a treetop. He was then 
 some way ahead of me, but I saw him drop to the 
 ground and crouch there, crying aloud for pleasure like 
 a child. The sound stirred my sympathies, it was so 
 fresh and innocent; but as I bettered my pace to draw 
 near, the cry of the squirrel knocked upon my heart. I 
 have heard and seen much of the cruelty of lads, and 
 above all of peasants; but what I now beheld struck 
 me into a passion of anger. I thrust the fellow aside, 
 plucked the poor brute out of his hands, and with swift 
 mercy killed it. Then I turned upon the torturer, spoke 
 to him long out of the heat of my indignation, calling 
 him names at which he seemed to wither ; and at 
 length, pointing toward the residencia, bade him be- 
 gone and leave me, for I chose to walk with men, not 
 with vermin. He fell upon his knees, and, the words 
 coming to him with more clearness than usual, poured 
 out a stream of the most touching supplications, beg- 
 ging me in mercy to forgive him, to forget what he 
 had done, to look to the future. ‘‘Oh, I try so hard,” 
 
3 90 U/orK5 of I^oberfc Couis Steuei^sop 
 
 he said. ‘‘Oh, commandante, bear with Felipe this 
 once; he will never be a brute again!” Thereupon, 
 much more affected than I cared to show, I suffered 
 myself to be persuaded, and at last shook hands with 
 him and made it up. But the squirrel, by way of 
 
 penance, I made him bury; speaking of the poor 
 thing’s beauty, telling him what pains it had suffered, 
 and how base a thing was the abuse of strength. “See, 
 Felipe,” said I, “you are strong indeed; but in my 
 hands you are as helpless as tha.t poor thing of the 
 trees. Give me your hand in mine. You cannot re- 
 move it. Now suppose that I were cruel like you, and 
 took a pleasure in pain. I only tighten my hold, and 
 see how you suffer.” He screamed aloud, his face 
 
 stricken ashy and dotted wtih needle points of sweat; 
 and when I set him free, he fell to the earth and 
 nursed his hand and moaned over it like a baby. But 
 he took the lesson in good part; and whether from 
 that, or from what I had said to him, or the higher 
 notion he now had of my bodily strength, his original 
 affection was changed into a dog-like, adoring fidelity. 
 
 Meanwhile I gained rapidly in health. The resi- 
 dencia stood on the crown of a stony plateau; on every 
 side the mountains hemmed it about; only from the 
 roof, where was a bartizan, there might be seen, be- 
 tween two peaks, a small segment of plain, blue with 
 extreme distance. The air in these altitudes moved 
 freely and largely; great clouds congregated there, and 
 were broken up by the wind and left in tatters on the 
 hilltops; a hoarse, and yet faint rumbling of torrents 
 rose from all round; and one could there study all the 
 ruder and more ancient characters of nature in some- 
 
Olalla 
 
 191 
 
 thing of their pristine force. I delighted from the first 
 in the vigorous scenery and changeful weather; nor less 
 in the antique and dilapidated mansion where I dwelt. 
 This was a large oblong, flanked at two opposite cor- 
 ners by bastion-like projections, one of which com- 
 manded the door, while both were loopholed for 
 musketry. The lower story was, besides, naked of 
 windows, so that the building, if garrisoned, could not 
 be carried without artillery. It inclosed an open court 
 planted with pomegranate trees. From this a broad 
 flight of marble stairs ascended to an open gallery, 
 running all round and resting, toward the court, on 
 slender pillars. Thence again, several inclosed stairs led 
 to the upper stories of the house, which were thus 
 broken up into distinct divisions. The windows, both 
 within and without, were closely shuttered ; some of 
 the stone- work in the upper parts had fallen; the roof, 
 in one place, had been wrecked in one of the flurries 
 of wind which were common in these mountains; and 
 the whole house, in the strong, beating sunlight, and 
 standing out above a grove of stunted cork-trees, thickly 
 laden and discolored with dust, looked like the sleeping 
 palace of the legend. The court, in particular, seemed 
 the very home of slumber. A hoarse cooing of doves 
 haunted about the eaves; the winds were excluded, but 
 when they blew outside, the mountain dust fell here as 
 thick as rain, and veiled the red bloom of the pome- 
 granates; shuttered windows and the closed doors of 
 numerous cellars, and the vacant arches of the gallery, 
 inclosed it; and all day long the sun made broken 
 profiles on the four sides, and paraded the shadow of 
 the pillars on the gallery floor. At the ground level 
 
192 U/orl^5 of l^obert Coui^ Steuep^oi) 
 
 there was, however, a certain pillared recess, which 
 bore the marks of human habitation. Though it was 
 open in front upon the court, it was yet provided with 
 a chimney, where a wood fire would be always prettily 
 blazing; and the tile floor was littered with the skins 
 of animals. 
 
 • 
 
 It was in this place that I first saw my hostess. 
 She had drawn one of the skins forward and sat in the 
 sun, leaning against a pillar^ It was her dress that 
 struck me first of all, for it was rich and brightly 
 colored, and shone out in that dusty courtyard with 
 something of the same relief as the flowers of the 
 pomegranates. At a second look it was her beauty of 
 person that took hold of me. As she sat back — watch- 
 ing me, I thought, though with invisible eyes — and 
 wearing at the same time an expression of almost imbe- 
 cile good humor and contentment, she showed a perfect- 
 ness of feature and a quiet nobility of attitude that were 
 beyond a statue’s. I took off my hat to her in pass- 
 ing, and her face puckered with suspicion as swiftly and 
 lightly as a pool ruffles in the breeze; but she paid no 
 heed to my courtesy. I went forth on my customary 
 walk a trifle daunted, her idol-like impassivity haunting 
 me; and when I returned, although she was still in 
 much the same posture, I was half surprised to see 
 that she had moved as far as the next pillar, follow- 
 ing the sunshine. This time, however, she addressed 
 me with some trivial salutation, civilly enough con- 
 ceived, and uttered in the same deep-chested, and yet 
 indistinct and lisping tones, that had already baffled the 
 utmost niceness of my hearing from her son. I am 
 swered rather at a venture; for not only did I fail to 
 
Olalla 
 
 193 
 
 take her meaning with precision, but the sudden dis- 
 closure of her eyes disturbed me. They were unusually 
 large, the iris golden like Felipe’s, but the pupil at 
 that moment so distended that they seemed almost 
 black; and what affected me was not so much their 
 size as (what was perhaps its consequence) the singu- 
 lar insignificace of their regard. A look more blankly 
 stupid I have never met. My eyes dropped before it 
 even as I spoke, and I went on my way upstairs to 
 my own room, at once baffled and embarrassed. Yet, 
 when I came there and saw the face of the portrait, 
 I was again reminded of the miracle of family descent. 
 My hostess was, indeed, both older and fuller in per- 
 son; her eyes were of a different color; her face, be- 
 sides, was not only free, from the ill-significance that 
 offended and attracted me in the painting; it was de- 
 void of either good or bad — a moral blank expressing 
 literally naught. And yet there was a likeness, not so 
 much speaking as immanent, not so much in any par- 
 ticular feature as upon the whole. It should seem, I 
 thought, as if when the master set his signature to 
 that grave canvas, he had not only caught the image 
 of one smiling and false-eyed woman, but stamped the 
 essential quality of a race. 
 
 From that« day forth, whether I came or went, I 
 was sure to find the Senora seated in the sun against 
 a pillar, or stretched on a rug before the fire; only at 
 times she would shift her station to the top round of 
 the stone staircase, where she lay with the same non- 
 chalance right across my path. In all these days, I 
 never knew her to display the least spark of energy 
 beyond what she expended in brushing and re-brushing 
 
194 U/orI^5 of Ho^ort Coui5 SteuepsoQ 
 
 her copious copper-colored hair, or in lisping out, in the 
 rich and broken hoarseness of her voice, her customary 
 idle salutations to myself. These, I think, were her two 
 chief pleasures, beyond that of mere quiescence. She 
 seemed always proud of her remarks, as though they 
 had been witticisms : and, indeed, though they were 
 
 empty enough, like the conversation of many respectable 
 persons, and turned on a very narrow range of sub- 
 jects, they were never meaningless or incoherent; nay, 
 they had a certain beauty of their own, breathing, as 
 they did, of her entire contentment. Now she would 
 speak of the warmth, in which (like her son) she greatly 
 delighted; now of the flowers of the pomegranate trees, 
 and now of the white doves and long-winged swallows 
 that fanned the air of the court. The birds excited 
 her. As they raked the leaves in their swift flight, or 
 skimmed sidelong past her with a rush of wind, she 
 would sometimes stir, and sit a little up, and seem to 
 awaken from her doze of satisfaction. But for the rest 
 of her days she lay luxuriously folded on herself and 
 sunk in sloth and pleasure. Her invincible content at 
 first annoyed me, but I came gradually to And repose 
 in the spectacle, until at last it grew to be my habit 
 to sit down beside her four times in the day, both 
 coming and going, and to talk with her sleepily, I 
 scarce knew of what. I had come to like her dull, 
 almost animal neighborhood; her beauty and her stu- 
 pidity soothed and amused me. I began to And a kind 
 of transcendental good sense in her remarks, and her 
 unfathomable good nature moved me to admiration and 
 envy. The liking was returned; she enjoyed my pres- 
 ence half-unconsciously, as a man in deep meditation 
 
Olalla 
 
 195 
 
 may enjoy the babbling of a brook. I can scarce say 
 she brightened when I came, for satisfaction was written 
 on her face eternally, as on some foolish statue’s; but 
 I was made conscious of her pleasure by some more 
 intimate communication than the sight. And one day, 
 as I sat within reach of her on the marble step, she 
 suddenly shot forth one of her hands and patted mine. 
 The thing was done, and she was back in her accus- 
 tomed attitude, before my mind had received intelligence 
 of the caress; and when I turned to look her in the 
 face I could perceive no answerable sentiment. It was 
 plain she attached no moment to the act, and I blamed 
 myself for my own more uneasy consciousness. 
 
 The sight and (if I may so call it) the acquaintance 
 of the mother confirmed the view I had already taken 
 of the son. The family blood had been impoverished, 
 perhaps by long inbreeding, which I knew to be a 
 common error among the proud and the exclusive. No 
 decline, indeed, was to be traced in the body, which 
 had been handed down unimpaired in shapeliness and 
 strength; and the faces of to-day were struck as sharply 
 from the mint, as the face of two centuries ago that 
 smiled upon me from the portrait. But the intelligence 
 (that more precious heirloom) was degenerate; the treas- 
 ure of ancestral memory ran low; and it had required 
 the potent, plebeian crossing of a muleteer or mountain 
 contrabandista to raise, what approached hebetude in the 
 mother, into the active oddity of the son.' Yet of the 
 two, it was the mother I preferred. Of Felipe, venge- 
 ful and placable, full of starts and shyings, inconstant 
 as a hare, I could even conceive as a creature possibly 
 noxious. Of the mother I had no thoughts but those 
 
196 U/orl^s of f^obcrfc Couis SteuepsoQ 
 
 of kindness. And indeed, as spectators are apt ignorantly 
 to take sides, I grew something of a partisan in the 
 enmity which I perceived to smolder between them. 
 True, it seemed mostly on the mother’s part. She would 
 sometimes draw in her breath as he came near, and 
 the pupils of her vacant eyes would contract as if with 
 horror or fear. Her emotions, such as they were, were 
 much upon the surface and readily shared; and this 
 latent repulsion occupied my mind, and kept me wonder- 
 ing on what grounds it rested, and whether the son 
 was certainly in fault. 
 
 I had been about ten days in the residencia, when 
 there sprang up a high and harsh wind, carrying clouds 
 of dust. It came out of malarious lowlands, and over 
 several snowy sierras. The nerves of those on whom it 
 blew were strung and jangled; their eyes smarted with 
 the dust; their legs ached under the burden of their 
 body; and the touch of one hand upon another grew 
 to be odious. The wind, besides, came down the gullies 
 of the hills and stormed about the house with a great, 
 hollow buzzing and whistling that was wearisome to 
 the ear and dismally depressing to the mind. It did 
 not so much blow in gusts as with the steady sweep 
 of a waterfall, so that there was no remission of dis- 
 comfort while it blew. But higher upon the mountain, 
 it was probably of a more variable strength, with ac- 
 cesses of fury; for there came down at times a far-off 
 wailing, infinitely grievous to hear; and at times, on 
 one of the high shelves or terraces, there would start 
 up, and then disperse, a tower of dust, like the smoke 
 of an explosion. 
 
 I no sooner awoke in bed than 1 was conscious of 
 
Olalla 
 
 197 
 
 the nervous tension and depression of the weather, and 
 the effect grew stronger as the day proceeded. It was 
 in vain that I resisted; in vain that I set forth upon 
 my customary morning’s walk; the irrational, unchang- 
 ing fury of the storm had soon beat down my strength 
 and wrecked my temper; and I returned to the resi- 
 dencia, glowing with dry heat, and foul and gritty with 
 dust. The court had a forlorn appearance ; now and 
 then a glimmer of sun fled over it; now and then the 
 wind swooped down upon the pomegranates, and scat- 
 tered the blossoms, and set the window shutters clap- 
 ping on the wall. In the recess the Senora was pacing 
 to and fro with a flushed countenance and bright eyes; 
 I thought, too, she was speaking to herself, like one 
 in anger. But when I addressed her with my custom- 
 ary salutation, she only replied by a sharp gesture and 
 continued her walk. The weather had distempered even 
 this impassive creature; and as I went on upstmrs I 
 was the less ashamed of my own discomposure. 
 
 All day the wind continued; and I sat in my room 
 and made a feint of reading, or walked up and down, 
 and listened to the riot overhead. Night fell, and I 
 had not so much as a candle. I began to long for 
 some society, and stole down to the court. It was now 
 plunged in the blue of the first darkness ; but the re- 
 cess was redly lighted by the Are. The wood had been 
 piled high, and was crowned by a shock of flames, 
 which the draught of the chimney brandished to and 
 fro. In th^s strong and shaken brightness the Senora 
 j continued pacing from wall to wall with disconnected 
 gestures, clasping her hands, stretching forth her arms, 
 throwing back her head as in appeal to heaven. In 
 
198 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steuei?8op 
 
 these disordered movements the beauty and grace of 
 the woman showed more clearly; but there was a light 
 in her eye that struck on me unpleasantly; and when 
 I had looked on a while in silence, and seemingly un- 
 observed, I turned tail as I had come, and groped my 
 way back again to my own chamber. 
 
 By the time Felipe brought my supper and lights, 
 my nerve was utterly gone ; and, had the lad been 
 such as I was used to seeing him, I should have kept 
 him (even by force had that been necessary) to take 
 off the edge from my distasteful solitude. But on 
 Felipe, also, the wind had exercised its influence. He 
 had been feverish all day; now that the night had 
 come he was fallen into a low and tremulous humor 
 that reacted on my own. The sight of his scared face, 
 his starts and pallors and sudden hearkenings, unstrung 
 me; and when he dropped and broke a dish, I fairly 
 leaped out of my seat. 
 
 ‘‘I think we are all mad to-day,” said I, affecting 
 to laugh. 
 
 ‘Ht is the black wind,” he replied dolefully. “You 
 feel as if you must do something, and you don’t know 
 what it is.” 
 
 I noted the aptness of the description; but, indeed, 
 Felipe had sometimes a strange felicity in rendering 
 into words the sensations of the body. “And your 
 mother, too,” said I; “she seems to feel this weather 
 much. Do you not fear she may be unwell?” 
 
 He stared at me a little, and then said, “No,” al- 
 most defiantly; and the next moment, carrying his hand 
 to his brow, cried out lamentably on the wind and the 
 noise that made his head go round like a millwheel. 
 
Olalla 
 
 199 
 
 ‘‘Who can be well?’* he cried; and, indeed, I could 
 only echo his question, for I was disturbed enough 
 myself. 
 
 I went to bed early, wearied with day-long restless- 
 ness; but the poisonous nature of the wind, and its 
 ungodly and unintermittent uproar, would not suffer me 
 to sleep. I lay there and tossed, my nerves and senses 
 on the stretch. At times I would doze, dream horribly, 
 and wake again; and these snatches of oblivion confused 
 me as to time. But it must have been late on in the 
 night, when I was suddenly startled by an outbreak of 
 pitiable and hateful cries. I leaped from my bed, sup- 
 posing I had dreamed; but the cries still continued to 
 fill the house, cries of pain, I thought, but certainly of 
 rage also, and so savage and discordant that they 
 shocked the heart. It was no illusion; some living 
 
 thing, some lunatic or some wild animal, was being 
 foully tortured. The thought of Felipe and the squirrel 
 flashed into my mind, and I ran to the door, but it 
 had been locked from the outside; and I might shake 
 it as I pleased, I was a fast prisoner. Still the cries 
 continued. Now they would dwindle down into a moan- 
 ing that seemed to be articulate, and at these times I 
 made sure they must be human; and again they would 
 break forth and fill the house with ravings worthy of 
 hell. I stood at the door and gave ear to them, till at 
 last they died away. Long after that, I still lingered 
 and still continued to hear them mingle in fancy with 
 the storming of the wind; and when at last I crept to 
 my bed, it was with a deadly sickness and a blackness 
 of horror on my heart. 
 
 It was little wonder if I slept no more. Why had 
 
200 U/orl ^5 of F^obert Coui 5 Steuep^op 
 
 I been locked in? What had passed? Who was the 
 author of these indescribable and shocking cries? A 
 human being? It was inconceivable. A beast? The 
 cries were scarce quite bestial; and what animal, short 
 of a lion or a tiger, could thus shake the solid walls of 
 the residencia? And while I was thus turning over the 
 elements of the mystery, it came into my mind that I 
 had not yet set eyes upon the daughter of the house. 
 What was more probable than that the daughter of the 
 Senora, and the sister of Felipe, should be herself in- 
 sane? Or, what more likely than that these ignorant 
 and half-witted people should seek to manage an afflicted 
 kinswoman by violence? Here was a solution; and yet 
 when I called to mind the cries (which I never did 
 without a shuddering chill) it seemed altogether insuffi- 
 cient: not even cruelty could wring such cries from 
 
 madness. But of. one thing I was sure; I could not 
 live in a house where such a thing was half conceivable, 
 and not probe the matter home and, if necessary, 
 interfere. 
 
 The next day came, the wind had blown itself out, 
 and there was nothing to remind me of the business 
 of the night. Felipe came to my bedside with obvious 
 cheerfulness; as I passed through the court, the Senora 
 was sunning herself with her accustomed immobility; 
 and when I issued from the gateway, I found the 
 vhole face of nature austerely smiling, the heavens of 
 a cold blue, and sown with great cloud islands, and 
 the mountain-sides mapped forth into provinces of light 
 and shadow. A short walk restored me to myself, 
 and renewed within me the resolve to plumb this mys- 
 tery; and when, from the vantage of my knoll, I had 
 
Olalla 
 
 201 
 
 seen Felipe pass forth to his labors in the garden, I re- 
 turned at once to the residencia to put my design in 
 practice. The Senora appeared plunged in slumber; I 
 stood a while and marked her, but she did not stir; 
 even if my design were indiscreet, I had little to fear 
 from such a guardian; and turning away, I mounted to 
 the gallery and began my exploration of the house. 
 
 All morning I went from one door to another, and 
 entered spacious and faded chambers, some rudely shut- 
 tered, some receiving their full charge of daylight, all 
 empty and unhomely. It was a rich house, on which 
 Time had breathed his tarnish and dust had scattered 
 disillusion. The spider swung there; the bloated taran- 
 tula scampered on the cornices; ants had their crowded 
 highways on the floor of halls of audience; the big 
 and foul fly, that lives on carrion and is often the 
 messenger of death, had set up his nest in the rotten 
 woodwork, and buzzed heavily about the rooms. Here 
 and there a stool or two, a couch, a bed, or a great 
 carved chair, remained behind, like islets on the bare 
 floors, to testify of man's bygone habitation; and every- 
 where the walls were set with the portraits of the dead. 
 I could judge, by these decaying effigies, in the house 
 of what a great and what a handsome race I was then 
 wandering. Many of the men wore orders on their 
 breasts and had the port of noble offices; the women 
 were all richly attired; the canvases most of them by 
 famous hands. But it was not so much these evidences 
 of greatness that took hold upon my mind, even con- 
 trasted, as they were, with the present depopulation and 
 decay of that great house. It was rather the parable 
 
 of family life that I read in this succession of fair 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 32 
 
5302 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi^ 
 
 faces and shapely bodies. Never before bad I so re^* 
 ized the miracle of the continued race, the creation and 
 recreation, the weaving and changing and handing down 
 of fleshly elements. That a child should be born of its 
 mother, that it should grow and clothe itself (we know 
 not how) with humanity, and put on inherited looks, 
 and turn its head with the manner of one ascendant, 
 and offer its hand with the gesture of another, are 
 wonders dulled for us by repetition. But in the singular 
 unity of look, in the common features and common 
 bearing, of all these painted generations on the walls 
 of the residencia, the miracle started out and looked 
 me in the face. And an ancient mirror falhng oppor- 
 tunely in my way, I stood and read my own features 
 a long while, tracing out on either hand the filaments 
 of descent and the bonds that knit me with my family. 
 
 At last, in the course of these investigations, I 
 opened the door of a chamber that bore the marks of 
 habitation. It was of large proportions and faced to 
 the north, where the mountains were most wildly 
 figured. The embers of a fire smoldered and smoked 
 upon the hearth, to which a chair had been drawn 
 close. And yet the aspect of the chamber was ascetic 
 to the degree of sternness; the chair was uncushioned; 
 the floor and walls were naked; and beyond the books 
 which lay here and there in some confusion, there was 
 no instrument of either work or pleasure. The sight of 
 books in the house of such a family exceedingly amazed 
 me; and I began with a great hurry, and in momen- 
 tary fear of interruption, to go from one to another 
 and hastily inspect their character. They were of all 
 sorts, devotional, historical, and scientific, but mostly of 
 
Olalla 
 
 203 
 
 a great age and in the Latin tongue. Some I could 
 see to bear the marks of constant study; others had 
 been torn across and tossed aside as if in petulance or 
 disapproval. Lastly, as I cruised about that empty 
 chamber, I espied some papers written upon with pencil 
 on a table near the window. An unthinking curiosity 
 led me to take one up. It bore a copy of verses, very 
 roughly metered in the original Spanish, and which I 
 may render somewhat thus: 
 
 Pleasure approached with pain and shame, 
 
 Grief with a wreath of lilies came. 
 
 Pleasure showed the lovely sun ; 
 
 Jesu dear, how sweet it shone! 
 
 Grief with her worn hand pointed on, 
 
 Jesu dear, to theel 
 
 Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, lay- 
 ing down the paper, I beat an immediate retreat from 
 the apartment. Neither Felipe nor his mother could 
 have read the books nor written these rough but feel- 
 ing verses* It was plain I had stumbled with sac- 
 rilegious feet into the room of the daughter of the 
 house. God knows, my own heart most sharply pun- 
 ished me for my indiscretion. The thought that I had 
 thus secretly pushed my way into the confidence of a 
 girl so strangely situated, and the fear that she might 
 somehow come to hear of it, oppressed me like guilt. 
 I blamed myself besides for my suspicions of the night 
 before; wondered that I should ever have attributed 
 those shocking cries to one of whom I now conceived 
 as of a saint, spectral of mien, wasted with maceration, 
 bound up in the practices of a mechanical devotion, and 
 
204 U/orl^5 of F^obert Coui$ Steuep^op 
 
 dwelling in a great isolation of soul with her incongru- 
 ous relatives; and as I leaned on the balustrade of the 
 gallery and looked down into the bright close of pome- 
 granates and at the gayly dressed and somnolent woman, 
 who just then stretched herself and delicately licked her 
 lips as in the very sensuality of sloth, my mind swiftly 
 compared the scene with the cold chamber looking 
 northward on the mountains, where the daughter dwelt. 
 
 That same afternoon, as I sat upon my knoll, I 
 saw the Padre enter the gates of the residencia. The 
 revelation of the daughter’s character had struck home 
 to my fancy, and almost blotted out the horrors of the 
 night before ; but at sight of this worthy man the 
 memory revived. I descended, then, from the knoll, 
 and making a circuit among the woods, posted myself 
 by the wayside to await his passage. As soon as he 
 appeared I stepped forth and introduced myself as the 
 lodger of the residencia. He had a very strong, honest 
 countenance, on which it was easy to read the mingled 
 emotions with which he regarded me, as a foreigner, a 
 heretic, and yet one who had been wounded for the 
 good cause. Of the family at the residencia he spoke 
 with reserve, and yet with respect. I mentioned that 
 I had not yet seen the daughter, whereupon he re- 
 marked that that was as it should be, and looked at 
 me a little askance. Lastly, I plucked up courage to 
 refer to the cries that had disturbed me in the night. 
 He heard me out in silence, and then stopped and 
 partly turned about, as though to mark beyond doubt 
 that he was dismissing me. 
 
 ‘^Do you take tobacco powder?’’ said he, offering his 
 snuff-box; and then, when I had refused, “I am an 
 
Olalla 
 
 205 
 
 old man,’’ he added, ‘‘and I may be allowed to remind 
 you that you are a guest.” 
 
 “I have, then, your authority,” I returned, firmly 
 enough, although I flushed at the implied reproof, “to 
 let things take their course, and not to interfere?” 
 
 He said “Yes,” and with a somewhat uneasy salute 
 turned and left me where I was. But he had done 
 two things : he had set my conscience at rest, and he 
 had awakened my delicacy. I made a great effort, once 
 more dismissed the recollections of the night, and fell 
 once more to brooding on my saintly poetess. At the 
 same time, I could not quite forget that I had been 
 locked in, and that night when Felipe brought me my 
 supper I attacked him warily on both points of in- 
 terest. 
 
 “I never see your sister,” said I casually. 
 
 “Oh, no,” said he; “she is a good, good girl,” and 
 his mind instantly veered to something else. 
 
 “Your sister is pious, I suppose?” I asked in the 
 next pause. 
 
 “Oh!” he cried, joining his hands with extreme 
 fervor, “a saint; it is she that keeps me up.” 
 
 “You are very fortunate,” said I, “for the most of 
 us, I am afraid, and myself among the number, are 
 better at going down.” 
 
 “Senor,” said Felipe earnestly, “I would not say 
 that. You should not tempt your angel. If one goes 
 down, where is he to stop?” 
 
 “Why, Felipe,” said I, “I had no guess you were 
 a preacher, and I may say a good one; but I suppose 
 that is your sister’s doing?” 
 
 He nodded at me with round eyes. 
 
206 U/orl^5 of Robert Coui$ Steuep^op 
 
 •‘Well, then,’* I continued, “she has doubtless re- 
 proved you for your sin of cruelty?” 
 
 “Twelve times!” he cried; for this was the phrase 
 by which the odd creature expressed the sense of fre- 
 quency. “And I told her you had done so — I remem- 
 bered that,’* he added proudly — “and she was pleased.” 
 
 “Then, Felipe,** said I, “what were those* cries that . 
 I heard last night? for surely they were cries of some 
 creature in suffering.** 
 
 “The wind,’* returned Felipe, looking in the fire. 
 
 I took his hand in mine, at which, thinking it to 
 be a caress, he smiled with a brightness of pleasure 
 that came near disarming my resolve. But I trod the 
 weakness down. “The wind,” I repeated; “and yet I 
 think it was this hand,*’ holding it up, “that had first 
 locked me in.” The lad shook visibly, but answered 
 never a word. “Well,” said I, “I am a stranger and 
 a guest. It is not my part either to meddle or to 
 judge in your affairs; in these you shall take your sis- 
 ter’s counsel, which I cannot doubt to be excellent. 
 But in so far as concerns my own I will be no man’s 
 prisoner, and I demand that key.” Half an hour later 
 my door was suddenly thrown open, and the key tossed 
 ringing on the floor. 
 
 A day or two after I came in from a walk a little 
 before the point of noon. The Senora was lying lapped 
 in slumber on the threshold of the recess; the pigeons 
 dozed below the eaves like snowdrifts; the house was 
 under a deep spell of noontide quiet; and only a wan- 
 dering and gentle wind from the mountain stole round 
 the galleries, rustled among the pomegranates, and pleas- 
 antly stirred the shadows. Something in the stillness 
 
Olalla 
 
 207 
 
 moved me to imitation, and I went very lightly across 
 the court and up the marble staircase. My foot was 
 on the topmost round, when a door opened, and I 
 found myself face to face with Olalla. Surprise trans- 
 fixed me ; her loveliness struck to my heart ; she 
 
 glowed in the deep shadow of the gallery, a gem of 
 color ; her eyes took hold upon mine and clung there, 
 and bound us together like the joining of hands; and 
 the moments we thus stood face to face, drinking each 
 other in, were sacramental and the wedding of souls. 
 I know not how long it was before I awoke out of a 
 deep trance, and, hastily bowing, passed on into the 
 upper stair. She did not move, but followed me with 
 
 her great, thirsting eyes; and as I passed out of sight 
 it seemed to me as if she paled and faded. 
 
 In my room, I opened the window and looked out, 
 and could not think what change had come upon that 
 austere field of mountains that it should thus sing and 
 shine under the lofty heaven. I had seen her — Olalla! 
 And the stone crags answered, Olalla! and the dumb, 
 unfathomable azure answered, Olalla! The pale saint of 
 my dreams had vanished forever; and in her place I 
 beheld this maiden on whom God had lavished the 
 richest colors and the most exuberant energies of life, 
 whom He had made active as a deer, slender as a 
 reed, and in whose great eyes He had lighted the torches 
 of the soul. The thrill of her young life, strung like 
 a wild animal’s, had entered into me; the force of soul 
 that had looked out from her eyes and conquered mine, 
 mantled about my heart and sprang to my lips in sing- 
 ing. She passed through my veins: she was one with 
 
 me. 
 
U/orl^5 of r^obert Coai^ Steuei73op 
 
 I will not say that this enthusiasm declined; rathei 
 my soul held out in its ecstasy as in a strong castle, 
 and was there besieged by cold and sorrowful considera- 
 tions. I could not doubt but that I loved her at first 
 sight, and already with a quivering ardor that was 
 strange to my experience. What then was to follow? 
 She was the child of an afllicted house, the Senora’s 
 
 daughter, the sister of Felipe; she bore it even in her 
 
 beauty. She had the lightness and swiftness of the 
 one, swift as an arrow, light as dew; like the other, 
 
 she shone on the pale background of the world with 
 
 the brilliancy of flowers. I could not call by the name 
 of brother that half-witted lad, nor by the name of 
 mother that immovable and lovely thing of flesh, whose 
 silly eyes and perpetual simper now recurred to my 
 mind like something hateful. And if I could not marry, 
 what then? She was helplessly unprotected; her eyes, 
 in that single and long glance which had been all our 
 intercourse, had confessed a weakness equal to my own; 
 but in my heart I knew her for the student of the 
 cold northern chamber, and the writer of the sorrowful 
 lines; and this was a knowledge to disarm a brute. To 
 flee was more than I could find courage for; but I 
 registered a vow of unsleeping circumspection. 
 
 As I turned from the window, my eyes alighted on 
 the portrait. It had fallen dead, like a candle after 
 sunrise; it followed me with eyes of paint. I knew it 
 to be like, and marveled at the tenacity of type in 
 that declining race; but the likeness was swallowed up 
 in difference. I remembered how it had seemed to me 
 a thing unapproachable in the life, a creature rather of 
 the painter’s craft than of the modesty of nature, and 
 
Olalla 
 
 209 
 
 I marveled at the thought, and exulted in the image 
 of Olalla. Beauty I had seen before, and not been 
 charmed, and I had been often drawn to women, who 
 were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla all that 
 I desired and had not dared to imagine was united. 
 
 I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached 
 and my eyes longed for her, as men long for morning. 
 But the day after, when I returned, about my usual 
 hour, she was once more on the gallery, and our looks 
 once more met and embraced. I would have spoken, I 
 would have drawn near to her; but strongly as she 
 plucked at my heart, drawing me like a magnet, some- 
 thing yet more imperious withheld me; and I could 
 only bow and pass by; and she, leaving my salutation 
 imanswered, only followed me with her noble eyes. 
 
 I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the 
 traits in memory it seemed as if I read her very 
 heart. She was dressed with something of her mother’s 
 coquetry, and love of positive color. Her robe, which 
 I knew she must have made with her own hands, 
 clung about her with a cunning grace. After the fash- 
 ion of that country, besides, her bodice stood open' in 
 the middle, in a long slit, and here, in spite of the 
 poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by a rib- 
 bon, lay on her brown bosom. These were proofs, had 
 any been needed, of her inborn delight in life and her 
 own loveliness. On the other hand, in her eyes, that 
 hung upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of 
 passion and sadness, lights of poetry and hope, black- 
 nesses of despair, and thoughts that were above the 
 earth. It was a lovely body, but the inmate, the soul, 
 was more than worthy of that lodging. Should I leave 
 
210 U/orl^s of F^oberfc Couis Steuepsop 
 
 this incomparable flower to wither unseen on these rough 
 mountains? Should I despise the great gift offered me 
 in the eloquent silence of her eyes? Here was a soul 
 immured; should I not burst its prison? All side con- 
 siderations fell off from me; were she the child of 
 Herod I swore I should make her mine; and that very 
 evening I set myself, with a mingled sense of treach- 
 ery and disgrace, to captivate the brother. Perhaps I 
 read him with more favorable eyes, perhaps the thought 
 of his sister always summoned up the better qualities 
 of that imperfect soul; but he had never seemed to 
 me so amiable, and his very likeness to Olalla, while 
 it annoyed, yet softened me. 
 
 A third day passed in vain— an empty desert of 
 hours. I would not lose a chance, and loitered all 
 afternoon in the court where (to give myself a counte- 
 nance) I spoke more than usual with the Senora. God 
 knows it was with a most tender and sincere interest 
 that I now studied her; and even as for Felipe, so 
 now for the mother, I was conscious of a growing 
 warmth of toleration. And yet I wondered. Even 
 while I spoke with her, she would doze off into a 
 little sleep, and presently awake again without embar- 
 rassment; and this composure staggered me. And 
 again, as I marked her make inflnitesimal changes in 
 her posture, savoring and lingering on the bodily pleas ^ 
 ure of the movement, I was driven to wonder at this 
 depth of passive sensuality. She lived in her body; 
 and her consciousness was all sunk into and dissemi- 
 nated through her members, where it luxuriously dwelt. 
 Lastly, I could not grow accustomed to her eyes. Each 
 time she turned on me these great beautiful and mean- 
 
Olalla 
 
 211 
 
 ingless orbs, wide open to the day, but closed against 
 human inquiry — each time I had occasion to observe 
 the lively changes of her pupils which expanded and 
 contracted in a breath — I know not what it was came 
 over me, I can find no name for the mingled feeling 
 of disappointment, annoyance, and distaste that jarred 
 along my nerves. I tried her on a variety of subjects, 
 equally in vain; and at last led the talk to her daugh- 
 ter. But even there she proved indifferent; said she 
 was pretty, which (as with children) was her highest 
 word of commendation, but was plainly incapable of 
 any higher thought; and when I remarked that Olalla 
 seemed silent, merely yawned in my face and replied 
 that speech was of no great use when you had noth- 
 ing to say. “People speak much, very much,” she 
 added, looking at me with expanded pupils; and then 
 again yawned, and again showed me a mouth that was 
 as dainty as a toy. This time I took the hint, and, 
 
 leaving her to her repose, went up into my own cham- 
 
 ber to sit by the open window, looking on the hills 
 and not beholding them, sunk in lustrous and deep 
 
 dreams, and hearkening in fancy to the note of a voice 
 
 that I had never heard. 
 
 I awoke on the fifth morning with a brightness of 
 anticipation that seemed to challenge fate. I was sure 
 of myself, light of heart and foot, and resolved to put 
 my love incontinently to the touch of knowledge. It 
 should lie no longer under the bonds of silence, a dumb 
 thing, living by the eye only, like the love of beasts; 
 but should now put on the spirit, and enter upon the 
 joys of the complete human intimacy. I thought of it 
 with wild hopes, like a voyager to El Dorado; into that 
 
212 U/or^s of F^obert Coais Steuepsop 
 
 unknown and lovely country of her soul I no longer 
 trembled to adventure. Yet when I did indeed encoun- 
 ter her, the same force of passion descended on me and 
 at once submerged my mind; speech seemed to drop 
 away from me like a childish habit; and I but drew 
 
 near to her as the giddy man draws near to the mar- 
 
 gin of a gulf. She drew back from me a little as 1 
 came ; but her eyes did not waver from mine, and 
 these lured me forward. At last, when I was already 
 within reach of her, I stopped. Words were denied 
 me; if I advanced I could but clasp her to my heart 
 
 in silence; and all that was sane in me, all that was 
 
 still unconquered, revolted against the thought of such 
 an accost. So we stood for a second, all our life in 
 our eyes, exchanging salvos of attraction and yet each 
 resisting; and then, with a great effort of the will, 
 and conscious at the same time of a sudden bitterness 
 of disappointment, I turned and went away in the same 
 silence. 
 
 What power lay upon me that I could not speak? 
 And she, why was she also silent? Why did she draw 
 away before me dumbly, with fascinated eyes? Was 
 this love? or was it a mere brute attraction, mindless 
 and inevitable, like that of the magnet for the steel? 
 We had never spoken, we were wholly strangers; and 
 yet an influence, strong as the grasp of a giant, swept 
 us silently together. On my side, it filled me with 
 impatience; and yet I was sure that she was worthy; 
 I had seen her books, read her verses, and thus, in a 
 sense, divined the soul of my mistress. But on her 
 side, it struck me almost cold. Of me, she knew noth- 
 ing but my bodily favor; she was drawn to me as 
 
Olalla 
 
 213 
 
 stones fall to the earth; the laws that rule the earth 
 conducted her, unconsenting, to my arms; and I drew 
 back at the thought of such a bridal, and began to be 
 jealous for myself. It was not thus that I desired to 
 be loved. And then I began to fall into a great pity 
 for the girl herself. I thought how sharp must be her 
 mortification, that she, the student, the recluse, Felipe’s 
 saintly monitress, should have thus confessed an over- 
 weening weakness for a man with whom she had never 
 exchanged a word. And at the coming of pity, all 
 other thoughts were swallowed up; and I longed only 
 to find and console and reassure her; to tell her how 
 wholly her love was returned on my side, and how her 
 choice, even if blindly made, was not unworthy. 
 
 The next day it was glorious weather; depth upon 
 depth of blue overcanopied the mountains ; the sun 
 shone wide; and the wind in the trees and the many 
 falling torrents in the mountains filled the air with 
 delicate and haunting music. Yet I was prostrated 
 with sadness. My heart wept for the sight of Olalla, 
 as a child weeps for its mother. I sat down on a 
 bowlder on the verge of the low cliffs that bound the 
 plateau to the north. Thence I looked down into the 
 wooded valley of a stream, where no foot came. In 
 the mood I was in, it was even touching to behold the 
 place un tenanted; it lacked Olalla; and I thought of 
 the delight and glory of a life passed wholly with her 
 in that strong air, and among these rugged and lovely 
 surroundings, at first with a whimpering sentiment, and 
 then again with such a fiery joy that I seemed to 
 grow in strength and stature, like a Samson. 
 
 And then suddenly I was aware of Olalla drawing 
 
314 U/or^8 of f^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 near. She appeared out of a grove of cork-trees, and 
 came straight toward me ; and I stood up and waited. 
 She seemed in her walking a creature of such life and 
 fire and lightness as amazed me; yet she came quietly 
 and slowly. Her energy was in the slowness; but for 
 inimitable strength, I felt she would have run, she 
 would have flown to me. Still, as she approached, 
 she kept her eyes lowered to the ground; and when 
 she had drawn quite near, it was without one glance 
 that she addressed me. At the first note of her voice 
 I started. It was for this I had been waiting; this 
 was the last test of my love. And lo, her enunciation 
 was precise and clear, not lisping and incomplete like 
 that of her family; and the voice, though deeper than 
 usual with women, was still both youthful and womanly. 
 She spoke in a rich chord; golden contralto strains min- 
 gled with hoarseness, as the red threads were mingled 
 with the brown among her tresses. It was not only a 
 voice that spoke to my heart directly; but it spoke to 
 me of her. And yet her words immediately plunged 
 me back upon despair. 
 
 “You will go away,” she said, “to-day.” 
 
 Her example broke the bonds of my speech; I felt 
 as lightened of a weight, or as if a spell had been 
 dissolved. I know not in what words I answered; but, 
 standing before her on the cliffs, I poured out the 
 whole ardor of my love, telling her that I lived upon 
 the thought of her, slept only to dream of her loveli- 
 ness, and would gladly forswear my country, my lan- 
 guage, and my friends, to live forever by her side. 
 And then, strongly commanding myself, I changed the 
 note; I reassured, I comforted her; I told her I had 
 
Olalla 
 
 215 
 
 divined in her a pions and heroic spirit, with which I 
 was worthy to sympathize, and which I longed to share 
 and lighten. ^‘Nature,’* I told her, ‘‘was the voice of 
 God, which men disobey at peril; and if we were thus 
 dumbly drawn together, ay, even as by a miracle of 
 •love, it must imply a divine fitness in our souls; we 
 must be made,” I said — “made for one another. We 
 should be mad rebels,” I cried out — “mad rebels 
 against God, not to obey this instinct.” 
 
 She shook her head. “You will go to-day,” she re- 
 peated, and then with a gesture, and in a sudden, 
 sharp note — “no, not to-day,” she cried, “to-morrow!” 
 But at this sign of relenting, power came in upon 
 me in a tide. I stretched out my arms and called 
 upon her name; and she leaped to me and clung to 
 me. The hills rocked about us, the earth quailed; a 
 shock as of a blow went through me and left me blind 
 and dizzy. And the next moment she had thrust me 
 back, broken rudely frpm my arms, and fled with the 
 speed of a deer among the cork-trees. 
 
 I stood and shouted to the mountains; I turned and 
 went back toward the residencia, walking upon air. She 
 sent me away, and yet I had but to call upon her 
 name and she came to me. These were but the weak- 
 nesses of girls, from which even she, the strangest of 
 her sex, was not exempted. Go? Not I, Olalla — oh, 
 not I, Olalla, my Olalla! A bird sang near by; and 
 in that season, birds were rare. It bade me be of 
 good cheer. And once more the whole countenance of 
 nature, from the ponderous and stable mountains down 
 to the lightest leaf and the smallest darting fly in the 
 shadow of the groves, began to stir before me and to 
 
216 U/orKs of F^obert Coais Steuepsop 
 
 put on the lineaments of life and wear a face of aw- 
 ful joy. The sunshine struck upon the hills, strong as 
 a hammer on the anvil, and the hills shook ; the earth, 
 under that vigorous insolation, yielded up heady scents; 
 the woods smoldered in the blaze. I felt the thrill of 
 travail and delight run through the earth. Something 
 elemental, something rude, violent, and savage, in the 
 love that sang in my heart, was like a key to nature’s 
 secrets ; and the very stones that rattled under my 
 feet appeared alive and friendly. Olalla! Her touch 
 had quickened, and renewed, and strung me up to the 
 old pitch of concert with the rugged earth, to a swell- 
 ing of the soul that men learn to forget in their polite 
 assemblies. Love burned in me like rage; tenderness 
 waxed fierce ; I hated, I adored, I pitied, I revered 
 her with ecstasy. She seemed the link that bound me 
 in with dead things on the one hand, and with our 
 pure and pitying God upon the other: a thing brutal 
 
 and divine, and akin at once to the innocence and to 
 
 the unbridled forces of the earth. 
 
 My head thus reeling, I came into the courtyard of 
 the residencia, and the sight of the mother struck me 
 like a revelation. She sat there, all sloth and content- 
 ment, blinking under the strong sunshine, branded with 
 a passive enjoyment, a creature set quite apart, before 
 whom my ardor fell away like a thing ashamed. I 
 stopped a moment, and, commanding such shaken tones 
 as I was able, said a word or two. She looked at me 
 with her unfathomable kindness ; her voice in reply 
 sounded vaguely out of the realm of peace in which 
 she slumbered, and there fell on my mind, for the first 
 time, a sense of respect for one so uniformly innocent 
 
Olalla 
 
 217 
 
 and happy, and I passed on in a kind of wonder at 
 myself, that I should be so much disquieted. 
 
 On my table there lay a piece of the same yellow 
 paper I had seen in the north room; it was written on 
 with pencil in the same hand, Olalla’s hand, and I 
 
 picked it up with a sudden sinking of alarm, and read, 
 ^‘If you have any kindness for Olalla, if you have any 
 chivalry for a creature sorely wrought, go from here 
 to-day; in pity, in honor, for the sake of Him who 
 
 died, I supplicate that you shall go.” I looked at this 
 
 a while in mere stupidity, then I began to awaken to 
 
 a weariness and horror of life; the sunshine darkened 
 outside on the bare hills, and I began to shake like a 
 man in terror. The vacancy thus suddenly opened in 
 my life unmanned me like a physical void. It was not 
 
 my heart, it was not my happiness, it was life itself 
 
 that was involved. I could not lose her. I said so, 
 and stood repeating it. And then, like one in a dream, 
 I moved to the window, put forth my hand to open 
 the casement, and thrust it through the pane. The 
 blood spurted from my Wrist ; and with an instan- 
 taneous quietude and command of myself, I pressed 
 
 my thumb on the little leaping fountain, and reflected 
 what to do. In that empty room there was noth* 
 ing to my purpose; I felt, besides, that I required 
 assistance. There shot into my mind a hope that Olalla 
 herself might be my helper, and I turned and went 
 
 downstairs, still keeping my thumb upon the wound. 
 
 There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, and I 
 addressed myself to the recess, whither the Senora had 
 now drawn quite back and sat dozing close before the 
 
 fire, for no degree of heat appeared too much for her. 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 33 
 
Olalla 
 
 217 
 
 and happy, and I passed on in a kind of wonder at 
 myself, that I should be so much disquieted. 
 
 On my table there lay a piece of the same yellow 
 paper I had seen in the north room; it was written on 
 with pencil in the same hand, Olalla’s hand, and I 
 picked it up with a sudden sinking of alarm, and read, 
 *‘If you have any kindness for Olalla, if you have any 
 chivalry for a creature sorely wrought, go from here 
 to-daj’-; in pity, in honor, for the sake of Him who 
 died, I supplicate that you shall go.” I looked at this 
 a while in mere stupidity, then I began to awaken to 
 a weariness and horror of life; the sunshine darkened 
 outside on the bare hills, and I began to shake like a 
 man in terror. The vacancy thus suddenly opened in 
 my life unmanned me like a physical void. It was not 
 
 my heart, it was not my happiness, it was life itself 
 
 that was involved. I could not lose her. I said so, 
 and stood repeating it. And then, like one in a dream, 
 I moved to the window, put forth my hand to open 
 the casement, and thrust it through the pane. The 
 blood spurted from my wrist; and with an instan- 
 taneous quietude and command of myself, I pressed 
 
 my thumb on the little leaping fountain, and reflected 
 what to do. In that empty room there was noth* 
 ing to my purpose; I felt, besides, that I required 
 assistance. There shot into my mind a hope that Olalla 
 herself might be my helper, and I turned and went 
 
 downstairs, still keeping my thumb upon the wound. 
 
 There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, and I 
 addressed myself to the recess, whither the Senora had 
 now drawn quite back and sat dozing close before the 
 
 fire, for no degree of heat appeared too much for her. 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 33 
 
S18 Worlds of_ I^obert Coui$ Steuepsoi? 
 
 “Pardon me,” said I, “if I disturb you, but I must 
 apply fco you for help.” 
 
 She looked up sleepily and asked me what it was, 
 and with the very words I thought she drew in her 
 breath with a widening of the nostrils and seemed to 
 come suddenly and fully alive. 
 
 ‘‘I have cut myself,” 1 said, ‘‘and rather badly. 
 See!” And I held out my two hands, from which the 
 blood was oozing and dripping. 
 
 Her great eyes opened wide, the pupils shrank into 
 points; a veil seemed to fall from her face, and leave 
 it sharply expressive and yet inscrutable. And as I still 
 stood, marvelling a little at her disturbance, she came 
 swiftly up to me, and stooped and caught me by the 
 hand ; and the next moment my hand was at her 
 mouth, and she had bitten me to the bone. The pang 
 of the bite, the sudden spurting of the blood, and the 
 monstrous horror of the act, flashed through me all in 
 one, and I beat her back; and she sprang at me again 
 and again, with bestial cries, cries that I recognized, 
 such cries as had awakened me on the night of the 
 high wind. Her strength was like that of madness; 
 mine was rapidly ebbing with the loss of blood; my 
 mind besides was whirling with the abhorrent strange- 
 ness of the onslaught, and I was already forced against 
 the wall, when Olalla ran betwixt us, and Felipe, fol- 
 lowing at a bound, pjnned down his mother on the 
 floor. 
 
 A trance-like weakness fell upon me; I saw, heard, 
 and felfc, but I was incapable of movement. I heard 
 the struggle roll to and fro upon the floor, the yells 
 of that catamount ringing up to Heaven as she strove 
 
Olalla 
 
 219 
 
 to reach me. I felt Olalla clasp me in her arms, her 
 hair falling on my face, and, with the strength of a 
 man, raise and half drag, half carry me upstairs into 
 my own room, where she cast me down upon the bed. 
 Then I saw her hasten to the door and lock it, and 
 stand an instant listening to the savage cries that shook 
 the residencia. And then, swift and light as a thought, 
 she was again beside me, binding up my hand, laying 
 it in her bosom, moaning and mourning over it with 
 dove-like sounds. They were not words that came to 
 her, they were sounds more beautiful than speech, in- 
 finitely touching, infinitely tender ; and yet, as I lay 
 there, a thought stung to my heart, a thought wounded 
 me like a sword, a thought, like a worm in a fiower, 
 profaned the holiness of my love. Yes, they were 
 beautiful sounds, and they were inspired by human 
 tenderness; but was their beauty human? 
 
 All day I lay there. For a long time the cries of 
 that nameless female thing, as she struggled with her 
 half-witted whelp, resounded through the house, and 
 pierced me with despairing sorrow and disgust. They 
 were the death-cry of my love; my love was murdered; 
 it was not only dead, but an offense to me; and yet, 
 think as J pleased, feel as I must, it still swelled 
 within me like a storm of sweetness, and my heart 
 melted at her looks and touch. This horror that had 
 sprung out, this doubt upon Olalla, this savage and 
 bestial strain that ran not only through the whole be- 
 havior of her family, but found a place in the very 
 foundations and story of our love— though it appalled, 
 though it shocked and sickened me, was yet not of 
 power to break the knot of my infatuation. 
 
220 \I/orl^5 of Ho^ort Couis Steuepsop 
 
 When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping 
 at the door, by which I knew Felipe was without; and 
 Olalla went and spoke to him— I know not what. With 
 that exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneel- 
 ing by my bed and fervently praying, now sitting with 
 her eyes upon mine. So then, for these six hours I 
 drank in her beauty, and silently perused the story in 
 her face. I saw the golden coin hover on her breaths; 
 I saw her eyes darken and brighten, and still speak 
 no language but that of an unfathomable kindness; I 
 saw the faultless face, and, through the robe, the lines 
 of the faultless body. Night came at last, and in the 
 growing darkness of the chamber, the sight of her 
 slowly melted; but even then the touch of her smooth 
 hand lingered in mine and talked with me. To lie 
 thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the 
 beloved, is to reawake to love from whatever shock of 
 disillusion. I reasoned with myself; and I shut my 
 eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to accept 
 the worst. What mattered it, if that imperious senti- 
 ment survived; if her eyes still beckoned and attached 
 me; if now, even as before, every fiber of my dull 
 body yearned and turned toward her? Late on in the 
 night some strength revived in me, and I spoke: 
 
 ‘‘Olalla,*’ I said, “nothing matters; “I ask nothing; 
 I am content; I love you.” 
 
 She knelt down a while and prayed, and I devoutly 
 respected her devotions. The moon had begun to shine 
 in upon one side of each of the three windows, and 
 make a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw 
 her indistinctly. When she rearose she . made the sign 
 of the cross. 
 
Olalla 
 
 221 
 
 *‘It is for me to speak,” she said, “and for you to 
 listen. I know; you can but guess. I prayed, how I 
 prayed for you to leave this place. I begged it of 
 
 you, and I know you would have granted me even 
 this; or if not, 0 let me think so!” 
 
 “I love you,” I said. 
 
 “And yet you have lived in the world,” she said; 
 after a pause, “you are a man and wise; and I am 
 but a child. Forgive me, if I seem to teach, who am 
 as ignorant as the trees of the mountain ; but those 
 who learn much do but skim the face of knowledge; 
 they seize the laws, they conceive the dignity of the 
 design — the horror of the living fact fades from their 
 memory. It is we who sit at home with evil who re- 
 member, I think, and are warned and pity. Go, rather, 
 go now, and keep me in mind. So I shall have a life 
 in the cherished places of your memory: a life as much 
 my own as that which I lead in this body.” 
 
 “I love you,” I said once more; and reaching out 
 my weak hand, took hers, and carried it to my lips, 
 and kissed it. Nor did she resist, but winced a little; 
 and I could see her look upon me with a frown that 
 was not unkindly, only sad and baffled. And then it 
 seemed she made a call upon her resolution; plucked 
 my hand toward her, herself at the same time leaning 
 somewhat forward, and laid it on the beating of her 
 heart. “There,” she cried, “you feel the very footfall 
 of my life. It only moves for you; it is yours. But 
 is it even mine? It is mine indeed to offer you, as I 
 might take the coin from my neck, as I might break 
 a live branch from a tree, and give it you. And yet 
 not mine! I dwell, or I think I dwell (if I exist at 
 
222 U/orK5 of Coui^ Steuei> 50 i> 
 
 all), somewhere apart, an impotent prisoner, and carried 
 about and deafened by a mob that I disown. This 
 
 capsule, such as throbs against the sides of animals, 
 
 knows you at a touch for its master; ay, it loves you! 
 But my soul, does my soul? I think not; I know not, 
 fearing to ask. Yet when you spoke to me your words 
 were of the soul; it is of the soul that you ask — it is 
 only from the soul that you would take me.” 
 
 ‘‘Olalla,” I said, “the soul and the body are one, 
 
 and mostly so in love. What the body chooses, the 
 
 soul loves; where the body clings, the soul cleaves; 
 body for body, soul to soul, they come together at 
 God’s signal; and the lower part (if we can call aught 
 low) is only the footstool and foundation of the highest.” 
 “Have you,” she said, “seen the portraits in the 
 house of my fathers? Have you looked at my mother 
 or at Felipe? Have your eyes never rested on that 
 picture that hangs by your bed? She who sat for it 
 died ages ago; and she did evil in her life. But, look 
 again: there is my hand to the least line, there are my 
 eyes and my hair. What is mine, then, and what am 
 I? If not a curve in this poor body of mine (which 
 you love, and for the sake of which you dotingly dream 
 that you love me), not a gesture that I can frame, 
 not a tone of my voice, not any look from my eyes, 
 no, not even now when I speak to him I love, but 
 has belonged to others? Others, ages dead, have wooed 
 other men with my eyes; other men have heard the 
 pleading of the same voice that now sounds in your 
 ears. The hands of the dead are in my bosom; they 
 move me, they pluck me, they guide me; I am a pup- 
 pet at their command; and I but reinform features and 
 
Olalla 
 
 223 
 
 attributes that have long been laid aside from evil in 
 the quiet of the grave. Is it me you love, friend? or 
 
 the race that made me? The girl who does not know 
 
 and cannot answer for the least portion of herself? or 
 the stream of which she is a transitory eddy, the tree 
 of which she is the passing fruit? The race exists; it 
 
 is old, it is ever young, it carries its eternal destiny in 
 
 its bosom; upon it, like waves upon the sea, individual 
 succeeds to individual, mocked with a semblance of 
 self-control, but they are nothing. We speak of the 
 soul, but the soul is in the race.” 
 
 “You fret against the common law,” I said. “You 
 rebel against the voice of God, which He has made so 
 winning to convince, so imperious to command. Hear 
 it, and how it speaks between us! Your hand clings 
 to mine, your heart leaps at my touch, the unknown 
 elements of which we are compounded awake and run 
 together at a look; the clay of the earth remembers its 
 independent life and yearns to join us; we are drawn 
 together as the stars are turned about in space, or as 
 the tides ebb and flow, by things older and greater 
 than we ourselves.” 
 
 “Alas!” she said, “what can I say to you? My 
 fathers, eight hundred years ago, ruled all this province: 
 they were wise, great, cunning, and cruel ; they were 
 a picked race of the Spanish; their flags led in war; 
 the king called them his cousin; the people, when the 
 rope was slung for them or when they returned and 
 found their hovels smoking, blasphemed their name. 
 Presently a change began. Man has risen; if he has 
 sprung from the brutes, he can descend again to the 
 same level. The breath of weariness blew on their hu- 
 
224 U^orl^j of F^oberC Couij SteueQ 50 i> 
 
 manity and the cords relaxed; they began to go down; 
 their minds fell on sleep, their passions awoke in gusts, 
 heady and senseless like the wind in the gutters of the 
 mountains; beauty was still handed down, but no longer 
 the guiding wit nor the human heart; the seed passed 
 on, it was wrapped in flesh, the flesh covered the bones, 
 but they were the bones and the flesh of brutes, and 
 their mind was as the mind of flies. I speak to you 
 as I dare; but you have seen for yourself how the 
 wheel has gone backward with my doomed race. I 
 stand, as it were, upon a little rising ground in this 
 desperate descent, and see both before and behind, both 
 what we have lost and to what we are condemned to 
 go further downward. And shall I — I that dwell apart 
 in the house of the dead, my body, loathing its ways 
 — shall I repeat the spell? Shall I bind another spirit, 
 reluctant as my own, into this bewitched and tempest- 
 broken tenement that I now suffer in? Shall I hand 
 down this cursed vessel of humanity, charge it with 
 fresh life as with fresh poison, and dash it, like a 
 fire, in the faces of posterity? But my vow has been 
 given; the race shall cease from off the earth. At this 
 hour my brother is making ready; his foot will soon be 
 on the stair; and you will go with him and pass out 
 of my sight forever. Think of me sometimes as one to 
 whom the lesson of life was very harshly told, but 
 who heard it with courage; as one who loved you in- 
 deed, but who hated herself so deeply that her love 
 was hateful to her; as one who sent you away and 
 yet would have longed to keep you forever; who had 
 no dearer hope than to forget you, and no greater fear 
 than to be forgotten.” 
 
Olalia 
 
 225 
 
 She had drawn toward the door as she spoke, her 
 rich voice sounding softer and further away; and with 
 the last word she was gone, and I lay alone in the 
 moonlit chamber. What I might have done had not I 
 lain bound by my extreme weakness, I know not; but 
 as it was there fell upon me a great and blank despair. 
 It was not long before there shone in at the door the 
 ruddy glimmer of a lantern, and Felipe coming, charged 
 me without a word upon his shoulders, and carried me 
 down to the great gate, where the cart was waiting. 
 In the moonlight the hills stood out sharply, as if they 
 were of cardboard; on the glimmering surface of the 
 plateau, and from among the low trees which swung 
 together and sparkled in the wind, the great black cube 
 of the residencia stood out bulkily, its mass only broken 
 by three dimly lighted windows in the northern front 
 above the gate. They were Olalla’s windows, and as 
 the cart jolted onward I kept my eyes fixed upon them 
 till, where the road dipped into a valley, they were 
 lost to my view forever. Felipe walked in silence be- 
 side the shafts, but from time to time he would check 
 the mule and seem to look back upon me ; and at 
 length drew quite near and laid his hand upon my 
 head. There was such kindness in the touch, and such 
 a simplicity, as of the brutes, that tears broke from 
 me like the bursting of an artery. 
 
 “Felipe,’’ I said, “take me where they will ask no 
 questions.” 
 
 He said never a word, but he turned his mule 
 about, end for end, retraced some part of the way we 
 had gone, and, striking into another path, led me to 
 the mountain village, which was, as we say in Scot- 
 
226 U/orl^s of {Robert Couis Steuepsoi^ 
 
 land, the kirkton of that thinly peopled district. Some 
 broken memories dwell in my mind of the day break- 
 ing over the plain, of the cart stopping, of arms that 
 helped me down, of a bare room into which I was 
 carried, and of a swoon that fell upon me like sleep. 
 
 The next day and the days following the old priest 
 was often at my side with his snuff-box and prayer- 
 book, and after a while, when I began to pick up 
 strength, he told me that I was now on a fair way 
 to recovery, and must as soon as possible hurry my 
 departure; whereupon, without naming any reason, he 
 took snuflf and looked at me sidewise. I did not affect 
 ignorance; I knew he must have seen Olalla. “Sir,” 
 said I, “you know that I do not ask in wantonness. 
 What of that family?” 
 
 He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed 
 a declining race, and that they were very poor and had 
 been much neglected. 
 
 “But she has not,” I said. “Thanks, doubtless, to 
 yourself, she is instructed and wise beyond the use of 
 women.” 
 
 “Yes,” he said; “the Senorita is well-informed. But 
 %e family has been neglected.” 
 
 “The mother?” I queried. 
 
 “Yes, the mother too,” said the Padre, taking snuff, 
 “But Felipe is a well-intentioned lad.” 
 
 “The mother is odd?” I asked. 
 
 “Very odd,” replied the priest. 
 
 “I think, sir, we beat about the bush,” said I. 
 “You must know more of my affairs than you allow. 
 You must know my curiosity to be justified on many 
 grounds. Will you not be frank with me?” 
 
Olalla 
 
 227 
 
 ‘‘My son,” said the old gentleman^ “I will be very 
 frank with you on matters within my competence; on 
 those of which I know nothing it does not require 
 much discretion to be silent. I will not fence with 
 you, I take your meaning perfectly; and what can I 
 say, but that we are all in God’s hands, and that His 
 ways are not as our ways? I have even advised with 
 my superiors in the Church, but they, too, were dumb. 
 It is a great mystery.” 
 
 “Is she mad?” I asked. 
 
 “I will answer you according to my belief. She is 
 not,” returned the Padre, “or she was not. When she 
 was young— God help me, I fear I neglected that wild 
 lamb— she was surely sane; and yet, although it did 
 not run to such heights, the same strain was already 
 notable; it had been so before her in her father, ay, 
 and before him, and this inclined me, perhaps, to think 
 too lightly of it. But these things go on growing, not 
 only in the individual but in the race.” 
 
 “When she was young,” I began, and my voice 
 failed me for a moment, and it was only with a great 
 effort that I was able to add, “was she like Olalla?” 
 “Now God forbid!” exclaimed the Padre. “God for- 
 bid that any man should think so slightingly of my 
 favorite penitent. No, no; the Senorita (but for her 
 beauty, which I wish most honestly she had less of) 
 has not a hair’s resemblance to what her mother was 
 at the same age. I could not bear to have you think 
 so; though, Heaven knows, it were, perhaps, better that 
 you should.” 
 
 At this, I raised myself in bed, and opened my 
 heart to the old man; telling him of our love and of 
 
228 U/orl^s of f^obert Couis Steuei^soij 
 
 her decision, owning my own horrors, my own passing 
 fancies, but telling him that these were at an end; 
 and with something more than a purely formal sub- 
 mission, appealing to his judgment. 
 
 He heard me very patiently and without surprise; 
 and when I had done, he sat for some time silent. 
 Then he began: “The Church,” and instantly broke off 
 again to apologize. “I had forgotten, my child, that 
 you were not a Christian,” said he. “And indeed, 
 upon a point so highly unusual, even the Church can 
 scarce be said to have decided. But would you have 
 my opinion? The Senorita is, in a matter of this kind, 
 the best judge; I would accept her judgment.” 
 
 On the back of that he went away, nor was he 
 thenceforward so assiduous in his visits ; indeed, even 
 when I began to get about again, he plainly feared 
 and deprecated my society, not as in distaste but much 
 as a man might be disposed to flee from the riddling 
 sphynx. The villagers, too, avoided me; they were un. 
 willing to be my guides upon the mountain. I thought 
 they looked at me askance, and I made sure that the 
 more superstitious crossed themselves on my approach. 
 At first I set this down to my heretical opinions; but 
 it began at length to dawn upon me that if I was 
 thus redoubted it was because I had stayed at the resi- 
 dencia. All men despise the savage notions of such peas- 
 antry; and yet I was conscious of a chill shadow that 
 seemed to fall and dwell upon my love. It did not con- 
 quer, but I may not deny that it restrained my ardor. 
 
 Some miles westward of the village there was a gap 
 in the sierra, from which the eye plunged direct upon 
 the residencia; and thither it became my daily habit to 
 
Olalla 
 
 229 
 
 repair. A wood crowned the summit; and just where 
 the pathway issued from its fringes, it was overhung 
 by a considerable shelf of rock, and that, in its turn, 
 was surmounted, by a crucifix of the size of life and 
 more than usually painful in design. This was my 
 perch; thence, day after day, I looked down upon the 
 plateau, and the great old house, and could see Felipe, 
 no bigger than a fly, going to and fro about the gar- 
 den. Sometimes mists would draw across the view, and 
 be broken up again by mountain winds; sometimes the 
 plain slumbered below me in unbroken sunshine; it 
 would sometimes be all blotted out by rain. This dis- 
 tant post, these interrupted sights of the place where 
 my life had been so strangely changed, suited the in- 
 decision of my humor. I passed whole days there, de- 
 bating with myself the various elements of our position; 
 now leaning to the suggestions of love, now giving an 
 ear to prudence, and in the end halting irresolute be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came 
 by that way a somewhat gaunt peasant wrapped in a 
 mantle. He was a stranger, and plainly did not know 
 me even hy repute; for, instead of keeping the other 
 side, he drew near and sat down beside me, and we 
 had soon fallen in talk. Among other things he told 
 me he had been a muleteer, and in former years had 
 much frequented these mountains; later on, he had fol- 
 lowed the army with his mules, had realized a com- 
 petence, and was now living retired Avith his f amil y 
 
 “Do you know that house?” I inquired, at last, 
 pointing to the .residencia, for I readily wearied of any 
 talk that kept me from the thought of Olalla. 
 
230 U/orl^5 of I^obert Coai^ Steuep^or^ 
 
 He looked at me darkly and crossed himself. 
 
 “Too well,” he said, “it was there that one of my 
 comrades sold himself to Satan; the Virgin shield us 
 from temptations! He has paid the price; he is now 
 burning in the reddest place in hell!” 
 
 A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; 
 
 and presently the man resumed, as if to himself: 
 “Yes,” he said, “oh, yes, I know it. I have passed 
 its doors. There was snow upon the pass, the wind 
 was driving it; sure enough there was death that 
 
 night upon the mountains, but there was worse beside 
 the hearth. I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged 
 him to the gate; I conjured him, by all he loved and 
 respected, to go forth with me; I went on my knees 
 before him in the snow; and I could see he was moved 
 
 by my entreaty. And just then she came out on the 
 
 gallery, and called him by his name; and he turned, 
 and there was she standing with a lamp in her hand 
 and smiling on him to come back. I cried out aloud 
 to God, and threw my arms about him, but he put 
 me by, and left me alone. He had made his choice; 
 God help us. I would pray for him, but to what end? 
 there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.” 
 
 “And your friend,” I asked, “what became of him?” 
 
 “Nay, God knows,” said the muleteer. “If all be 
 true that we hear, his end was like his sin, a thing 
 to raise the hair.” 
 
 “Do you mean that he was killed?” I asked. 
 
 “Sure enough, he was killed,” returned the man. 
 “But how? Ay, how? But these are things that it is 
 sin to speak of.” 
 
 “The people of that house ...” I began. 
 
Olalla 
 
 231 
 
 But he interrupted me with a savage outburst. ‘‘The 
 people?’’ he cried. “What people? There are neither 
 men nor women in that house of Satan’s! What? have 
 you lived here so long, and never heard?” And here 
 he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even 
 the fowls of the mountain might have overheard and 
 been stricken with horror. 
 
 What he told me was not true, nor was it even 
 original; being, indeed, but a new edition, vamped up 
 again by village ignorance and superstition, of stories 
 nearly as ancient as the race of man. It was rather 
 the application that appalled me. In the old days, he 
 said, the Church would have burned out that nest of 
 basilisks; but the arm of the Church was now short- 
 ened; his friend Miguel had been unpunished by the 
 hands of men, and left to the more awful judgment of 
 an offended God. This was wrong; but it should be 
 so no more. The Padre was sunk in age; he was even 
 bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now 
 awake to their own danger; and some day — ay, and 
 before long — the smoke of that house should go up to 
 heaven. 
 
 He left me filled with horror and fear. Which way 
 to turn I knew not; whether first to warn the Padre, 
 or to carry my ill-news direct to the threatened in- 
 habitants of the residencia. Pate was to decide for me; 
 for, while I was still hesitating, I beheld the veiled 
 figure of a woman drawing near to me up the path- 
 way. No veil could deceive my penetration; by every 
 line and every movement I recognized Olalla; and keep- 
 ing hidden behind a corner of the rock, I suffered her 
 to gain the summit. Then I came forward. She knew 
 
 I 
 
232 U/orl^s of F^obert Coais Steuei^sop 
 
 me and paused, but did not speak; I, too, remained 
 silent; and we continued for some time to gaze upon 
 each other with a passionate sadness. 
 
 “I thought you had gone,” she said at length. “It 
 is all that you can do for me — to go. It is all I ever 
 asked of you. And you still stay. But do you know, 
 that every day heaps up the peril of death, not only on 
 your head, but on ours? A report has gone about the 
 mountain; it is thought you love me, and the people 
 will not suffer it.” 
 
 I saw she was already informed of her danger, and 
 I rejoiced at it. “Olalla,” I said, “I am ready to go 
 this day, this very hour, but not alone.” 
 
 She stepped aside and knelt down before the crucifix 
 to pray, and I stood by and looked now at her and 
 now at the object of her adoration, now at the living 
 figure of the penitent, and now at the ghastly, daubed 
 countenance, the painted wounds, and the projected ribs 
 of the image. The silence was only broken by the 
 wailing of some large birds that circled sidelong, as if 
 in surprise or alarm, about the summit of the hills. 
 Presently Olalla rose again, turned toward me, raised 
 her veil, and, still leaning with one hand on the shaft 
 of the crucifix, looked upon me with a pale and sor- 
 rowful countenance. 
 
 “I have laid my hand upon the cross,” she said. 
 “The Padre says you are no Christian; but look up 
 for a moment with my eyes, and behold the face of 
 the Man of Sorrows. We are all such as He was — the 
 inheritors of sin; we must all bear and expiate a past 
 which was not ours; there is in all of us — ay, even 
 in me— a sparkle of the divine. Like Him, we must 
 
Olalla 
 
 233 
 
 endure for a little while, until morning returns bring- 
 ing peace. Suffer me to pass on upon my way alone; 
 it is thus that I shall be least lonely, counting for my 
 friend Him who is the friend of all the distressed; it 
 IS thus that I shall be the most happy, having taken 
 my farewell of earthly happiness, and willingly accepted 
 soiTOW for my portion.” 
 
 I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I 
 was no friend to images, and despised that imitative 
 and grimacing art of which it was a rude example, 
 some sense of what the thing implied was carried home 
 to my intelligence. The face looked down upon me 
 with a painful and deadly contraction; but the rays of 
 a glory encircled it, and reminded me that the sacrifice 
 was voluntary. It stood there, crowning the rock, as 
 it still stands on so many highway sides, vainly preach- 
 ing to passers-by, an emblem of sad and noble truths; 
 that pleasure is not an end, but an accident; that pain 
 is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to 
 suffer all things and do well. I turned and went down 
 the mountain in silence; and when I looked back for 
 the last time before the wood closed about my path, I 
 saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix. 
 
 Stbvenso.v. Vor.. I, 
 
 34 
 
234 
 
 I 
 
 U/orK$ of F^obert Coaig SteveijgOJj 
 
 THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK 
 
 They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before 
 six. About eight some villagers came round for the 
 performance, and were told how matters stood. It 
 seemed a liberty for a mountebank to fall ill like real 
 people, and they made oflP again in dudgeon. By ten 
 Madame Tentaillon was gravely alarmed, and had sent 
 down the street for Dr. Desprez. 
 
 The Doctor was at work over his manuscripts in one 
 corner of the little dining-room, and his wife was asleep 
 over the fire in another, when the messenger arrived. 
 
 “Sapristil’^ said the Doctor, “you should have sent ^ 
 for me before. It was a case for hurry.** And he fol- 
 lowed the messenger as he was, in his slippers and 
 skull-cap. 
 
 The inn was not thirty yards away, but the mes. 
 
 senger did not stop there; he went in at one door and 
 
 out by another into the court, and then led the way 
 
 by a flight of steps beside the stable, to the loft where 
 
 the mountebank lay sick. If Dr. Desprez were to live 
 
 a thousand years, he would never forget his arrival in 
 \ 
 
Jreasar^ of prapel^ard 235 
 
 that room ; for not only was the scene picturesque, 
 but the moment made a date in his existence. We 
 reckon our lives, I hardly know why, from the date of 
 oui first Sony appearance in society, as if from a first 
 humiliation; for no actor can come upon the stage with 
 a worse grace. Not to go further back, which would 
 be judged too curious, there are subsequently many 
 moving and decisive accidents in the lives of all, which 
 would make as logical a period as this of birth. And 
 here, for instance. Dr. Desprez, a man past forty, who 
 had made what is called a failure in life, and was 
 moreover married, found himself at a new point of de- 
 parture when he opened the door of the loft above 
 Tentaillon’s stable. 
 
 It was a large place, lighted only by a single candle 
 set upon the fioor. The mountebank lay on his back 
 upon a pallet; a large man, with a Quixotic nose in- 
 flamed with drinking. Madame Tentaillon stooped over 
 him, applying a hot water and mustard embrocation to 
 his feet; and on a chair close by sat a little fellow of 
 eleven or twelve, with his feet dangling. These three 
 were the only occupants, except the shadows. But the 
 shadows were a company in themselves; the extent of 
 the room exaggerated them to a gigantic size, and from 
 the low position of the candle the light struck upward 
 and produced deformed foreshortenings. The mounte- 
 bank’s profile was enlarged upon the wall in caricature, 
 and it was strange to see his nose shorten and lengthen 
 as the flame was blown about by draughts. As for 
 Madame Tentaillon, her shadow was no more than a 
 gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemi- 
 sphere of head. The chair legs were spindled out as 
 
236 U/orl^5 of P^obert Coui5 Steuepsoi) 
 
 long as stilts, and the boy sat perched atop of them, 
 like a cloud, in the corner of the roof. 
 
 It was the boy who took the Doctor’s fancy. Hi 
 had a great arched skull, the forehead and the hands 
 of a musician, and a pair of haunting eyes. It was 
 not merely that these eyes were large, or steady, or 
 the softest ruddy brown. There was a look in them, 
 besides, which thrilled the Doctor, and made him half 
 uneasy. He was sure he had seen such a look be- 
 fore, and yet he could not remember how or where. 
 It was as if this boy, who was quit© a stranger 
 to him had the eyes of an old friend or an old 
 enemy. And the boy would give him no peace; he 
 seemed profoundly indifferent to what was going on, or 
 rather abstracted from it in a superior contemplation, 
 beating gently with his feet against the bars of the 
 chair, and holding his hands folded on his lap. But, 
 for all that, his eyes kept following the Doctor about 
 the room with a thoughtful fixity of gaze. Desprez 
 could not tell whether he was fascinating the boy, or 
 the boy was fascinating him. He busied himself over 
 the sick man: he put questions, he felt the pulse, he 
 jested, he grew a little hot and swore: and still, when 
 ever he looked round, there were the brown eyes wait- 
 ing for his with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze. 
 
 At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a leap. 
 He remembered the look now. The little fellow, al 
 though he was as straight as a dart, had the eyes 
 that go usually with a crooked back; he was not at 
 all deformed, and yet a deformed person seemed to be 
 looking at you from below his brows. The Doctor 
 drew a long breath, he was so much relieved to find a 
 
Jl^e Jr^a5ur^ of prapel^ard 
 
 theory (for he loved theories) and to explain away his 
 interest. 
 
 For all that, he dispatched the invalid with unusual 
 haste, and, still kneeling with one knee on the floor, 
 turned a little round and looked the boy over at his 
 leisure. The boy was not in the least put out, but 
 looked placidly back at the Doctor. 
 
 “Is this youi father?’’ asked Desprez. 
 
 “Oh, no,” returned the boy; “my master.” 
 
 “Are you fond of him?” continued the Doctor. 
 
 “No, sir,” said the boy. 
 
 Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive 
 glances. 
 
 “That is bad, my man,” resumed the latter, with 
 a shade of sternness. “Every one should be fond of 
 the dying, or conceal their sentiments; and your master 
 here is dying. If I have watched a bird a little while 
 stealing my cherries, I have a thought of disappointment 
 when he flies away over my garden wall, and I see 
 him steer for the forest and vanish. How much more 
 a creature such as this, so strong, so astute, so richly 
 endowed with faculties! When I think that, in a few 
 hours, the speech will be silenced, the breath extinct, 
 and even the shadow vanished from the wall, I who 
 never saw him, this lady who knew him only as a 
 guest, are touched with some affection.” 
 
 The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be 
 reflecting. 
 
 - “You did not know him,” he replied at last. “He 
 was a bad man.” 
 
 “He is a little pagan,” said the landlady. “For 
 that matter, they are all the same, these mountebanks, 
 
23S U/orKs of F^obert C0U15 Steueij^oi) 
 
 tumblers, artists, and what not. They have no in* 
 terior.” 
 
 But the Doctor was still scrutinizing the little pagan, 
 his eyebrows knotted and uplifted. 
 
 ‘‘What is your name?” he asked, 
 
 “Jean-Marie,” said the lad. 
 
 Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden 
 flashes of excitement, and felt his hea^ all over from 
 an ethnological point of view. 
 
 “Celtic, Celtic!” he said. 
 
 “Celtic!” cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps 
 confounded the word with hydrocephalous. “Poor lad! 
 is it dangerous?” 
 
 “That depends,” returned the Doctor grimly. And 
 then once more addressing the boy: “And what do you 
 do for your living, Jean-Marie?” he inquired. 
 
 “I tumble,” was the answer. 
 
 “So! Tumble?” repeated Desprez. “Probably health- 
 ful. I hazard the guess, Madame Tentaillon, that tum- 
 bling is a healthful way of life. And have you never 
 done anything else but tumble?” 
 
 “Before I learned that, I used to steal,” answered 
 Jean-Marie gravely. 
 
 “Upon my word!” cried the Doctor. “You are a nice 
 little man for your age. Madame, when my confrere 
 comes from Bourron, you will communicate my unfav- 
 orable opinion. I leave the case in his hands; but of 
 course, on any alarming symptom, above all if there 
 should be a sign of rally, do not hesitate to knock me 
 up. I am a doctor no longer, I thank God; but I have 
 been one. Good night, madame. Good sleep to you, 
 Jean-Marie.” 
 

 239 
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 MORNING TALK 
 
 Dr. Desprez always rose early. Before the smoke 
 arose, before the first cart rattled over the bridge to the 
 day’s labor in the fields, he was to be found wander- 
 ing in his garden. Now he would pick a bunch of 
 grapes; now he would eat a big pear under the trel- 
 lis; now he would draw all sorts of fancies on the 
 path with the end of his cane; now he would go down 
 and watch the river running endlessly past the timber 
 landing-place at which he moored his boat. There was 
 no time, he used to say, for making theories like the 
 early morning. rise earlier than any one else in the 
 village,” he once boasted. ‘Ht is a fair consequence that 
 I know more and wish to do less with my knowledge.” 
 
 The Doctor was a connoisseur of sunrises, and loved a 
 good theatrical effect to usher in the day. He had a 
 theory of dew, by which he could predict the weather. 
 Indeed, most things served him to that end: the sound 
 of the bells from all the neighboring villages, the smell 
 of the forest, the visits and the behavior of both birds 
 and fishes, the look of the plants in his garden, the dis- 
 position of cloud, the color of the light, and last, although 
 not least, the arsenal of meteorological instruments in 
 a louvre-boarded hutch upon the lawn. Ever since he 
 had settled at Qretz he had been growing more and 
 more into the local meteorologist, the unpaid champion 
 
240 U/orKs of F^obert Coais Stevepsoi? 
 
 of the local climate. He thought at first there was no 
 place so healthful in the arrondissement. By the end 
 of the second year, he protested there was none so 
 wholesome in the whole department. And for some 
 time before he met Jean-Marie he had been prepared to 
 challenge all France and the better part of Europe for 
 a rival to his chosen spot. 
 
 ‘^Doctor,” he would say — ‘‘doctor is a foul word. It 
 should not be used to ladies. It implies disease. I re- 
 mark it, as a fiaw in our civilization, that we have not 
 the proper horror of disease. Now I, for my part, have 
 washed my hands of it; I have renounced my laurea- 
 tion; I am no doctor; I am only a worshiper of the 
 true goddess Hygieia. Ah, believe me, it is she who 
 has the cestus! And here, in this exiguous hamlet, has 
 she placed her shrine: here she dwells and lavishes her 
 gifts; here I walk with her in the early morning, and 
 she shows me how strong she has made the peasants, 
 how fruitful she has made the fields, how the trees 
 grow up tall and comely under her eyes, and the fishes 
 in the river become clean and agile at her presence. ^ — 
 Rheumatism!” he would cry, on some malapert inter- 
 ruption, “oh, yes, I believe we do have a little rheu- 
 matism. That could hardly be avoided, you know, on 
 a river. And of course the place stands a little low; 
 and the meadows are marshy, there’s no doubt. But, 
 my dear sir, look at Bourron! Bourron stands high* 
 Bourron is close to the forest; plenty of ozone there, 
 you would say. Well, compared with Gretz, Bourron is 
 a perfect shambles.” 
 
 The morning after he had been summoned to the 
 dying mountebank, the Doctor visited the wharf at the 
 
Jrea 5 ur<^ of Yrai)Ql[^ard 241 
 
 tail of his garden, and had a long look at the running 
 water. This he called prayer; but whether his adora- 
 tions were addressed to the goddess Hygieia or some 
 more orthodox deity, never plainly appeared. For he 
 had uttered doubtful oracles, sometimes declaring that 
 a river was the type of bodily health, sometimes extoll- 
 ing it as the great moral preacher, continually preach- 
 ing peace, continuity, and diligence to man’s tormented 
 spirits. After he had watched a mile or so of the 
 clear water running by before his eyes, seen a fish or 
 two come to the surface with a gleam of silver, and 
 sufficiently admired the long shadows of the trees fall- 
 ing half across the river from the opposite bank, with 
 patches of moving sunlight in between, he strolled once 
 more up the garden and through his house into the 
 street, feeling cool and renovated. 
 
 The sound of his feet upon the causeway began the 
 business of the day; for the village was still sound 
 asleep. The church tower looked very airy in the sun- 
 light; a few birds that turned about it, seemed to swim 
 in an atmosphere of more than usual rarity; and the 
 Doctor, walking in long transparent shadows, filled his 
 lungs amply, and proclaimed himself well contented 
 with the morning. 
 
 On one of the posts before Tentaillon’s carriage en- 
 try he espied a little dark figure perched in a medita- 
 tive attitude, and immediately recognized Jean-Marie. 
 
 ‘‘Aha!” he said, stopping before him humorously, 
 with a hand on either knee. “So we rise early in the 
 morning, do we? It appears to me that we have all 
 the vices of a philosopher.” 
 
 The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation. 
 
242 
 
 U/or^s of f^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 ‘‘And how is our patient?” asked Desprez. 
 
 It appeared the patient was about the same, 
 
 “And why do you rise early in the morning?” he 
 pursued. 
 
 Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that he 
 hardly knew. 
 
 “You hardly know?” repeated Desprez. “We hardly 
 know anything, my man, until we try to learn. Inter- 
 rogate your consciousness. Come, push me this inquiry 
 home. Do you like it?” 
 
 “Yes,” said the boy slowly; “yes, I like it.” 
 
 “And why do you like it?” continued the Doctor. 
 “(We are now pursuing the Socratic method.) Why do 
 you like it?” 
 
 “It is quiet,” answered Jean-Marie; “and I have 
 nothing to do; and then I feel as if I were good.” 
 Dr. Desprez took a seat on the post at the opposite 
 side. He was beginning to take an interest in the talk, 
 for the boy plainly thought before he spoke, and tried 
 to answer truly. “It appears you have a taste for feel- 
 ing good,” said the Doctor. “Now, there you puzzle 
 me extremely ; for I thought you said you were a 
 thief; and the two are incompatible.” 
 
 “Is it very bad to steal?” asked Jean-Marie. 
 
 “Such is the general opinion, little boy,” replied the 
 Doctor. 
 
 “No; but I mean as I stole,” explained the other. 
 “For I had no choice. I think it is surely right to 
 have bread; it must be right to have bread, there 
 comes so plain a want of it. And then they beat me 
 cruelly if I returned with nothing,” he added. “I was 
 not ignorant of right and wrong; for before that I had 
 
prapeljard 
 
 243 
 
 been well taught by a priest, who was very kind to 
 me.” (The Doctor made a horrible grimace at the 
 word “priest.”) “But it seemed to me, when one had 
 nothing to eat and was beaten, it was a different affair. 
 I would not have stolen for tartlets, I believe; but any 
 one would steal for baker’s bread.” 
 
 “And so I suppose,” said the Doctor, with a rising 
 sneer, “you prayed God to forgive you, and explained 
 the case to Him at length.” 
 
 “Why, sir?” asked Jean-Marie. “I do not see.” 
 “Your priest would see, however,” retorted Desprez. 
 “Would he?” asked the boy, troubled for the first 
 time. “I should have thought God would have known.” 
 “Eh?” snarled the Doctor. 
 
 “I should have thought God would have understood 
 me,” replied the other. “You do not, I see; but then 
 it was God that made me think so, was it not?” 
 
 “Little boy, httle boy,” said Dr. Desprez, “I told 
 you already you had the vices of philosophy; if you 
 display the virtues also, I must go. I am a student 
 of the blessed laws of health, an observer of plain and 
 temperate nature in her common walks; and I cannot 
 preserve my equanimity in presence of a monster. Do 
 you understand?” 
 
 “No, sir,” said the boy. 
 
 “I will make my meaning clear to you,” replied tht 
 Doctor. “Look there at the sky — behind the belfry first, 
 where it is so light, and then up and up, turning your 
 back, right to the top of the dome, where it is 
 already as blue as at noon. Is not that a beautiful 
 color? Does it not please the heart? We have seen it 
 all our lives, until it has grown in with our familiar 
 
244 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steuepscp 
 
 thoughts. Now/’ changing his tone, ‘‘suppose that sky 
 to become suddenly of a live and fiery amber, like the 
 color of clear coals, and growing scarlet toward the top 
 — I do not say it would be any the less beautiful; but 
 would you like it as well?” 
 
 “I suppose not,” answered Jean-Marie. 
 
 “Neither do I like you,” returned the Doctor, 
 roughly. “I hate all odd people, and you are the 
 most curious little boy in all the world.” 
 
 Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and then 
 he raised his head again and looked over at the Doc- 
 tor with an air of candid inquiry. “But are not you 
 a very curious gentleman?” he asked. 
 
 The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the 
 boy, clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him on both 
 cheeks. “Admirable, admirable imp!” he cried. “What 
 a morning, what an hour for a theorist of forty-two! 
 No,” he continued, apostrophizing heaven, “I did not 
 know such boys existed; I was ignorant they made 
 them so; I had doubted of my race; and now! It is 
 like,” he added, picking up his stick, “like a lovers’ 
 meeting. I have bruised my favorite staff in that mo- 
 ment of enthusiasm. The injury, however, is not 
 grave.” He caught the boy looking at him in obvious 
 wonder, embarrassment, and alarm. “Hullo!” said he, 
 “why do you look at me like that? Egad, I believe 
 the boy despises me. Do you despise me, boy?” 
 
 “Oh, no,” replied Jean-Marie, seriously; “only I do 
 not understand.” 
 
 “You must excuse me, sir,” returned the Doctor, 
 with gravity; “I am still so young. Oh, hang him!” he 
 added to himself. And he took his seat again and ob- 
 
Tl?^ T^^35ur^ of frzT)Qi)ard 245 
 
 .served the boy sardonically. “He has spoiled the quiet 
 »o£ my morning,” thought he. “I shall be nervous all 
 day, and have a febricule when I digest. Let me com- 
 pose myself.” And so he dismissed his preoccupations 
 by an effort of the will which he had long practiced, 
 and let his soul roam abroad in the contemplation of 
 the morning. He inhaled the air, tasting it critically 
 as a connoisseur tastes a vintage, and prolonging the 
 expiration with hygienic gusto. He counted the little 
 flecks of cloud along the sky. He followed the move- 
 ments of the birds round the church tower — m akin g 
 long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning airy somersaults 
 in fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions. 
 And in this way he regained peace of mind and ani- 
 mal composure, conscious of his limbs, conscious of the 
 sight of his eyes, conscious that the air had a cool 
 taste, like a fruit, at the top of his throat; and at 
 last, in complete abstraction, he began to sing. The 
 Doctor had but one air — “Malbrouck s’en va-t-en 
 guerre”; even with that he was on terms of mere 
 politeness; and his musical exploits were always re- 
 served for moments when he was alone and entirely 
 happy. 
 
 He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained expres- 
 sion on the boy’s face. “What do you think of my 
 singing?” he inquired, stopping in the middle of a 
 note; and then, after he had waited some little while 
 and received no answer, “What do you think of my 
 singing?” he repeated, imperiously. 
 
 “I do not like it,” faltered Jean-Marie. 
 
 “Oh, come!” cried the Doctor. “Possibly you are 
 a performer yourself?” 
 
246 ll/or^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 “I sing better than that,” replied the boy. 
 
 The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefac- 
 tion. He was aware that he was angry, and blushed 
 for himself in consequence, which made him angrier. 
 ‘Hf this is how you address your master!” he said at 
 last, with a shrug and a flourish of his arms. 
 
 do not speak to him at all,” returned the boy. 
 “I do not like him.” 
 
 “Then you like me?” snapped Dr. Desprez, with 
 unusual eagerness. 
 
 “I do not know,” answered Jean-Marie. 
 
 The Doctor rose. “I shall wish you a good-morn- 
 ing,” he said. “You are too much for me. Perhaps 
 you have blood in your veins, perhaps celestial ichor, 
 or perhaps you circulate nothing more gross than re- 
 spirable air ; but of one thing I am inexpugnably as- 
 sured: — that you are no human being. No, boy” — shak- 
 ing his stick at him — “you are not a human being. 
 Write, write it in your memory— ‘I am not a human 
 being — I have no pretension to be a human being — I 
 am a dive, a dream, an angel, an acrostic, an illu- 
 sion — what you please, but not a human being.’ And 
 so accept my humble salutations and farewell!” 
 
 And with that the Doctor made off along the street 
 in some emotion, and the boy stood, mentally gaping, 
 where he left him. 
 
of f^raT}Qi)ard 
 
 t 
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE ADOPTION 
 
 Madame Desprez, who answered to the Christian 
 name of Anastasie, presented an agreeable type of her 
 sex; exceedingly wholesome to look upon, a stout hrune^ 
 with cool smooth cheeks, steady, dark eyes, and hands 
 that neither art nor nature could improve. She was 
 the sort of person over whom adversity passes like a 
 summer cloud; she might, in the worst of conjunctions, 
 knit her brows into one vertical furrow for a moment, 
 but the next it would be gone. She had much of the 
 placidity of a contented nun; with little of her piety, 
 however; for Anastasie was of a very mundane nature, 
 fond of oysters and old wine, and somewhat bold pleas- 
 antries, and devoted to her husband for her own sake 
 rather than for his. She was imperturbably good-nat- 
 ured, but had no idea of self-sacrifice. To live in that 
 pleasant old house, with a green garden behind and 
 bright flowers about the window, to eat and drink of 
 the best, to gossip with a neighbor for a quarter of an 
 hour, never to wear stays or a dress except when she 
 went to Fontainebleau shopping, to be kept in a con- 
 tinual supply of racy novels, and to be married to Dr. 
 Desprez and have no ground of jealousy, filled the cup 
 of her nature to the brim. Those who had known the 
 
248 U/or^S of F^obert Couis Stcucp 50 ij 
 
 Doctor in bachelor days, when he had aired quite as 
 many theories, but of a different order, attributed his 
 present philosophy to the study of Anastasie. It was 
 her brute enjoyment that he rationalized and perhaps 
 vainly imitated. 
 
 Madame Desprez was an artist in the kitchen, and 
 made coffee to a nicety. She had a knack of tidiness, 
 with which she had infected the Doctor; everything 
 was in its place ; everything capable of polish shone 
 gloriously; and dust was a thing banished from her 
 empire. Aline, their single servant, had no other busi- 
 ness in the world but to scour and burnish. So Dr. 
 Desprez lived in his house like a fatted calf, warmed 
 and cosseted to his heart’s content. 
 
 The midday meal was excellent. There was a ripe 
 melon, a fish from the river in a memorable Beariiaise 
 sauce, a fat fowl in a fricassee, and a dish of aspara- 
 gus, followed by some fruit. The Doctor drank half a 
 bottle plus one glass, the wife half a bottle minus the 
 same quantity, which was a marital privilege, of an ex- 
 cellent C6te-R6tie, seven years old. Then the coffee was 
 brought, and a flask of Chartreuse for madame, for the 
 Doctor despised and distrusted such decoctions; and 
 then Aline left the wedded pair to the pleasures of 
 memory and digestion. 
 
 “It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cherished 
 one,” observed the Doctor — “this coffee is adorable — a 
 very fortunate circumstance upon the whole — Anastasie, 
 I beseech you, go without that poison for to-day; only 
 one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my 
 reputation.” 
 
 “What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend?” 
 
yl^e Jreajure of prapel^ard 
 
 249 
 
 inquired Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was 
 of daily recurrence. 
 
 “That we have no children, my beautiful,” replied 
 the Doctor. “I think of it more and more as the years 
 go on, and with more and more gratitude toward the 
 Power that dispenses such afflictions. Your health, my 
 darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, 
 how they would all have suffered, how they would all 
 have been sacrificed! And for what? Children are the 
 last word of human imperfection. Health flees before 
 their face. They cry, my dear ; they put vexatious 
 questions; they demand to be fed, to be washed, to be 
 educated, to have their noses blown; and then, when 
 the time comes, they break our hearts, as I break this 
 piece of sugar. A pair of professed egoists, like you 
 and me, should avoid offspring, like an infidelity.” 
 
 “Indeed!” said she; and she laughed. “Now, that is 
 like you — to take credit for the thing you could not help.” 
 
 “My dear,” returned the Doctor, solemnly, “we 
 might have adopted.” 
 
 “Never!” cried madame. “Never, Doctor, with my con- 
 sent. If the child were my own flesh and blood, I would 
 not say no. But to take another person’s indiscretion on 
 my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much sense.” 
 
 “Precisely,” replied the Doctor. “We both had. And 
 I am all the better pleased with our wisdom, because — 
 because — ” He looked at her sharply. 
 
 “Because what?” she asked, with a faint premoni- 
 tion of danger. 
 
 “Because I have found the right person,” said the 
 Doctor firmly, “and shall adopt him this afternoon.” 
 
 Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. “You have 
 
 Stevexson'. Vol. I. — 35 
 
250 U/orKs of Hol^ert Coui 5 Steuei? 5 oi? 
 
 lost your reason,” slie said; and there was a clang in 
 her voice that seemed to threaten trouble. 
 
 “Not so, my dear,” he replied; “I retain its com- 
 plete exercise. To the proof: instead of attempting to 
 cloak my inconsistency, I have, by way of preparing 
 you, thrown it into strong relief. You will there, I 
 think, recognize the philosopher who has the ecstasy to 
 call you wife. The fact is, I have been reckoning all 
 this while without an accident. I never thought to find 
 a son of my own. Now, last night, I found one. Do 
 not unnecessarily alarm yourself, my dear; he is not 
 a drop of blood to me that I know. It is his mind, 
 darling, his mind that calls me father.” 
 
 “His mind!” she repeated, with a titter between scorn 
 and hysterics. “His mind, indeed! Henri, is this an 
 idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad? His mind! And 
 what of my mind?” 
 
 “Truly,” replied the Doctor with a shrug, “you 
 have your finger on the hitch. He will be strikingly 
 antipathetic to my ever beautiful Anastasie. She will 
 never understand him; he will never understand her. 
 You married the animal side of my nature, dear; and 
 it is on the spiritual side that I find my affinity for 
 Jean-Marie. So much so, that, to be perfectly frank, 
 I stand in some awe of him myself. You will easily 
 perceive that I am announcing a calamity for you. Do 
 not,” he broke out in tones of real solicitude — “do not 
 give way to tears after a meal, Anastasie. You will 
 certainly give yourself a false digestion.” 
 
 Anastasie controlled herself. “You know how willing 
 I am to humor you,” she said, “in all reasonable mat- 
 ters. But on this point — ” 
 
Jreaeure of prapolpard 
 
 251 
 
 **My dear love,” interrupted the Doctor, eager to 
 prevent a refusal, “who wished to leave Paris? Who 
 made me give up cards, and the opera, and the boule- 
 vard, and my social relations, and all that was my life 
 before I knew you? Have I been faithful? Have I 
 been obedient? Have I not borne my doom with cheeit- 
 fulness? In all honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right 
 to a stipulation on my side? I have, and you know 
 it. I stipulate my son,” 
 
 Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colors 
 instantly. “You will break my heart,” she sighed. 
 
 “Not in the least,” said he. “You will feel a tri- 
 fling inconvenience for a month, just as I did when I 
 was first brought to this vile hamlet; then your ad- 
 mirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you 
 already as content as ever, and making your husband 
 the happiest of men.” 
 
 “You know I can refuse you nothing,” she said, 
 with a last flicker of resistance; “nothing that will 
 make you truly happier. But will this? Are you sure, 
 my husband? Last night, you say, you found him! 
 He may be the worst of humbugs.” 
 
 “I think not,” replied the Doctor. “But do not 
 suppose me so unwary as to adopt him out of hand. 
 I am, I flatter myself, a finished man of the world; 
 I have had all possibilities in view; my plan is con- 
 trived to meet them all. I take the lad as stable boy. 
 If he pilfer, if he grumble, if he desire to change, I 
 shall see I was mistaken; I shall recognize him for no 
 son of mine, and send him tramping.” 
 
 “You will never do so when the time comes,” said 
 his wife; “I know your good heart.” 
 
262 U/orKs of C 0 U 15 Steueij$oij 
 
 She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh; the 
 Doctor smiled as he took it and carried it to his lips; 
 he had gained his point with greater ease than he had 
 dared to hope; for perhaps the twentieth time he had 
 proved the efficacy of his trusty argument, his Excali- 
 bur, the hint of a return to Paris. Six months in the 
 capital, for a man of the Doctor’s antecedents and re- 
 lations, implied no less a calamity than total ruin. 
 Anastasie had saved the remainder of his fortune by 
 keeping him strictly in the country. The very name of 
 Paris put her in a blue fear; and she would have al- 
 lowed her husband to keep a menagerie in the back 
 garden, let alone adopting a stable-boy, rather than per- 
 mit the question of return to be discussed. 
 
 About four of the afternoon, the mountebank ren- 
 dered up his ghost; he had never been conscious since 
 his seizure. Dr. Desprez was present at his last pas- 
 sage, and declared the farce over. Then he took Jean- 
 Marie by the shoulder and led him out into the inn 
 garden where there was a convenient bench beside the 
 river. Here he sat him down and made the boy place 
 himself on his left. 
 
 “Jean-Marie,” he said very gravely, “this world is 
 exceedingly vast; and even France, which is only a 
 small comer of it, is a great place for a little lad like 
 you. Unfortunately it is full of eager, shouldering peo- 
 ple moving on; and there are very few bakers’ shops 
 for so many eaters. Your master is dead; you are not 
 fit to gain a living by yourself; you do not wish to 
 steal? Ho. Your situation then is undesirable; it is, 
 for the moment, critical. On the other hand, you be- 
 hold in me a man not old, though elderly, still enjoy- 
 
Jr^ajar^ of praijolpard 
 
 253 
 
 ing the youth of the heart and the intelligence; a man 
 of instruction; easily situated in this world’s affairs; 
 keeping a good table : — a man, neither as friend nor 
 host, to be despised. I offer you your food and clothes, 
 and to teach you lessons in the evening, which will be 
 infinitely more to the purpose for a lad of your stamp 
 than those of all the priests in Europe. I propose no 
 wages, but if ever you take a thought to leave me, 
 the door shall be open, and I will give you a hundred 
 francs to start the world upon. In return, I have an 
 old horse and chaise, which you would very speedily 
 learn to clean and keep in order. Do not hurry your- 
 self to answer, and take it or leave it as you judge 
 aright. Only remember this, that I am no sentimen- 
 talist or charitable person, but a man who lives rigor- 
 ously to himself; and that if I make the proposal, it 
 is for my own ends — it is because I perceive clearly an 
 advantage to myself. And now, reflect.” 
 
 “I shall be very glad. I do not see what else I 
 can do. I thank you, sir, most kindly, and I will try 
 to be useful,” said the boy. 
 
 “Thank you,” said the Doctor warmly, rising at the 
 same time and wiping his brow, for he had suffered 
 agonies while the thing hung in the wind. A refusal, 
 after the scene at noon, would have placed him in a 
 ridiculous light before Anastasie. “How hot and heavy 
 is the evening, to be sure! I have always had a fancy 
 to be a fish in summer, Jean-Marie, here in the Doing 
 beside Gretz. I should lie under a water-lily and listen 
 to the bells, which must sound most delicately down 
 below. That would be a life — do you not think so 
 too?” 
 
254 U/orK5 of P^obert Coui$ Steueijsoij 
 
 “Yes,” said Jean-Marie. 
 
 “Thank God you have imagination!” cried the Doc- 
 tor, ombrctcing the boy with his usual effusive warmth, 
 though it was a proceeding that seemed to disconcert 
 the sufferer almost as much as if he had been an 
 English schoolboy of the same age. “And now,” he 
 added, “1 will take you to my wife.” 
 
 Madame Desprez sat in the dining-room in a cool 
 wrapper. All the blinds were down, and the tile floor 
 had been recently sprinkled with water; her eyes were 
 half shut, but she affected to be reading a novel as 
 
 they entered. Though she was a bustling woman, she 
 enjoyed repose between whiles and had a remarkable 
 
 appetite for sleep. 
 
 The Doctor went through a solemn form of intro- 
 duction, adding, for the benefit of both parties, “You 
 must try to like each other for my sake.” 
 
 “He is very pretty,” said Anastasie. “Will you kiss 
 me, my pretty little fellow?” 
 
 The Doctor was furious, and dragged her into the 
 
 passage. “Are you a fool, Anastasie?” he said. “What 
 
 is all this I hear about the tact of women? Heaven 
 knows, I have not met with it in my experience. You 
 address my little philosopher as if he were an infant. 
 He must be spoken to with more respect, I tell you; 
 he must not be kissed and Georgy-porgy’d like an 
 ordinary child.” 
 
 “I only did it to please you, I am sure,” replied 
 Anastasie; “but I will try to do better.” 
 
 The Doctor apologized for his warmth. “But I do 
 wish him,” he continued, “to feel at home among us. 
 And really your conduct was so idiotic, my cherished 
 

 255 
 
 one, and so utterly and distantly out of place, that a 
 saint might have been pardoned a, little vehemence in 
 disapproval. Do, do try — ^if it is possible for a woman 
 to understand young people — but of course it is not and 
 I waste my breath. Hold your tongue as much as 
 possible at least, and observe my conduct narrowly; it 
 will serve you for a model.” 
 
 Anastasie did as she was bidden, and considered the 
 Doctor’s behavior. She observed that he embraced the 
 boy three times in the course of the evening, and man- 
 aged generally to confound and abash the little fellow 
 out of speech and appetite. But she had the true 
 womanly heroism in little affairs. Not only did she 
 refrain from the cheap revenge of exposing the Doctor’s 
 errors to himself, but she did her best to remove their 
 ill-effect on Jean-Marie. When Desprez went out for 
 his last breath of air before retiring for the night, she 
 came over to the boy’s side and took his hand. 
 
 “You must not be surprised nor frightened by my 
 husband’s manners,” she said. “He is the kindest of 
 men, but so clever that he is sometimes difficult to 
 understand. You will soon grow used to him, and then 
 you will love him, for that nobody can help. As for 
 me, you may be sure, I shall try to make you happy, 
 and will not bother you at all. I think we should be 
 excellent friends, you and I. I am not clever, but I 
 am very good-natured. Will you give me a kiss?” 
 
 He held up his face, and she took him in her arms 
 and then began to cry. The woman had spoken in 
 complaisance; but she had warmed to her own words, 
 and tenderness followed. The Doctor, entering, found 
 them enlaced: he concluded that his wife was in fault; 
 
256 
 
 U/orl^s of F^obert Couis Steveijsoij 
 
 and he was just beginning, in an awful voice, “Anas^ 
 tasie — ” when she looked up at him, smiling, with an 
 upraised finger ; and he held his peace, wondering, 
 while she led the boy to his attic. 
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 The installation of the adopted stable- Doy was thus 
 happily effected, and the wheels of life continued to run 
 smoothly in the Doctor’s house. Jean-Marie did his 
 horse and carriage duty in the morning; sometimes 
 helped in the housework; sometimes walked abroad with 
 the Doctor, drink wisdom from the fountain-head; 
 and wp^ introduced at night to the sciences and the 
 aeau tongues. He retained his singular placidity of 
 mind and manner; he was rarely in fault; but he 
 made only a very partial progress in his studies, and 
 remained much of a stranger in the family. 
 
 The Doctor was a pattern of regularity. All fore- 
 noon he worked on his great book, the “Comparative 
 Pharmacopoeia, or Historical Dictionary of all Medicines,” 
 which as yet consisted principally of slips of paper and 
 pins. When finished, it was to fill many personable 
 volumes, and to combine antiquarian interest with pro- 
 fessional utility. But the Doctor was studious of literary 
 graces and the picturesque ; an anecdote, a touch of 
 manners, a moral qualification, or a sounding epithet 
 was sure to be preferred before a piece of science; a 
 
7rea8ur(j of 
 
 257 
 
 Kttle more, and he would have written the “Compara- 
 tive Pharmacopoeia” in verse! The article “Mummia,” 
 for instance, was already complete, though the remain- 
 der of the work had not progressed beyond the letter 
 A. It was exceedingly copious and entertaining, written 
 with quaintness and color, exact, erudite, a literary 
 article; but it would hardly have afforded guidance to 
 a practicing physician of to-day. The feminine good 
 sense of his wife had led her to point this out with 
 uncompromising sincerity; ' for the Dictionary was duly 
 read aloud to her, betwixt sleep and waking, as it pro- 
 ceeded toward an infinitely distant completion; and the 
 Doctor was a little sore on the subject of mummies, 
 and sometimes resented an allusion with asperity. 
 
 After the midday meal and a proper period of diges- 
 tion, he walked, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied 
 by Jean-Marie; for madame would have preferred any 
 hardship rather than walk. 
 
 She was, as I have said, a very busy person, con- 
 tinually occupied about material comforts, and ready to 
 drop asleep -over a novel the instant she was disengaged. 
 This was the less objectionable, as she never snored or 
 grew distempered in complexion when she slept. On 
 the contrary, she looked the very picture of luxurious 
 and appetizing ease, and woke without a start to the 
 perfect possession of her faculties. I am afraid she was 
 greatly an animal, but she was a very nice animal to 
 have about. In this way, she had little to do with 
 Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which had been estab- 
 lished between them on the first night remained un- 
 broken ; they held occasional conversations, mostly on 
 household matters; to the extreme disappointment of the 
 
358 U/orl^s of I^oberb Couis Steucijsop 
 
 Doctor, they occasionally sallied off together to that 
 temple of debasing superstition, the village church ; 
 madame and he, both in their Sunday’s best, drove 
 twice a month to Fontainebleau and returned laden 
 with purchases; and in short, although the Doctor still 
 continued to regard them as irreconcilably antipathetic, 
 their relation was as intimate, friendly, and confidential 
 as their natures suffered. 
 
 I fear, however, that in her heart of hearts, madame 
 kindly despised and pitied the boy. She had no ad- 
 miration for his class of virtues; she liked a smart, 
 polite, forward, roguish sort of boy, cap in hand, light 
 of foot, meeting the eye; she liked volubility, charm, 
 a little vice — the promise of a second Dr Desprez. 
 And it was her indefeasible belief that Jean-Marie was 
 dull. “Poor dear boy,” she had said once, “how sad 
 it is that he should be so stupid!” She had never re- 
 peated that remark, for the Doctor had raged like a 
 wild bull, denouncing the brutal bluntness of her mind, 
 bemoaning his own fate to be so unequally mated with 
 an ass, and, what touched Anastasie more nearly, 
 menacing the table china by the fury of his gesticula- 
 tions. But she adhered silently to her opinion; and 
 when Jean-Marie was sitting, stolid, blank, but not un- 
 happy, over his unfinished tasks, she would snatch her 
 opportunity in the Doctor’s absence, go over to him, 
 put her arms about his neck, lay her cheek to his, and 
 communicate her sympathy with his distress. “Do not 
 mind,” she would say; “I, too, am not at all clever, 
 and I can assure you that it makes no difference in life.” 
 
 The Doctor’s view was naturally different. That gen- 
 tleman never wearied of the sound of his own voice, 
 
Xr(?a8ure of prapel^ard 
 
 259 
 
 which was, to say the truth, agreeable enough to hear. 
 He now had a listener, who was not so cynically in- 
 different as Anastasie, and who sometimes put him on 
 his mettle by the most relevant objections. Besides, 
 was he not educating the boy? And education, philos- 
 ophers are agreed, is the most philosophical of duties. 
 What can be more heavenly to poor mankind than to 
 Have one’s hobby grow into a duty to the State? Then, 
 indeed, do the ways of life become ways of pleasant- 
 ness. Never had the Doctor seen reason to be more 
 content with his endowments. Philosophy flowed smoothly 
 from his lips. He was so agile a dialectician that he 
 could trace his nonsense, when challenged, back to some 
 root in sense, and prove it to be a sort of flower upon 
 his system. He slipped out of antinomies like a fish, 
 and left his disciple marveling at the rabbi’s depth. 
 
 Moreover, deep down in his heart the Doctor was 
 disappointed with the ill-success of his more formal edu- 
 cation. A boy, chosen by so acute an observer for his 
 aptitude, and guided along the path of learning by so 
 philosophic an instructor, was bound, by the nature of 
 the universe, to make a more obvious and lasting ad- 
 vance. Now Jean-Marie was slow in all things, im- 
 penetrable in others; and his power of forgetting was 
 fully on a level with his power to learn. Therefore the 
 Doctor cherished his peripatetic lectures, to which the 
 boy attended, which he generally appeared to enjoy, and 
 by which he often profited. 
 
 Many and many were the talks they had together; 
 and nealth and moderation proved the subject of the 
 Doctor’s divagations. To these he lovingly returned. 
 
 “I lead you,” he would say, “by the green pastures. 
 
260 U/orKs of Hol^ert C0U15 Steuepsoi? 
 
 My system, my beliefs, my medicines, are resumed in 
 one phrase — to avoid excess. Blessed nature, healthy, 
 temperate nature, abhors and exterminates excess. Hu- 
 man law, in this matter, imitates at a great distance 
 her provisions; and we must strive to supplement the 
 efforts of the law. Yes, boy, we must be a law to 
 ourselves and for our neighbors — lex armata — armed, 
 emphatic, tyrannous law. If you see a crapulous human 
 ruin snuffing, dash from him his box! The judge, 
 though in a way an admission of disease, is less offen- 
 sive to me than either the doctor or the priest. Above 
 all the doctor — the doctor and the purulent trash and 
 garbage of his pharmacopoeia! Pure air — from the 
 neighborhood of a pinetum for the sake of the turpen- 
 tine — unadulterated wine, and the reflections of an un- 
 sophisticated spirit in the presence of the works of nature 
 — these, my boy, are the best medical appliances and 
 the best religious comforts. Devote yourself to these. 
 Hark! there are the bells of Bourron (the wind is in 
 the north, it will be fair). How clear and airy is the 
 sound! The nerves are harmonized and quieted; the 
 mind attuned to silence ; and observe how easily and 
 regularly beats the heart! Your unenlightened doctor 
 would see nothing in these sensations ; and yet you 
 yourself perceive they are a part of health. — Did you 
 remember your cinchona this morning? Good. Cinchona 
 also is a work of nature; it is, after all, only the bark 
 of a tree which we might gather for ourselves if we 
 lived in the locality. — What a world is this! Though a 
 professed atheist, I delight to bear my testimony to the 
 world. Look at the gratuitous remedies and pleasures 
 that surround our path! The river runs by the garden 
 
X>^^ 38 ure of prai>eljard 
 
 261 
 
 end, our bath, our fishpond, our natural system of 
 drainage. There is a well in the court which sends up 
 sparkling water from the earth’s very heart, clean, cool, 
 and, with a little wine, most wholesome. The district 
 is notorious for its salubrity; rheumatism is the only 
 prevalent complaint, and I myself have never had a 
 touch of it. I tell you — and my opinion is based upon 
 the coldest, clearest processes of reason — ^if I, if you, 
 desired to leave this home of pleasures, it would be the 
 duty, it would be the privilege, of our best friend to 
 prevent us with a pistol bullet.” 
 
 One beautiful June day they sat upon the hill out- 
 side the village. The river, as blue as heaven, shone 
 here and there among the foliage. The indefatigable 
 birds turned and flickered about Gretz church tower. A 
 healthy wind blew from over the forest, and the sound 
 of innumerable thousands of treetops and innumerable 
 millions on millions of green leaves was abroad in the 
 air, and filled the ear with something between whispered 
 speech and singing. It seemed as if every blade of 
 grass must hide a cigale; and the fields rang merrily 
 with their music, jingling far and near as with the 
 sleigh-bells of the fairy queen. From their station on 
 the slope the eye embraced a large space of poplar’d 
 plain upon the one hand, the waving hill-tops of the 
 forest on the other, and Gretz itself in the middle, a 
 handful of roofs. Under the bestriding arch of the blue 
 heavens, the place seemed dwindled to a toy. It seemed 
 incredible that people dwelt, and could find room to 
 turn or air to breathe, in such a corner of the world. 
 The thought came home to the boy, perhaps for the first 
 time, and he gave it words. 
 
262 Worlds of l^oherfc Couis Sfceueijsop 
 
 “How small it looks!” he sighed. 
 
 “Ay,” replied the Doctor, “small enough now. Yet 
 it was once a walled city; thriving, full of furred 
 burgesses and men in armor, humming with affairs; — 
 with tall spires, for aught that I know, and portly 
 towers along the battlements. A thousand chimneys 
 ceased smoking at the curfew bell. There were gibbets 
 at the gate as thick as scarecrows. In time of war, 
 the assault swarmed against it with ladders, the arrows 
 fell like leaves, the defenders sallied hotly over the 
 drawbridge, each side uttered its cry as they plied their 
 weapons. Do you know that the walls extended as far 
 as the Commanderie? Tradition so reports. Alas, what 
 a long way off is all this confusion — nothing left of it 
 but my quiet words spoken in your ear — and the town 
 itself shrunk to the hamlet underneath us! By and-by 
 came the English wars — you shall hear more of the 
 English, a stupid people, who sometimes blundered into 
 good — and Gretz was taken, sacked, and burned. It is 
 the history of many towns; but Gretz never rose again; 
 it was never rebuilt; its ruins were a quarry to serve 
 the growth of rivals; and the stones of Gretz are now 
 erect along the streets of Nemours. It gratifies me 
 that our old house was the first to rise after the ca- 
 lamity; when the town had come to an end, it in- 
 augurated the hamlet.” 
 
 “I, too, am glad of that,” said Jean-Marie. 
 
 “It should be the temple of the humbler virtues,” 
 responded the Doctor with a savory gusto. “Perhaps 
 one of the reasons why I love my little hamlet as I 
 do, is that we have a similar history, she and I. Have 
 I told you that I was once rich?’ 
 
Treasure of prai^^Ijard 263 
 
 *‘I do not think so,” answered Jean-Marie. “I do 
 not think I should have forgotten. I am sorry you 
 should have lost your fortune.” 
 
 “Sorry?” cried the Doctor. “Why, I find I have 
 scarce begun your education after all. Listen to me! 
 Would you rather live in the old Gretz or in the new, 
 free from the alarms of war, with the green country 
 at the door, without noise, passports, the exactions of 
 the soldiery, or the jangle of the curfew-bell to send 
 ns off to bed by sundown?” 
 
 “I suppose I should prefer the new,” replied the 
 boy. 
 
 “Precisely,” returned the Doctor; “so do I. And, 
 in the same way, I prefer my present moderate fortune 
 to my former wealth. Golden mediocrity! cried the 
 adorable ancients; and I subscribe to their enthusiasm. 
 Have I not good wine, good food, good air, the fields 
 and the forest for my walk, a house, an admirable 
 wife, a boy whom I protest I cherish like a son? Now, 
 if I were still rich, I should indubitably make my 
 residence in Paris — you know Paris — Paris and Paradise 
 are not convertible terms. This pleasant noise of the 
 wind streaming among leaves changed into the grinding 
 Babel of the street, the stupid glare of plaster substi- 
 tuted for this quiet pattern of greens and grays, the 
 nerves shattered, the digestion falsified — picture the fall! 
 Already you perceive the consequences; the mind is 
 stimulated, the heart steps to a different measure, and 
 the man is himself no longer. I have passionately 
 studied myself — the true business of philosophy. I know 
 my character as the musician knows the ventages of 
 his flute. Should I return to Paris, I should ruin my- 
 
264 U/orK5 of Couij Steuepso’'? 
 
 Belf gambling ; nay, I go further — I should break the 
 heart of my Anastasie with infidelities.” 
 
 This was too much for Jean-Marie. That a place 
 should so transform the most excellent of men tran- 
 scended his belief. Paris, he protested, was even an 
 
 agreeable place of residence. “Nor when I lived in 
 
 that city did I feel much difference,” he pleaded. 
 
 “What!” cried the Doctor. “Did you not steal 
 when you were there?” 
 
 But the boy could never be brought to see that he 
 had done anything wrong when he stole. Nor, indeed, 
 did the Doctor think he had; but that gentleman was 
 never very scrupulous when in want of a retort. 
 
 “And now,” he concluded, “do you begin to under- 
 stand? My only friends were those who ruined me. 
 Gretz has been my academy, my sanatorium, my heaven 
 of innocent pleasures. If millions are offered me, I 
 wave them back: Retro, Sathanas !— -Evil one, begone! 
 Fix your mind on my example; despise riches, avoid 
 the debasing influence of cities. Hygiene — hygiene and 
 mediocrity of fortune — these be your watchwords during 
 life!” 
 
 The Doctor’s system of hygiene strikingly coincided 
 with his tastes; and his picture of the perfect life was 
 a faithful description of the one he was leading at the 
 time. But it is easy to convince a boy, whom you 
 supply with all the facts for the discussion. And be- 
 sides, there was one thing admirable in the philosophy, 
 and that was the enthusiasm of the philosopher. There 
 was never any one more vigorously determined to be 
 pleased; and if he was not a great logician, and so 
 had no right to convince the intellect, he was certainly 
 
Jreasur^ of praijeljard 
 
 365 
 
 something of a poet, and had a fascination to seduce 
 the heart. What he could not achieve in his customary 
 humor of a radiant admiration of himself and his cir- 
 cumstances, he sometimes effected in his fits of gloom. 
 
 “Boy,” he would say, “avoid me to-day. If I were 
 superstitious, I should even beg for an interest in your 
 prayers. I am in the black fit; the evil spirit of King 
 Saul, the hag of the merchant Abudah, the personal 
 devil of the mediaeval monk, is with me — is in me,” 
 tapping on his breast. “The vices of my nature are 
 now uppermost; innocent pleasures woo me in vain; I 
 long for Paris, for my wallowing in the mire. See,” 
 he would continue, producing a handful of silver, “I 
 denude myself, I am not to be trusted with the price 
 of a fare. Take it, keep it for me, squander it on 
 deleterious candy, throw it in the deepest of the river 
 — I will homologate your action. Save me from that 
 part of myself which I disown. If you see me falter, 
 do not hesitate; if necessary, wreck the train! I speak, 
 of course, by a parable. Any extremity were better 
 than for me to reach Paris alive.” 
 
 Doubtless the Doctor enjoyed these little scenes, as 
 a variation in his part; they represented the Byronic 
 element in the somewhat artificial poetry of his existence; 
 but to the boy, though he was dimly aware of their the- 
 atricality, they represented more. The Doctor made per- 
 haps too little, the boy possibly too much, of the reality 
 and gravity of these temptations. 
 
 One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. “Could 
 not riches be used well?” he asked. 
 
 “In theory, yes,” replied the Doctor. “But it is 
 
 found in experience that no one does so. All the 
 Stevenson. Vol. I. — 36 
 
J166 U/orKs of P^obert Coui^ SteuepjOQ 
 
 world imagine they will be exceptional when they grow 
 wealthy; but possession is debasing, new desires spring 
 up; and the silly taste for ostentation eats out the 
 heart of pleasure.” 
 
 “Then you might be better if you had less,” said the boy. 
 
 “Certainly not,” replied the Doctor; but his voice 
 quavered as he spoke. 
 
 “Why?” demanded pitiless innocence. 
 
 Dr. Desprez saw all the colors of the rainbow in a 
 moment; the stable universe appeared to be about cap- 
 sizing with him. “Because,” said he — affecting delibera- 
 tion after an obvious pause — “because I have formed 
 my life for my present income. It is not good for men 
 of my years to be violently dissevered from their habits.” 
 
 That was a sharp brush. The Doctor breathed hard, 
 and fell into taciturnity for the afternoon. As for the 
 boy, he was delighted with the resolution of his doubts; 
 even wondered that he had not foreseen the obvious 
 and conclusive answer. His faith in the Doctor was a 
 stout piece of goods. Desprez was inclined to be a 
 sheet in the wind’s eye after dinner, especially after 
 Rhone wane, his favorite weakness. He would then re- 
 mark on the warmth of his feeling for Anastasie, and 
 with inflamed cheeks and a loose, flustered smile, de- 
 bate upon all sorts of topics, and be feebly and indis- 
 creetly witty. But the adopted stable-boy would not 
 permit himself to entertain a doubt that savored of in- 
 gratitude. It is quite true that a man may be a sec- 
 ond father to you, and yet take too much to drink; but 
 the best natures are ever slow to accept such truths. 
 
 The Doctor thoroughly possessed his heart, but per- 
 haps he exaggerated his influence over his mind. Cer- 
 
Jife of F>"ai)ol?ard 267 
 
 tainly Jean-Marie adopted some of his master’s opinions, 
 hut I have yet to learn that he ever surrendered one 
 of his own. Convictions existed in him by divine 
 right; they were virgin, unwrought, the brute metal 
 of decision. He could add others indeed, but he could 
 not put away; neither did he care if they were per- 
 fectly agreed among themselves; and his spiritual pleas- 
 ures had nothing to do with turning them over or jus- 
 tifying them in words. Words were with him a mere 
 accomplishment, like dancing. When he was by him- 
 self, his pleasures were almost vegetable. He would 
 slip into the woods toward Acheres, and sit in the 
 mouth of a cave among gray birches. His soul stared 
 straight out of his eyes; he did not move or think; 
 sunlight, thin shadows moving in the wind, the edge 
 of firs against the sky, occupied and bound his facul- 
 ties. He was pure unity, a spirit wholly abstracted. A 
 single mood filled him, to which all the objects of sense 
 contributed, as the colors of the spectrum merge and 
 disappear in white light. 
 
 So while the Doctor made himself drunk with words, 
 the adopted stable boy bemused himself with silence. 
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 TREASURE TROVE 
 
 The Doctor’s carriage was a two-wheeled gig with 
 a hood; a kind of vehicle in much favor among coun- 
 try doctors. On how many roads has one not seen it, 
 a great way off between the poplars! — in how many 
 
268 U/orK3 of Couij Steveijjop 
 
 village streets, tied to a gate-post! This sort of chariot 
 is affected — particularly at the trot— by a kind of pitch- 
 ing movement to and fro across the axle, which well 
 entitles it to the style of a Koddy. The hood describes 
 a considerable arc against the landscape, with a sol- 
 emnly absurd effect on the contemplative pedestrian. 
 To ride in such a carriage cannot be numbered among 
 the things that appertain to glory; but I have no 
 doubt it may be useful in liver complaint. Thence, 
 perhaps, its wide popularity among physicians. 
 
 One morning early, Jean-Marie led forth the Doc- 
 tor’s noddy, opened the gate, and mounted to the driv- 
 ing-seat. The Doctor followed, arrayed from top to toe 
 in spotless linen, armed with an immense flesh-colored 
 mnbrella, and girt with a botanical case on a baldric; 
 and the equipage drove off smartly in a breeze of its 
 own provocation. They were bound for Pranchard, to 
 
 collect plants, with an eye to the “Comparative Phar- 
 macopoeia.” 
 
 A little rattling on the open roads, and they came 
 to the borders of the forest and struck into an unfre- 
 quented track; the noddy yawed softly over the sand, 
 with an accompaniment of snapping twigs. There was 
 a great, green, softly murmuring cloud of congregated 
 foliage overhead. In the arcades of the forest the air 
 retained the freshness of the night. The athletic bear- 
 ing of the trees, each carrying its leafy mountain, 
 pleased the mind like so many statues; and the lines 
 of the trunk led the eye admiringly upward to where 
 the extreme leaves sparkled in a patch of azure. Squir- 
 rels leaped in mid air. It was a proper spot for a 
 devotee of the goddess Hygieia. 
 

 269 
 
 “Have you been to Francbard, Jean-Marie?’^ in* 
 quired the Doctor. “I fancy not.” 
 
 “Never,” replied the boy. 
 
 “It is ruin in a gorge,” continued Desprez, adopting 
 his expository voice; “the ruin of a hermitage and 
 chapel. History tells us much of Franchard; how the 
 recluse was often slain by robbers; how he lived on a 
 most insufiScient diet; how he was expected to pass his 
 days in prayer. A letter is preserved, addressed to one 
 of these solitaries by the superior of his order, full of 
 admirable hygienic advice; bidding him go from his 
 book to praying, and so back again, for variety’s sake, 
 and when he was weary of both to stroll about his 
 garden and observe the honey bees. It is to this day 
 my own system. You must often have remarked me 
 leaving the ‘Pharmacopoeia’ — often even in the middle 
 of a phrase — to come forth into the sun and air. I 
 admire the writer of that letter from my heart; he was 
 a man of thought on the most important subjects. But, 
 indeed, had I lived in the Middle Ages (I am heartily 
 glad that I did not) I should have been an eremite 
 myself — ^if I had not been a professed buffoon, that is. 
 These were the only philosophical lives yet open: laugh- 
 ter or prayer; sneers, we might say, and tears. Until 
 the sun of the Positive arose, the wise man had to 
 make his choice between these two,” 
 
 “I have been a buffoon, of course,” observed Jean-Marie. 
 “I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your 
 profession,” said the Doctor, admiring the boy’s grav- 
 ity. “Do you ever laugh?” 
 
 “Oh, yes,” replied the other. “I laugh often. I am 
 very fond of jokes.” 
 
270 U/orKs of F^obert Couis Steueijsoij 
 
 “Singular being!” said Desprez. “But I divagate (I 
 perceive in a thousand ways that I grow old). Fran- 
 chard was at length destroyed in the English wars, the 
 same that leveled Gretz. But — here is the point — the 
 
 hermits (for there were already more than one) had 
 foreseen the danger and carefully concealed the sacrifi- 
 cial vessels. These vessels were of monstrous value, 
 Jean-Marie — monstrous value — priceless, we may say; 
 exquisitely worked, of exquisite material. And now, 
 
 mark me, they have never been found. In the reign 
 of Louis Quatorze some fellows were digging hard by 
 the ruins. Suddenly — tock! — the spade hit upon an ob- 
 stacle. Imagine the men looking one to another; imag- 
 ine how their hearts bounded, how their color came 
 and went. It was a coffer, and in Franchard the place 
 of buried treasure ! They tore it open like famished 
 beasts. Alas! it was not the treasure; only some 
 priestly robes, which, at the touch of the eating air, 
 fell upon themselves and instantly wasted into dust. 
 The perspiration of these good fellows turned cold upon 
 them, Jean-Marie. I will pledge my reputation, if there 
 was anything like a cutting wind, one or other had a 
 pneumonia for his trouble.” 
 
 “I should like to have seen them turning into dust,” 
 said Jean-Marie. “Otherwise, I should not have cared 
 so greatly.” 
 
 “You have no imagination,” cried the Doctor. “Pict- 
 ure to yourself the scene. Dwell on the idea — a great 
 treasure lying in the earth for centuries: the material 
 
 for a giddy, copious, opulent existence not employed; 
 dresses and exquisite pictures unseen; the swiftest gal- 
 loping horses not stirring a hoof, arrested by a spell,* 
 
Jreasur^ of praije^ard 
 
 271 
 
 women with the beautiful faculty of smiles, not smil- 
 ing; cards, dice, opera-singing, orchestras, castles, beau- 
 tiful parks and gardens, big ships with a tower of sail- 
 cloth, all lying unborn in a coffin — and the stupid trees 
 growing overhead in the sunlight, year after yeai. The 
 thought drives one frantic.” 
 
 “It is only money,” replied Jean-Marie. “It would 
 do harm.” 
 
 “Oh, come!” cried Desprez, “that is philosophy; it 
 is all very fine, but not to the point just now. And 
 besides, it is not ‘only money,’ as you call it; there 
 are works of art in the question ; the vessels were 
 carved. You speak like a child. You weary me ex- 
 ceedingly, quoting my words out of aU logical connec- 
 tion, like a parroquet.” 
 
 “And at any rate, we have nothing to do with it,” 
 returned the boy submissively. 
 
 They struck the Route Ronde at that moment; and 
 the sudden change to the rattling causeway combined 
 with the Doctor’s irritation, to keep him silent. The 
 noddy jigged along; the trees went by, looking on si- 
 lently, as if they had something on their minds. The 
 Quadrilateral was passed; then came Franchard. They 
 put up the horse at the little solitary inn, and went 
 forth strolling. The gorge was dyed deeply with heather; 
 the rocks and birches standing luminous in the sun. A 
 great humming of bees about the fiowers disposed 
 Jean-Marie to sleep, and he sat down against a clump 
 of heather, while the Doctor went briskly to and fro, 
 with quick turns, culling his simples. 
 
 The boy’s head had fallen a little forward, his eyes 
 were closed, his fingers had fallen lax about his knees. 
 
272 U/or^s of F^obert Coufs Steueijsoij 
 
 when a sudden cry called him to his feet. It was a 
 strange sound, thin and brief; it fell dead, and silence 
 returned as though it had never been interrupted. He 
 had not recognized the Doctor’s voice; but, as there 
 was no one else in all the valley, it was plainly the 
 Doctor who had given utterance to the sound. He 
 looked right and left, and there was Desprez, standing 
 in a niche between two bowlders, and looking round 
 on his adopted son with a countenance as white as paper. 
 
 “A viper!” cried Jean-Marie, running toward him. 
 “A viper! You are bitten!” 
 
 The Doctor came down heavily out of the cleft, and 
 advanced in silence to meet the boy, whom he took 
 roughly by the shoulder. 
 
 “I have found it,” he said, with a gasp. 
 
 “A plant?” asked Jean-Marie. 
 
 Desprez had a .fit of unnatural gayety, which the 
 rocks took up and mimicked. “A plant!” he repeated 
 scornfully. “Well — ^yes — a plant. And here,” he added 
 suddenly, showing his right hand, which he had hitherto 
 concealed behind his back — “here is one of the bulbs.” 
 Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with earth. 
 “That?” said he. “It is a plate!” 
 
 “It is a coach and horses,” cried the Doctor. “Boy,” 
 he continued, growing warmer, “I plucked away a great 
 pad of moss from between these bowlders, and disclosed 
 a crevice; and when I looked in, what do you suppose 
 I saw? I saw a house in Paris with a court and gar- 
 den,* I saw my wife shining with diamonds, I saw my- 
 self a deputy, I saw you — well, I — I saw your future,” 
 he concluded, rather feebly. “I have Just discovered 
 Anerica,” he added. 
 
of prapel^ard 
 
 273 
 
 ‘‘But what is it?” asked the boy. 
 
 “The Treasure of Franchard,” cried the Doctor; and, 
 throwing his brown straw hat upon the ground, he 
 whooped like an Indian and sprang upon Jean-Marie, 
 whom he suffocated with embraces and bedewed with 
 tears. Then he flung himself down among the heather 
 and once more laughed until the valley rang. 
 
 But the boy had now an interest of his own, a 
 boy’s interest. No sooner was he released from the 
 Doctor’s accolade than he ran to the bowlders, sprang 
 into the niche, and, thrusting his hand into the crevice, 
 drew forth one after another, incrusted with the earth 
 of ages, the flagons, candlesticks, and patens of the 
 hermitage of Franchard. A casket came last, tightly 
 sTiut and very heavy. 
 
 “Oh, what fun!” he cried. 
 
 But when he looked back at the Doctor, who had 
 followed close behind and was silently observing, the 
 words died from his lips. Desprez was once more the 
 color of ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of 
 bestial greed possessed him. 
 
 “This is childish,” he said. “We lose precious time. 
 Back to the inn, harness the trap, and bring it to yon 
 bank. Kun for your life, and remember — not one whis- 
 per. I stay here to watch.” 
 
 Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not without 
 surprise. The noddy was brought round to the spot 
 indicated; and the two gradually transported the treas- 
 ure from its place of concealment to the boot below 
 the driving seat. Once it was all stored the Doctor 
 recovered his gayety. 
 
 “I pay my grateful duties to the genius of this 
 
274 
 
 U/orl^8 of F^obert Couis Steueijsop 
 
 dell,” he said. “Oh, for a live coal, a heifer, and a 
 jar of country wine! I am in the vein for sacrifice, 
 for a superb libation. Well, and why not? We are at 
 Pranchard. English pale ale is to be had — not classical, 
 indeed, but excellent. Boy, we shall drink ale.” 
 
 “But I thought it was so unwholesome,” said Jean- 
 Marie, “and very dear besides.” 
 
 “Piddle-de-deel” exclaimed the Doctor gayly. “To 
 the inn!” 
 
 And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his head, 
 with an elastic, youthful air. The horse was turned, 
 and in a few seconds they drew up beside the palings 
 of the inn garden. 
 
 “Here,” said Desprez — “here, near the table, so that 
 we may keep an eye upon things.” 
 
 They tied the horse, and entered the garden, the 
 Doctor singing, now in fantastic high notes, now pro- 
 ducing deep reverberations from his chest. He took a 
 seat, rapped loudly on the table, assailed the waiter with 
 witticisms; and when the bottle of Bass was at length 
 produced, far more charged with gas than the most 
 delirious champagne, he filled out a long glassful of 
 froth and pushed it over to Jean-Marie. “Drink,” he 
 said; “drink deep.” 
 
 “I would rather not,” faltered the boy, true to his 
 training. 
 
 “What?” thundered Desprez. 
 
 “I am afraid of it,” said Jean-Marie: “my stom- 
 ach — ” 
 
 “Take it or leave it,” interrupted Desprez fiercely; 
 “but understand it once for all — ^there is nothing so 
 contemptible as a precisian.” 
 
X*"^33ur^ of praijel?ard 
 
 276 
 
 Here was a new lesson! The boy sat bemused, look- 
 ing at the glass but not tasting it, while the Doctor 
 emptied and refilled his own, at first with clouded 
 brow, but gradually yielding to the sun, the heady, 
 prickling beverage, and his own predisposition to be 
 happy. 
 
 “Once in a way,” he said at last, by way of a 
 concession to the boy’s more rigorous attitude, “once in 
 a way, and at so critical a moment, this ale is a nec- 
 tar for the gods. The habit, indeed, is debasing; wine, 
 the juice of the grape, is the true drink of the French- 
 man, as I have often had occasion to point out; and 
 I do not know that I can blame you for refusing this 
 outlandish stimulant. You can have some wine and 
 cakes. Is the bottle empty? Well, we will not be 
 proud; we will have pity on your glass.” 
 
 The beer being done, the Doctor chafed bitterly while 
 Jean-Marie finished his cakes. “I burn to be gone,” 
 he said, looking at his watch. “Good God, how slow 
 you eat!” And yet to eat slowly was his own particu- 
 lar prescription, the main secret of longevity! 
 
 His martyrdom, however, reached an end at last; 
 the pair resumed their places in the buggy, and Des- 
 prez, leaning luxuriously back, announced his intention 
 of proceeding to Fontainebleau. 
 
 “To Fontainebleau?” repeated Jean-Marie. 
 
 “My words are always measured,” said the Doctor. 
 *‘On!” 
 
 The Doctor was driven through the glades of para- 
 dise; the air, the light, the shining leaves, the very 
 movements of the vehicle, seemed to fall in tune with 
 his golden meditations; with his head thrown back, he 
 
276 U/ori^8 of F^obert Couis Steuepsoi) 
 
 dreamed a series of sunny visions, ale and pleasure 
 dancing in his veins. At last he spoke. 
 
 “I shall telegraph for Casimii*,” he said. “Good 
 Casimir! a fellow of the lower order of intelligence, 
 Jean-Marie, distinctly not creative, not poetic; and yet 
 he will repay your study; his fortune is vast, and is 
 entirely due to his own exertions. He is the very fel- 
 low to help us to dispose of our trinkets, find us a 
 suitable house in Paris, and manage the details of our 
 installation. Admirable Casimir, one of my oldest com- 
 rades! It was on his advice, I may add, that I in- 
 vested my little fortune in Turkish bonds; when we 
 have added these spoils of the mediseval church to our 
 stake in the Mahometan empire, little boy, we shall 
 positively roll among doubloons, positively roll! Beauti- 
 ful forest,” he cried, “farewell! Though called to other 
 scenes, I will not forget thee. Thy name is graven in 
 my heart. Under the influence of prosperity 1 become 
 dithyrambic, Jean- Marie. Such is the impulse of the 
 natural soul; such was the constitution of primaeval 
 man. And I — well, I will not refuse the credit — I have 
 preserved my youth like a virginity ; another, who 
 should have led the same snoozing, countrified exist- 
 ence for these years, another had become rusted, be- 
 come stereotype; but I, I praise my happy constitution, 
 retain the spring unbroken. Fresh opulence and a new 
 sphere of duties find me unabated in ardor and only 
 more mature by knowledge. For this prospective change, 
 Jean-Marie — it may probably have shocked you. Tell 
 me now, did it not strike you as an inconsistency? 
 Confess — it is useless to dissemble — ^it pained you?” 
 
 “Yes,” said the boy. 
 
of praijel^ard 277 
 
 “You see,” returned tlie Doctor, with sublime” fatuity, 
 *‘I read your thoughts! Nor am I surprised — your edu- 
 cation is not yet complete; the higher duties of men 
 have not been yet presented to you fully. A hint — till 
 we have leisure — must suffice. Now that I am once 
 more in possession of a modest competence; now that 
 I have so long prepared myseK in silent meditation, it 
 becomes my superior duty to proceed to Paris. My 
 scientific training, my undoubted command of language, 
 mark me out for the service of my country. Modesty 
 in such a case would be a snare. If sin were a philo- 
 sophical expression, I should call it sinful. A man 
 must not deny his manifest abilities, for that is to 
 evade his obligations. I must be up and doing; I 
 must be no skulker in life’s battle.” 
 
 So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint of his 
 inconsistency with words; while the boy listened silently, 
 his eyes fixed on the horse, his mind seething. It was 
 all lost eloquence; no array of words could unsettle a 
 belief of Jean-Marie’s; and he drove into Fontainebleau 
 filled with pity, horror, indignation, and despair. 
 
 In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on the 
 driving seat, to guard the treasure ; while the Doctor, 
 with a singular, slightly tipsy airiness of manner, flut- 
 tei'ed in and out of cafes, where he shook hands with 
 garrison officers, and mixed an absinthe with the nicety 
 of old experience; in and out of shops, from which he 
 returned laden with costly fruits, real turtle, a magnifi- 
 cent piece of silk for his wife, a preposterous cane for 
 himself, and a kepi of the newest fashion for the boy; 
 in and out of the telegraph office, whence he dispatched 
 his telegram, and where three hours later he received 
 
378 U/orKs of F^obert Couij Steuei) 50 Q 
 
 an answer promising a visit on the morrow; and gener* 
 ally pervaded Fontainebleau with the first fine aroma of 
 his divine good humor. 
 
 The sun was very low when they set forth again; 
 the shadows of the forest trees extended across the 
 broad white road that led them home; the penetrating 
 odor of the evening wood had already arisen, like a 
 cloud of incense, from that broad field of treetops; and 
 even in the streets of the town, where the air had 
 been baked all day between white walls, it came in 
 whiffs and pulses, like a distant music. Half - way 
 home, the last gold flicker vanished from a great oak 
 upon the left; and when they came forth beyond the 
 borders of the wood, the plain was already sunken in 
 pearly grayness, and a great, pale moon came swinging 
 skyward through the filmy poplars. 
 
 The Doctor sang, the Doctor whistled, the Doctor 
 talked. He spoke of the woods, and the wars, and the 
 deposition of dew; he brightened and babbled of Paris; 
 he soared into cloudy bombast on the glories of the 
 political arena. All was to be changed; as the day 
 departed, it took with it the vestiges of an outworn 
 existence, and to-morrow’s sun was to inaugurate the 
 new. “Enough,” he cried, “of this life of macerationi” 
 His wife (still beautiful, or he was sadly partial) was 
 to be no longer buried; she should now shine before 
 society. Jean-Marie would find the world at his feet; 
 the roads open to success, wealth, honor, and post- 
 humous renown. “And oh! by the way,” said he, 
 “for God’s sake keep your tongue quiet! You are, of 
 course, a very silent fellow; it is a quality I gladly 
 recognize in you — silence, golden silence! But this is a 
 
J\)e Jreajure of praijolpard 279 
 
 matter of gravity. Ko word must get abroad; none 
 but the good Casimir is to be trusted; we shall prob- 
 ably dispose of the vessels in England.” 
 
 “But are they not even ours?” the boy said, almost 
 with a sob — ^it was the only time he had spoken. 
 
 “Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else’s,” 
 replied the Doctor. “But the State would have some 
 claim. If they were stolen, for instance, we should be 
 unable to demand their restitution; we should have no 
 title; we should be unable even to communicate with 
 the police. Such is the monstrous condition of the 
 law.* It is a mere instance of what remains to be 
 done, oi the injustices that may yet be righted by an 
 ardent, active, and philosophical deputy,” 
 
 Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; and 
 as they drove forward down the road from Bourron, 
 between the' rustling poplars, he prayed in his teeth, 
 and whipped up the horse to an unusual speed. Surely, 
 as soon as they arrived, madame would assert her char- 
 acter, and bring this waking nightmare to an end. 
 
 Their entrance into Gretz was heralded and accom- 
 panied by a most furious barking; all the dogs in the 
 village seemed to smell the treasure in the noddy. But 
 there was no one in the street, save three lounging 
 landscape painters at Tentaillon’s door. Jean -Marie 
 opened the green gate and led in the horse and car- 
 riage; and almost at the same moment Madame Des- 
 prez came to the kitchen threshold with a lighted lan- 
 tern; for the moon was not yet high enough to clear 
 the garden walls. 
 
 “Close the gates, Jean-Marie!” cried the Doctor, 
 
 * Let it be so, for my tale! 
 
280 U/orl^s of C0U15 SteueQ50i) 
 
 somewhat unsteadily alighting. “Anastasie, where is 
 Aline?” 
 
 “She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,” 
 said madame. 
 
 “All is for the best!” exclaimed the Doctor fervently. 
 “Here, quick, come near to me; I do not wish to speak 
 too loud,” he continued. “Darling, we are wealthy!” 
 
 “Wealthy!” repeated the wife. 
 
 “I have found the treasure of Franchard,” replied 
 her husband. “See, here are the first fruits; a pine- 
 
 apple, a dress for my ever-beautiful — ^it will suit her — 
 trust a husband’s, trust a lover’s, taste! Embrace me, 
 darling! This grimy episode is over; the butterfly un- 
 folds its painted wings. To-morrow Casimir will come; 
 in a week we may be in Paris — Chappy at last! You 
 
 shall have diamonds. Jean-Marie, take it out of the 
 
 boot, with religious care, and bring it piece by piece 
 
 into the dining-room. We shall have plate at tablet 
 Darling, hasten and prepare this turtle; it will be a 
 whet — it will be an addition to our meager ordinary. 
 I myself will proceed to the cellar. We shall have a 
 bottle of that little Beaujolais you like, and finish with 
 the Hermitage; there are still three bottles left. Worthy 
 wine for a worthy occasion.” 
 
 “But, my husband, you put me in a whirl,” she 
 cried. “I do not comprehend.” 
 
 “The turtle, my adored, the turtle!” cried the Doc- 
 tor; and he pushed her toward the kitchen, lantern and 
 all. 
 
 Jean-Marie stood dumfounded. He had pictured to 
 himself a different scene — a more immediate protest, and 
 Viis hope began to dwindle on the spot. 
 
Jreasure of praijel?ard 
 
 281 
 
 The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his 
 /egs, perhaps, and now and then taking the wall with 
 his shoulder; for it was long since he had tasted ab- 
 sinthe, and he was even then reflecting that the ab- 
 sinthe had been a misconception. Not that he regretted 
 excess on such a glorious day, but he made a mental 
 memorandum to beware; he must not, a second time, 
 become the victim of a deleterious habit. He had his 
 wine out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the 
 sacrificial vessels, some on the white table-cloth, some 
 on the sideboard, still crusted with historic earth. He 
 was in and out of the kitchen, plying Anastasie with 
 vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the future, 
 estimating their new wealth at ev^er larger figures; and 
 before they sat down to supper, the lady’s virtue had 
 melted in the fire of his enthusiasm, her timidity had 
 disappeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly 
 of the life at Gretz; and as she took her place and 
 helped the soup, her eyes shone with the glitter of 
 prospective diamonds. 
 
 All through the meal, she and the Doctor made and 
 unmade fairy plans. They bobbed and bowed and 
 pledged each other. Their faces ran over with smiles; 
 their eyes scattered sparkles, as they projected the Doc- 
 tor’s political honors and the lady’s drawing-room ova- 
 tions. 
 
 “But you will not be a Red I” cried Anastasie. 
 
 “I am Left Center to the core,” replied the Doctor. 
 
 “Madame Gastein will present us — we shall find our- 
 selves forgotten,” said the lady. 
 
 “Never,” protested the Doctor. “Beauty and talent 
 
 leave a mark.” 
 
 Stevenson. Vol. I, — 37 
 
282 U/orKs of F^obert Coui5 Steuepsoij 
 
 “I have positively forgotten how to dress,’* she 
 sighed. 
 
 “Darling, you make me blush,” cried he. “Yours 
 has been a tragic marriage!” 
 
 “But your success — to see you appreciated, honored, 
 your name in all the papers, that will be more than 
 pleasure — it will be heaven!” she cried. 
 
 “And once a week,” said the Doctor, archly scan- 
 ning the syllables, “once a week — one good little game 
 of baccarat?” 
 
 “Only once a week?” she questioned, threatening 
 him with a finger. 
 
 “I swear it by my political honor,” cried he. 
 
 “I spoil you,” she said, and gave him her hand. 
 
 He covered it with kisses. 
 
 Jean-Marie escaped into the night. The moon swung 
 high over Gretz. He went down to the garden end and 
 sat on the jetty. The river ran by with eddies of oily 
 silver, and a low, monotonous song. Faint veils of mist 
 moved among the poplars on the further side. The 
 reeds were quietly nodding. A hundred times already 
 had the boy sat, on such a night, and watched the 
 streaming river with untroubled fancy. And this per- 
 haps was to be the last. He was to leave this famil- 
 iar hamlet, this green, rustling country, this bright and 
 quiet stream; he was to pass into the great city; his 
 dear lady mistress was to move bedizened in saloons; 
 his good, garrulous, kind-hearted master to become a 
 brawling deputy; and both be lost forever to Jean- 
 Marie and their better selves. He knew his own de- 
 fects; he knew he must sink into less and less consid- 
 eration in the turmoil of a city life, sink more and more 
 
T*"^35ur^ of praijel?ard 
 
 283 
 
 from the child into the servant. And he began dimly to 
 believe the Doctor’s prophecies of evil. He could see a 
 change in both. His generous incredulity failed him for 
 this once ; a child must have perceived that the Her- 
 mitage had completed what the absinthe had begun. If 
 this were the first day, what would be the last? “If 
 necessary, wreck the train,” thought he, remembering 
 the Doctor’s parable. He looked round on the delight- 
 ful scene; he drank deep of the charmed night air 
 laden with the scent of hay. “If necessary, wreck the 
 train,” he repeated. And he rose and returned to the 
 house. 
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS 
 
 The next morning there was the most unusual out- 
 cry in the Doctor’s house. The last thing before going 
 to bed, the Doctor had locked up some valuables in 
 the dining-room cupboard ; and behold, when he rose 
 again, as he did about four o’clock, the cupboard had 
 been broken open, and the valuables in question had 
 disappeared. Madame and Jean-Mane were summoned 
 from their rooms, aand appeared in hasty toilets; they 
 found the Dactor raving, calling the heavens to witness 
 and avenge his injury, pacing the room barefooted, with 
 the tails of his nightshirt flirting as he turned. 
 
 “Gone!” he said; “the things are gone, the fortune 
 gone! We are paupers once more. Boy! what do you 
 know of this? Speak up, sir, speak up. Do you know 
 
284 U/orl^5 of l^obert Couij Steveij$oij 
 
 of it? Where are they?” He had him by the arm, 
 shaking him like a bag, and the boy’s words, if he 
 had any, were jolted forth in inarticulate murmurs. 
 The Doctor, with a revulsion from his own violence, set 
 him down again. He observed Anastasie in tears. “An- 
 astasie,” he said, in quite an altered voice, “compose 
 yourself, command your feelings. I would not have 
 you give way to passion like the vulgar. This— this 
 trifling accident must be lived down. Jean-Marie, bring 
 me my smaller medicine chest. A gentle laxative is 
 indicated.” 
 
 And he dosed the family all round, leading the way 
 himself with a double quantity. The wretched Anas- 
 tasie, who had never been ill in the whole course of 
 her existence, and whose souL recoiled from remedies, 
 wept floods of tears as she sipped, and shuddered, and 
 protested, and then was bullied and shouted at until 
 she sipped again. As for Jean-Marie, he took his por- 
 tion down with stoicism. 
 
 “I have given him a less amount,” observed the 
 Doctor, “his youth protecting him against emotion. 
 And now that we have thus parried any morbid conse- 
 quences, let us reason.” 
 
 “I am so cold,” wailed Anastasie. 
 
 “Cold!” cried the Doctor. “I give thanks to God 
 that I am made of fierier material. Why, madame, a 
 blow like this would set a frog into a transpiration. If 
 you are cold, you can retire ; and, by the way, you 
 might throw me down my trousers. It is chilly for the 
 legs.” 
 
 “Oh, .no!” protested Anastasie; “I will stay with 
 you.” 
 
of prai?el?ard 
 
 285 
 
 “Nay, madam, you shall not suffer for your devo- 
 tion,” said the Doctor. “I will myself fetch you a 
 shawl.” And he went upstairs and returned more fully 
 clad and with an armful of wraps for the shivering 
 Anastasie. “And now,” he resumed, “to investigate 
 this crime. Let us proceed by induction. Anastasie, do 
 you know anything that can help us?” Anastasie knew 
 nothing. “Or you, Jean-Marie?” 
 
 “Not I,” replied the boy steadily. 
 
 “Good,” returned the Doctor. “We shall now turn 
 our attention to the material evidences. (I was born to 
 be a detective; I have the eye and the systematic 
 spirit.) First, violence has been employed. The door 
 was broken open; and it may be observed, in passing, 
 that the lock was dear indeed at what I paid for it: 
 a crow to pluck with Master Goguelat. Second, here 
 is the instrument employed, one of our own table-knives, 
 one of our best, my dear; which seems to indicate no 
 preparation on the part of the gang — ^if gang it was. 
 Thirdly, I observe that nothing has been removed ex- 
 cept the Franchard dishes and the casket; our own 
 silver has been minutely respected. This is wily; it 
 shows intelligence, a knowledge of the code, a desire to 
 avoid legal consequences. I argue from this fact that 
 the gang numbers persons of respectability — outward, of 
 course, and merely outward, as the robbery proves. But 
 I argue, second, that we must have been observed at 
 Franchard itself by some occult observer, and dogged 
 throughout the day with a skill and patience that I 
 venture to qualify as consummate. No ordinary man, 
 no occasional criminal, would have shown himself capa- 
 ble of this combination. We have in our neighborhood, 
 
286 U/orKs of F^obert Coufs Stet/eijsoij 
 
 it is far from improbable, a retired bandit of the high- 
 est order of intelligence.” 
 
 “Good Heaven!” cried the horrified Anastasie. 
 “Henri, how can you?” 
 
 “My cherished one, this is a process of induction,’* 
 
 said the Doctor. “If any of my steps are unsound, 
 
 correct me. You are silent? Then do not, I beseech 
 
 you, be so vulgarly illogical as to revolt from my con- 
 clusion. We have now arrive ’,” he resumed, “at some 
 idea of the composition of the gang — for I incline to 
 the hypothesis of more than one — and we now leave this 
 room, which can disclose no more, and turn our atten- 
 tion to the court and garden. (Jean-Marie, I trust you 
 are observantly following my various steps; this is an 
 excellent piece of education for you.) Come with me 
 to the door. No steps on the court; it is unfortunate 
 our court should be paved. On what small matters 
 
 hang the destiny of these delicate investigations! Hey! 
 What have we here? I have led you to the very spot,” 
 he said, standing grandly backward and indicating the 
 green gate. “An escalade, as you can now see for 
 yourselves, has taken place.” 
 
 Sure enough, the green paint was in several places 
 scratched and broken; and one of the panels preserved 
 the print of a nailed shoe. The foot had slipped, how- 
 ever, and it was difficult to estimate the size of the 
 shoe, and impossible to distinguish the pattern of the 
 nails. 
 
 “The whole robbery,” concluded the Doctor, “step 
 by step, has been reconstituted. Inductive science cau 
 no further go.” 
 
 “It is wonderful,” said his wife. “You should im 
 
Xreasur(^ of prai?el?ard 287 
 
 deed have been a detective, Henri. I had no idea of 
 your talents.” 
 
 “My dear,” replied Desprez condescendingly, “a man 
 of scientific imagination combines the lesser faculties; 
 he is a detective just as he is a publicist or a gen- 
 eral; these are but local applications of his special tal- 
 ent. But now,” he continued, “would you have me 
 go further? Would you have me lay my finger on the 
 culprits — or, rather, for I cannot promise quite so much, 
 point out to you the very house where they consort? It 
 may be a satisfaction, at least it is all we are likely 
 to get, since we are denied the remedy of law. I reach 
 the further stage in this way. In order to fill my out- 
 line of the robbery, I require a man likely to be in 
 the forest idling, I require a man of education, I re- 
 quire a man superior to considerations of morality. The 
 three requisites all center in Tentaillon’s boarders. They 
 are painters, therefore they are continually lounging in 
 the forest. They are painters, therefore they are not 
 unlikely to have some smattering of education. Lastly, 
 because they are painters, they are probably immoral. 
 And this I prove in two ways. First, painting is an 
 art which merely addresses the eye; it does not in any 
 particular exercise the moral sense. And second, paint- 
 ing, in common with all the other arts, implies the 
 dangerous quality of imagination. A man of imagina- 
 tion is never moral ; he outsoars literal demarkations 
 and reviews life under too many shifting lights to rest 
 content with the invidious distinctions of the law!” 
 
 “But you always say — at least, so I understood 
 you” — said madame, “that these lads display no imag- 
 ination whatever. ’ * 
 
288 U/orl^8 of I^obert Couis Stcueijsoij 
 
 “Mj dear, they displayed imagination, and of a very 
 fantastic order, too,” returned the Doctor, “when they 
 embraced their beggarly profession. Besides — and this is 
 an argument exactly suited to your intellectual level — 
 many of them are English and American. Where else 
 should we expect to find a thief? — And now you had 
 better get your coffee. Because we have lost a treasure 
 there is no reason for starving. For my part, I shall 
 break my fast with white wine. I feel unaccountably 
 heated and thirsty to-day. I can only attribute it to 
 the shock of the discovery. And yet, you will bear me 
 out, I supported the emotion nobly.” 
 
 The Doctor had now talked himself back into an 
 admirable humor ; and as he sat in the arbor and 
 slowly imbibed a large allowance of white wine and 
 picked a little bread and cheese with no very impetuous 
 appetite, if a third of his meditations ran upon the 
 missing treasure, the other two-thirds were more pleas- 
 ingly busied in the retrospect of his detective skill. 
 
 About eleven Casimir arrived; he had caught an 
 early train to Fontainebleau, and driven over to save 
 time; and now his cab was stabled at Tentaillon’s, and 
 he remarked, studying his watch, that he could spare 
 an hour and a half. He was much the man of busi- 
 ness, decisively spoken, given to frowning in an intel- 
 lectual manner. Anastasie’s born brother, he did not 
 waste much sentiment on the lady, gave her an English 
 family kiss, and demanded a meal without delay. 
 
 “You can tell me your story while we eat,” he ob- 
 served. “Anything good to-day, Stasie?” 
 
 He was promised something good. The trio sat 
 down to table in the arbor, Jean-Marie waiting as well 
 
Jr^asure of prapefyard 
 
 289 
 
 as eating, and the Doctor recounted what had hap- 
 pened in his richest narrative manner. Casimir heard it 
 with explosions of laughter. 
 
 “What a streak of luck for you, my good brother,” 
 he observed, when the tale was over. “If you had 
 gone to Paris, you would have played dick-duck-drake 
 with the whole consignment in three months. Your 
 own would have followed; and you would have come to 
 me in a procession like the last time. But I give you 
 warning — Stasie may weep and Henri ratiocinate — it will 
 not serve you twice. Your next collapse will be fatal. 
 I thought I had told you so, Stasie? Hey? No sense?” 
 
 The Doctor winced and looked furtively at Jean- 
 Marie; but the boy seemed apathetic. 
 
 “And then again,” broke out Casimir, “what chil- 
 dren you are — vicious children, my faith! How could 
 
 i 
 
 you tell the value of this trash? If might have been 
 worth nothing, or next door.” 
 
 “Pardon me,” said the Doctor. “You have your 
 usual flow of spirits, I perceive, but even less than 
 your usual deliberation. I am not entirely ignorant of 
 these matters.” 
 
 “Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard of,” 
 interrupted Casimir, bowing, and raising his glass with 
 a sort of pert politeness. 
 
 “At least,” resumed the Doctor, “I gave my mind 
 to the subject — that you may be willing to believe — 
 and I estimated that our capital would be doubled.” 
 And he described the nature of the And. 
 
 “My word of honor!” said Casimir, “I half believe 
 you ! But much would depend on the quality of the 
 gold.” 
 
290 
 
 U/orl^5 of Holiorfc Couij Steuei 750 ii 7 
 
 “The quality, my dear Casimir, was — ” And the 
 Doctor, in default of language, kissed his finger-tips. 
 
 “I would not take your word for it, my good 
 friend,” retorted the man of business. “You are a 
 man of very rosy views. But this robbery,” he con- 
 tinued — “this robbery is an odd thing. Of course I 
 pass over your nonsense about gangs and landscape- 
 painters. For me, that is a dream. Who was in the 
 house last night?” 
 
 “None but ourselves,” replied the Doctor. 
 
 “And this young gentleman?” asked Casimir, jerk- 
 ing a nod in the direction of Jean-Marie. 
 
 “He, too” — the Doctor bowed. 
 
 “Well; and, if it is a fair question, who is he?” 
 pursued the brother-in-law. 
 
 “Jean-Marie,” answered the Doctor, “combines the 
 functions of a son and stable-boy. He began as the 
 latter, but he rose rapidly to the more honorable rank 
 in our affections. He is, I may say, the greatest com- 
 fort in our lives.” 
 
 “Ha!” said Casimir. “And previous to becoming one 
 of you?” 
 
 “Jean-Marie has lived a remarkable existence; his 
 experience has been eminently formative,” replied Des- 
 prez. “If I had had to choose an education for my 
 son, I should have chosen such another. Beginning life 
 with mountebanks and thieves, passing onward to the 
 society and friendship of philosophers, he may be said 
 to have skimmed the volume of human life.” 
 
 “Thieves?” repeated the brother-in-law, with a medi- 
 tative air. 
 
 The Doctor could have bitten his tongue out. He 
 
T*"^3sure of praijolpard 
 
 291 
 
 foresaw what was coming, and prepared his mind for 
 a vigorous defense. 
 
 “Did you ever steal yourself?” asked Casimir, turn- 
 ing suddenly on Jean-Marie, and for the first time 
 employing a single eyeglass which hung round his neck. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a deep blush. 
 
 Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips, and 
 nodded to them meaningly. “Hey?” said he; “how is 
 that?” 
 
 “Jean-Marie is a teller of the tnith,” returned the 
 Doctor, throwing out his bust. 
 
 “He has never told a lie,” added madame. “He is 
 the best of boys.” 
 
 “Never told a lie, has he not?” reflected Casimir. 
 “Strange, very strange. Give me your attention, my 
 young friend,” he continued. “You knew about this 
 treasure?” 
 
 “He helped to bring it home,” interposed the Doctor. 
 
 “Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your 
 tongue,” returned Casimir. “I mean to question this 
 stable-boy of yours; and if you are so certain of his 
 innocence, you can afford to let him answer for him- 
 self. Now, sir,” he resumed, pointing his eyeglas 
 straight at Jean-Marie. “You knew it could be stolen 
 with impunity? You knew you could not be prosecuted? 
 Come! Did you, or did you not?” 
 
 “I did,” answered Jean-Marie, in a miserable whis- 
 per. He sat there changing color like a revolving 
 pharos, twisting hfs fingers hysterically, swallowing air, 
 the picture of guilt. 
 
 “You knew where it was put?” resumed the 
 inquisitor. 
 
292 
 
 U/or^s of F^obert Couis Steuepsop 
 
 “Yes,” from Jean-Marie. 
 
 “You say you have been a thief before,” continued 
 Casimir. “Now how am I to know that you are not 
 one still? I suppose you could climb the green gate?” 
 “Yes,” still lower, from the culprit. 
 
 “Well, then, it was you who stole these things. 
 You know it, and you dare not deny it. Look me in 
 the face! Raise your sneak’s eyes, and answer!” 
 
 But in place of anything of that sort Jean-Marie 
 broke into a dismal howl and fled from the arbor. 
 Anastasie, as she pursued to capture and reassure the 
 victim, found time to send one Parthian arrow — “Casimir, 
 you are a brute!” 
 
 “My brother,” said Desprez, with the greatest 
 dignity, “you take upon yourself a Kcense — ” 
 
 “Desprez,” interrupted Casimir, “for Heaven’s sake 
 be a man of the world. You telegraph me to leave 
 my business and come down here on yours. I come, I 
 ask the business, you say ‘Find me this thief!’ Well, 
 I And him; I say ‘There he is!’ You need not like it, 
 but you have no manner of right to take offense.” 
 “Well,” returned the Doctor, “I grant that; I will 
 even thank you for your mistaken zeal. But your 
 hypothesis was so extravagantly monstrous — ” 
 
 “Look here,” interrupted Casimir; “was it you or 
 Stasie?” 
 
 ‘‘Certainly not,” answered the Doctor. 
 
 “Very well; then it was the boy. Say no more 
 about it,” said the brother-in-law, and he produced his 
 cigar-case. 
 
 “I will say this much more,” returned Desprez; 
 “if that boy came and told me so himself, I should 
 
Treasure of Frai)<;I?ard 
 
 293 
 
 not believe him; and if I did believe him, so implicit 
 is my trust, I should conclude that he had acted for 
 the best.” 
 
 “Well, well,” said Casimir, indulgently. “Have you 
 a light? I must be going. And by the way, I wish 
 you would let me sell your Turks for you. I always 
 told you, it meant smash. I tell you so again. In- 
 deed, it was partly that that brought me down. You 
 never acknowledge my letters — a most unpardonable 
 habit.” 
 
 “My good brother,” replied the Doctor blandly, “I 
 have never denied your ability in business; but I can 
 perceive your limitations.” 
 
 “Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment,” 
 observed the man of business. “Your limitation is to 
 be downright irrational.” 
 
 “Observe the relative position,” returned the Doctor 
 with a smile. “It is your attitude to believe through 
 thick and thin in one man’s judgment — ^your own. I 
 follow the same opinion, but critically and with open 
 eyes. Which is the more irrational? — I leave it to 
 yourself.” 
 
 “O, my dear fellow!” cried Casimir, “stick to your 
 Turks, stick to your stable-boy, go to the devil in gen- 
 eral in your own way and be done with it. But don’t 
 ratiocinate with me — I cannot bear it. And so, ta-ta. 
 I might as well have stayed away for any good I’ve 
 done. Say good-by from me to Stasie, and to the sul- 
 len hang-dog of a stable-boy, if you insist on it; 
 I’m ofle.” 
 
 And Casimir departed. The Doctor, that night, dis- 
 sected his character before Anastasie. “One thing, my 
 
Z94 U/orI^5 of Hol^ort Coui3 Steuepjoi; 
 
 beautiful,” he said, “he has learned one thing from his 
 lifelong acquaintance with your husband : the word 
 
 ratiocinate. It shines in his vocabulary, like a jewel 
 in a muck-heap. And, even so, he continually misap- 
 plies it. For you must have observed he uses it as a 
 sort of taunt, in the sense of to ergotize^ implying, as 
 it were — the poor, dear fellow! — a vein of sophistry. As 
 for his cruelty to Jean-Marie, it must be forgiven him 
 — it is not his nature, it is the nature of his life. A 
 man who deals with money, my dear, is a man lost.” 
 
 With Jean-Marie the process of reconciliation had 
 been somewhat slow. At first he was inconsolable, in 
 sisted on leaving the family, went from paroxysm to 
 paroxysm of tears; and it was only after Anastasie had 
 been closeted for an hour with him, alone, that she came 
 forth, sought out the Doctor, and, with tears in her eyes^ 
 acquainted that gentleman with what had passed. 
 
 “At first, my husband, he would hear of nothing,” 
 she said. “Imagine! if he had left us! what would 
 the treasure be to that? Horrible treasure, it has 
 brought all this about! At last, after he has sobbed 
 his very heart out, he agrees to stay on a condition — 
 we are not to mention this matter, this infamous sus- 
 picion, not even to mention the robbery. On that agree- 
 ment only, the poor, cruel boy will consent to remain 
 among his friends.” 
 
 “But this inhibition,” said the Doctor, “this embargo 
 — it cannot possibly apply to me?” 
 
 “To all of us,” Anastasie assured him. 
 
 “My cherished one,” Desprez protested, ^ you must 
 have misunderstood. It cannot apply to me. He would 
 naturally come to me.” 
 
Jrcasur^ of praijelpard 
 
 29S 
 
 • “Henri,** she said, “it does; I swear to you it 
 does.’* 
 
 “This is a painful, a very painful circumstance,** 
 the Doctor said, looking a little black. “I cannot affect, 
 Anastasie, to be anything but justly wounded. I feel 
 this, I feel it, my wife, acutely.’' 
 
 “I knew you would,” she said. “But if you had 
 seen his distress! We must make allowances, we must 
 sacrifice our feelings.** 
 
 “I trust, my dear, you have never found me averse 
 to sacrifices,” returned the Doctor very stiffly. 
 
 “And you will let me go and tell him that you 
 have agreed? It will be like your noble nature,** she 
 cried. 
 
 So it would, he perceived — ^it would be like his noble 
 nature! Up jumped his spirits, triumphant at the 
 thought. “Go, darling,** he said nobly, “reassure him. 
 The subject is buried; more — I make an effort, I have 
 accustomed my will to these exertions — and it is for- 
 gotten.** 
 
 A little after, but still with swollen eyes and look- 
 ing mortally sheepish, Jean-Marie reappeared and went 
 ostentatiously about his business. He was the only un- 
 happy member of the party that sat down that night to 
 supper. As for the Doctor, he was radiant. He thus 
 sang the requiem of the treasure: 
 
 ‘•This has been, on the whole, a most amusing epi- 
 sode,” he said. “We are not a penny the worse — nay, 
 we are immensely gainers. Our philosophy has been 
 exercised; some of the turtle is still left — the most 
 wholesome of delicacies; I have my staff, Anastasie has 
 her new dress, Jean-Marie is the proud possessor of a 
 
296 U/orl^5 of f^obert Coui^ Steuer?soi? 
 
 fashionable kepi. Besides, we had a glass of Hermitage 
 last night; the glow still suffuses my memory. I was 
 growing positively niggardly with that Hermitage, posi- 
 tively niggardly. Let me take the hint: we had one 
 bottle to celebrate the appearance of our visionary for- 
 tune; let us have a second to console us for its occul- 
 tation. The third I hereby dedicate to Jean-Marie’s 
 wedding breakfast.” 
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 THE FALL OP THE HOUSE OP DESPREZ 
 
 The Doctor’s house has not yet received the com- 
 pliment of a description, and it is now high time that 
 the omission were supplied, for the house is itself an 
 actor in the story, and one whose part is nearly at an 
 end. Two stories in height, walls of a warm yellow, 
 tiles of an ancient ruddy brown diversified with moss 
 and lichen, it stood with one wall to the street in the 
 angle of the Doctor’s property. It was roomy, draughty, 
 and inconvenient. The large rafters were here and there 
 engraven with rude marks and patterns; the handrail 
 of the stair was carved in countrified arabesque; a 
 stout timber pillar, which did duty to support the din- 
 ing-room roof, bore mysterious characters on its darker 
 side, runes, according to the Doctor; nor did he fail, 
 when he ran over the legendary history of the house 
 and its possessors, to dwell upon the Scandinavian 
 scholar who had left them. Floors, doors, and rafters 
 
Jl?e Xr^asur^ of yr:^T)Q\f^r'd ‘.i97 
 
 made a great variety of angles; every room had a 
 narticular inclination; the gable had tilted toward the 
 garden, after the manner of a leaning tower, and one 
 of the former proprietors had buttressed the building 
 from that side with a great strut of wood, like the 
 derrick of a crane. Altogether, it had many marks of 
 ruin; it was a house for the rats to desert; and noth- 
 ing but its excellent brightness — the window-glass pol- 
 ished and shining, the paint well scoured, the brasses 
 radiant, the very prop all wreathed about with climb- 
 ing flowers — nothing but its air of a well- tended, smil- 
 ing veteran, sitting, crutch and all, in the sunny corner 
 of a- garden, marked it as a house for comfortable peo- 
 ple to inhabit. In poor or idle management it would 
 soon have hurried into the blackguard stages of decay. 
 As it was, the whole family loved it, and the Doctor 
 was never better inspired than when he narrated its 
 imaginary story and drew the character of its successive 
 masters, from the Hebrew merchant who had re-edified 
 its walls after the sack of the town, and past the mys- 
 terious engraver of the runes, down to the long-headed, 
 dirty- handed boor from whom he had himself acquired 
 it at a ruinous expense. As for any alarm about its 
 security, the idea had never presented itself. What bai 
 stood four centuries might well endure a little longer. 
 
 Indeed, in this particular winter, after the finding 
 and losing of the treasure, the Desprezes had an anxiety 
 of a very different order, and one which lay nearer 
 their hearts. Jean-Marie was plainly not himself He 
 had fits of hectic activity, when he made unusual ex- 
 ertions to please, spoke more and faster, and redoubled 
 
 in attention to his lessons. But these were interruptea 
 Stevenson. Voi. L — 38 
 
/i98 U/orl^5 of F^obert Couij Stcuei>50ij 
 
 by spells of melancholia and brooding silence, when the 
 boy was little better than unbearable. 
 
 “Silence,” the Doctor moralized — “you see, Anastasie, 
 what comes of silence. Had the boy properly unbosomed 
 himself, the little disappointment about the treasure, the 
 little annoyance about Casimir’s incivility, would long 
 ago have been forgotten. As it is, they prey upon him 
 like a disease. He loses flesh, his appetite is variable, 
 and, on the whole, impaired. I keep him on the strict- 
 est regimen, I exhibit the most powerful tonics; both 
 in vain.” 
 
 “Don’t you think you drug him too much?” asked 
 madame, with an irrepressible shudder. 
 
 “Drug?” cried the Doctor; “I drug? Anastasie, you 
 are mad!” 
 
 Time went on, and the boy’s health still slowly de- 
 clined. The Doctor blamed the weather, which was 
 cold and boisterous. He called in his confrere from 
 Bourron, took a fancy for him, magnified his capacity, 
 and was pretty soon under treatment himself — ^it scarcely 
 appeared for what complaint. He and Jean-Marie had 
 each medicine to take at different periods of the day. 
 The Doctor used to lie in wait for the exact moment 
 watch in hand. “There is nothing like regularity,” he 
 
 would say, fill out the doses, and dilate on the virtues 
 
 » 
 
 of the draught; and if the boy seemed none the bet- 
 ter, the Doctor was not at all the worse. 
 
 Gunpowder Day, the boy was particularly low. It 
 was scowling, squally weather. Huge broken companies 
 of cloud sailed swiftly overhead; raking gleams of sun- 
 light swept the village, and were followed by intervals 
 of darkness and white, flying rain. At times the wind 
 
7^^ 7*“^3sur^ of prai>el?ard '/J99 
 
 lifted up its voice and bellowed. The trees were all 
 scourging themselves along the meadows, the last leaves 
 flying like dust. 
 
 The Doctor, between the boy and the weather, was 
 in his element; he had a theory to prove. He sat with 
 his watch out and a barometer in front of him, wait- 
 ing for the squalls and noting their effect upon the 
 human pulse. “For the true philosopher,” he remarked 
 delightedly, “every fact in nature is a toy.” A letter 
 came to him; but, as its arrival coincided with the ap- 
 proach of another gust, he merely crammed it into his 
 pocket, gave the time to Jean-Marie, and the next mo- 
 ment they were both counting their pulses as if for a wager. 
 
 At nightfall the wind rose into a tempest. It be- 
 sieged the hamlet, apparently from every side, as if 
 with batteries of cannon; the houses shook and groaned; 
 live coals were blown upon the floor. The uproar and 
 terror of the night kept people long awake, sitting with 
 pallid faces giving ear. 
 
 It was twelve before the Desprez family retired. By 
 half-past one, when the storm was already somewhat 
 past its height, the Doctor was awakened from a trou- 
 bled slumber, and sat up. A noise still rang in his 
 ears, but whether of this world or the world of dreams 
 he was not certain. Another clap of wind followed. It 
 was accompanied by a sickening movement of the whole 
 house, and in the subsequent lull Desprez could hear 
 the tiles pouring like a cataract into the loft abore his 
 head. He plucked Anastasie bodily out of bed. 
 
 “Run I” he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel 
 into her hands; “the house is falling! To the garden!” 
 
 She did not pause to be twice bidden ; she was 
 
500 \I/orl^8 of {Robert Couis Stev/ei^sop 
 
 down the stair in an instant. She had never before 
 suspected herself of such activity. The Doctor mean- 
 while, with the speed of a piece of pantomime busi- 
 ness, and undeterred by broken shins, proceeded to rout 
 out Jean-Marie, tore Aline from her virgin slumbers, 
 seized her by the hand, and tumbled downstairs and 
 into the garden, with the girl tumbling behind him, 
 still not half awake. 
 
 The fugitives rendezvous’d in the arbor by some 
 common instinct. Then came a bull’s-eye flash of strug- 
 gling moonshine, which disclosed their four figures stand- 
 ing huddled from the wind in a rafile of flying drapery, 
 and not without a considerable need for more. At the 
 humiliating spectacle Anastasie clutched her nightdress 
 desperately about her and burst loudly into tears. The 
 Doctor flew to console her; but she elbowed him away. 
 She suspected everybody of being the general public, 
 and thought the darkness was alive with eyes. 
 
 Another gleam and another violent gust arrived to- 
 gether; the house was seen to rock on its foundation, 
 and, just as the light was once more eclipsed, a crash 
 which triumphed over the shouting of the wind an- 
 nounced its fall, and for a moment the whole garden 
 was alive with skipping tiles and brickbats. One such 
 missile grazed the Doctor’s ear; another descended on 
 the bare foot of Aline, who instantly made night hid- 
 eous with her shrieks. 
 
 By this time the hamlet was alarmed, lights flashed 
 from the windows, hails reached the party, and the 
 Doctor answered, nobly contending against Aline and 
 the tempest. But this prospect of help only awakened 
 Anastasie to a more active stage of terror. 
 
Jreasur^ of prapel?ard 
 
 301 
 
 “Henri, people will be coming,” she screamed in her 
 husband’s ear. 
 
 “I trust so,” he replied. 
 
 “They cannot. I would rather die,” she wailed. 
 
 “My dear,” said the Doctor reprovingly, “you are 
 excited. I gave you some clothes. What have you 
 done with them?” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know — I must have thrown them away! 
 Where are they?” she sobbed. 
 
 Desprez groped about in the darkness. “Admirable!” 
 he remarked; “my gray velveteen trousers! This will 
 exactly meet your necessities.” 
 
 “Give them to me!” she cried fiercely; but as soon 
 as she had them in her hands her mood appeared to 
 alter — she stood silent for a moment, and then pressed 
 the garment back upon the Doctor. “Give it to Aline,” 
 she said — “poor girl.” 
 
 “Nonsense!” said the Doctor. “Aline does not know 
 what she is about. Aline is beside herself with terror; 
 and at any rate, she is a peasant. Now I am really 
 concerned at this exposure for a person of your house- 
 keeping habits; my solicitude and your fantastic mod 
 esty both point to the same remedy — the pantaloons.” 
 He held them ready. 
 
 “It is impossible. You do not understand,” she said 
 with dignity. 
 
 By this time rescue was at hand. It had been 
 found impracticable to enter by the street, for the gate 
 was blocked with masonry, and the nodding ruin still 
 threatened further avalanches. But between the Doc' 
 tor’s garden and the one on the right hand there was 
 that very picturesque contrivance — a common well; the 
 
302 Worlds of I^obert Couis Steuepsoi^ 
 
 door on the Desprez’ side had chanced to be unbolted, 
 and now, through the arched aperture a man’s bearded 
 face and an arm supporting a lantern were introduced 
 into the world of windy darkness, where Anastasie con- 
 cealed her woes. The light struck here and there among 
 the tossing apple boughs, it glinted on the grass; but 
 the lantern and the glowing face became the center of 
 the world. Anastasie crouched back from the intrusion. 
 
 “This way!” shouted the man. “Are you all safe?” 
 
 Aline, still screaming, ran to the new comer, and 
 was presently hauled headforemost through the wall. 
 
 “Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn,” said 
 the husband., 
 
 “I cannot,” she replied. 
 
 “Are we all to die of exposure, madame?” thun- 
 dered Dr. Desprez. 
 
 “You can go!” she cried. “Oh, go, go away! I 
 can stay here; I am quite warm.” 
 
 The Doctor took her by the shoulders with an oath. 
 
 “Stop!” she screamed. “I will put them on.” 
 
 She took the detested lendings in her hand once 
 more; but her repulsion was stronger than shame. 
 “Never!” she ciied, shuddering, and flung them far 
 away into the night. 
 
 Next moment the Doctor had whirled her to the 
 *^ell. The man was there and the lantern; Anastasie 
 closed her eyes and appeared to herself to be about to 
 die. How she was transported through the arch she 
 knew not; but once on the other side she was received 
 by the neighbor’s wife, and enveloped in a friendly 
 blanket. 
 
 Beds were made ready for the two women, clothes 
 
of prai)el?ard 
 
 303 
 
 of very various sizes for the Doctor and Jean-Marie; 
 and for the remainder of the night, while madame 
 
 dozed in and out on the borderland of hysterics, her 
 husband sat beside the fire and held forth to the ad- 
 miring neighbors. He showed them, at length, the 
 
 causes of the accident; for years, he explained, the fall 
 had been impending; one sign had followed another, 
 the joints had opened, the plaster had cracked, the old 
 walls bowed inward; last, not three weeks ago, the 
 
 cellar door had begun to work with difficulty in its 
 grooves. “The cellar!” he said, gravely shaking his 
 head over a glass of mulled wine. “That reminds me 
 of my poor vintages. By a manifest providence the 
 Hermitage was nearly at an end. One bottle— I lose 
 but one bottle of that incomparable wine. It had been 
 set apart against Jean-Marie’s wedding. Well, I must 
 lay down some more; it will be an interest in life. I 
 am, however, a man somewhat advanced in years. My 
 great work is now buried in the fall of my humble 
 roof; it will never be completed — my name will have 
 been writ in water. And yet you find me calm — I 
 would say cheerful. Can your priest do more?” 
 
 By the first glimpse of day the party sallied forth 
 from the fireside into the street. The wind had fallen, 
 but still charioted a world of troubled clouds; the air 
 bit like frost; and the party, as they stood about the 
 ruins in the rainy twilight of the morning, beat upon 
 their breasts and blew into their hands for warmth. 
 The house had entirely fallen, the walls outward, the 
 roof in; it was a mere heap of rubbish, with here and 
 there a forlorn spear of broken rafter. A sentinel was 
 placed over the ruins to protect the property, and the 
 
304 Worlds of f^obert Couie Steuepsop 
 
 party adjourned to Tentaillon’s to break their fast at 
 the Doctor’s expense. The bottle circulated somewhat 
 freely; and before they left the table it had begun to 
 snow. 
 
 For three days the snow continued to fall, and the 
 ruins, covered with tarpaulin and watched by sentries, 
 were left undisturbed. The Desprezes meanwhile had 
 taken up their abode at Tentaillon’s. Madame spent 
 her time in the kitchen, concocting httle delicacies, with 
 the admiring aid of Madame Tentaillon, or sitting by 
 the fii-e in thoughtful abstraction. The fall of the house 
 affected her wonderfully little; that blow had been par- 
 ried by another; and in her mind she was continually 
 fighting over again the battle of the trousers. Had she 
 done right? Had she done wrong? And now she would 
 applaud her determination; and anon, with a horrid 
 flush of unavailing penitence, she would regret the 
 trousers. Ho juncture in her life had so much exer- 
 cised her judgment. In the meantime the Doctor had 
 become vastly pleased with his situation. Two of the 
 summer boarders still lingered behind the rest, prisoners 
 for lack of a remittance; they were both English, but 
 one of them spoke French pretty fluently, and was, be- 
 sides, a humorous, agile-minded fellow, with whom the 
 Doctor could reason by the hour, secure of comprehem 
 sion. Many were the glasses they emptied, many the 
 topics they discussed. 
 
 “Anastasie,” the Doctor said on the third morning, 
 *‘take an example from your husband, from Jean-Marie 1 
 The excitement has done more for the boy than all my 
 tonics, he takes his turn as sentry with positive gusto. 
 As for me, you behold me. I have made friends with 
 
Jr^ajur^ of prai?el?ard 
 
 305 
 
 tilie Egyptians; and my Pharaoh is, I swear it, a most 
 agreeable companion. You alone are hipped. About a 
 house— a few dresses? What are they in comparison to 
 the “Pharmacopoeia” — the labor of years lying buried 
 below stones and sticks in this depressing hamlet? The 
 snow falls; I shake it from my cloak! Imitate me. 
 Our income will be impaired, I grant it, since we must 
 rebuild; but moderation, patience, and philosophy will 
 gather about the hearth. In the meanwhile, the Ten- 
 taillons are obliging ; the table, with your additions, 
 will pass; only the wine is execrable — well, I shall send 
 for some to-day. My Pharaoh will be gratified to drink 
 a decent glass ; aha I and I shall see if he possesses 
 that acme of organization — a palate. If he has a palate, 
 he is perfect.” 
 
 “Henri,” she said, shaking her head, “you are a 
 man; you cannot understand my feelings; no woman 
 could shake off the memory of so public a humiliation.” 
 
 The Doctor could not restrain a titter. “Pardon me, 
 darling,” he said; “but really, to the philosophical in- 
 telligence, the incident appears so small a trifle. You 
 looked extremely well — ” 
 
 “Henri!” she cried. 
 
 “Well, well, I will say no more,” he replied. 
 “Though, to be sure, if you had consented to indue-^ 
 Apropos,” he broke off, “and my trousers! They are 
 lying in the snow — my favorite trousers!” And he 
 dashed in quest of Jean-Marie. 
 
 Two hours afterward the boy returned to the inn 
 with a spade under one arm and a curious sop of 
 clothing under the other. 
 
 The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands. “They 
 
306 U/orl^8 of l^obert Couis 8teuei)soi> 
 
 have been!” he said. “Their tense is past. Excellent 
 pantaloons, you are no more! Stay, something in the 
 pocket,” and he produced a piece of paper. “A letter! 
 ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning 
 of the gale, when I was absorbed in delicate investi 
 gatious. It is still legible. From poor, dear Casimir! 
 It is as well,” he chuckled, “that I have educated him 
 to patience. Poor Casimir and his correspondence — his 
 infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic correspondence!” 
 
 He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet 
 letter; but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, 
 a cloud descended on his brow. 
 
 “Bigre!” he cried, with a galvanic start. 
 
 And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and 
 the Doctor’s cap was on his head in the turn of a 
 hand. 
 
 “Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,” he cried. 
 “It is always late. I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.” 
 “Henri! what is wrong?” cried his wife. 
 
 “Ottoman Bonds!” came from the disappearing Doc- 
 tor; and Anastasie and Jean-Marie were left face to 
 face with the wet trousers. Desprez had gone to Paris, 
 for the second time in seven years; he had gone to 
 Paris with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, 
 a black blouse, a country nightcap, and twenty francs 
 in his pocket. The fall of the house was but a second- 
 ary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and 
 scarce left his family more petrified. 
 
Jr^asur^ of prapel?ard 
 
 307 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 THE WAGES OP PHILOSOPHY 
 
 On the morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere 
 specter of himself, was brought back in the custody of 
 Casimir. They found Anastasie and the boy sitting to- 
 gether by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged 
 his toilet for a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, 
 waved his hand as he entered, and sank speechless on 
 the nearest chair. Madame turned direct to Casimir. 
 
 “What is wrong?” she cried. 
 
 “Well,” replied Casimir, “what have I told you all 
 along? It has come. It is a clean shave, this time; 
 so you may as well bear up and make the best of it. 
 House down, too, eh? Bad luck, upon my soul.” 
 
 “Are we — are we — ruined?” she gasped. 
 
 The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. “Ruined,” 
 he replied, “you are ruined by your sinister husband.” 
 
 Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his 
 eyeglass; then he turned to Jean-Marie. “You hear?” 
 he said. “They are ruined; no more pickings, no more 
 house, no more fat cutlets. It strikes me, my friend, 
 that you had best be packing; the present speculation 
 is about worked out.” And he nodded to him mean- 
 ingly. 
 
 “Never!” cried Desprez, springing up. “Jean- Marie, 
 if you prefer to leave me, now that I am poor, you 
 
308 U/orl^5 of F^obert Coui$ Steuep^op 
 
 • 
 
 can go; you shall receive your hundred francs, if so 
 much remains to me. But if you will consent to stay’* 
 — the Doctor wept a little — “Casimir offers me a place 
 — as clerk,” he resumed. “The emoluments are slender, 
 but they will be enough for three. It is too much al- 
 ready to have lost my fortune; must I lose my son?” 
 
 Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word. 
 
 “I don’t like boys who cry,” observed Casimir. 
 “This one is always crying. Here! you clear out of 
 this for a little; I have business with your master and 
 mistress, and these domestic feelings may be settled 
 after I am gone. March!” and he held the door open. 
 
 Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief. 
 
 By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie. 
 
 “Hey?” said Casimir. “Gone, you see. Took the 
 hint at once.” 
 
 “I do not, I confess,” said Desprez, “I do not seek 
 to excuse his absence. It speaks a want of heart that 
 disappoints me sorely.” 
 
 “Want of manners,” corrected Casimir. “Heart, he 
 never had. Why, Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are 
 the most gullible mortal in creation. Your ignorance of 
 human nature and human business is beyond belief. 
 You are swindled by heathen Turks, swindled by vaga- 
 bond children, swindled right and left, upstairs and 
 downstairs. I think it must be your imagination. I 
 thank my stars I have none.” 
 
 “Pardon me,” replied Desprez, still humbly, but with 
 a return of spirit at sight of a distinction to be drawn; 
 “pardon me, Casimir. You possess, even to an eminent 
 degree, the commercial imagination. It was the lack of 
 that in me — it appears it is my weak point— that has 
 
JI?e Jrca5ure of prai>el?ard 
 
 309 
 
 led to these repeated shocks. By the commercial imag- 
 ination the financier forecasts the destiny of his in- 
 vestments, marks the falling house — ” 
 
 “Egad,” interrupted Casimir: “our friend the stable- 
 boy appears to have his share of it.” 
 
 The Doctor was silenced; and the meal was con- 
 tinued and finished principally to the tune of the 
 brother-in-law’s not very consolatory conversation. He 
 entirely ignored the two young English painters, turning 
 a blind eyeglass to their salutations, and continuing his 
 remarks as if he were alone in the bosom of his family; 
 and with every second word he ripped another stitch 
 out of the air balloon of Desprez’ vanity. By the time 
 coffee was over the poor Doctor was as limp as a 
 napkin. 
 
 “Let us go and see the ruins,” said Casimir. 
 
 They strolled forth into the street. The fall of the 
 house, like the loss of a front tooth, had quite trans- 
 formed the village. Through the gap the eye commanded 
 a great stretch of open snowy country, and the place 
 shrank in comparison. It was like a room with an open 
 door. The sentinel stood by the green gate, looking 
 very red and cold, but he had a pleasant word for the 
 Doctor and his wealthy kinsman. 
 
 Casimir looked at the mound of ruins, he tried the 
 quality of the tarpaulin. “H’m,” he said, “I hope the 
 cellar arch has stood. If it has, my good brother, I 
 will give you a good price for the wines.” 
 
 “We shall start digging tomorrow,” said the sentry. 
 “There is no more fear of snow.” 
 
 “My friend,” returned Casimir sententiously, “you 
 had better wait till you get paid.” 
 
310 U/orl^5 of HotiOrt Couis Steueijjop 
 
 The Doctor winced, and began dragging his offensive 
 brother-in-law toward Tentaillon’s. In the house there 
 would be fewer auditors, and these already in the 
 secret of his fall. 
 
 “Hullo!” cried Casimir, “there goes the stable-boy 
 with his luggage; no, egad, he is taking it into the 
 mn. 
 
 And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the 
 snowy street and enter Tentaillon’s, staggering under a 
 large hamper. 
 
 The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope. 
 
 “What can he have?” he said. “Let us go and 
 see.” And he hurried on. 
 
 “His luggage, to be sure,” answered Casimir. “He 
 is on the move — thanks to -the commercial imagination.” 
 
 “I have not seen that hamper for — for ever so long,” 
 remarked the Doctor. 
 
 “Nor will you see it much longer,” chuckled Casi- 
 mir; “unless, indeed, we interfere. And by the way, I 
 insist on an examination.” 
 
 “You will not require,” said Desprez, positively with 
 a sob ; and, casting a moist, triumphant glance at 
 Casimir, he began to run. 
 
 “What the devil is up with him, I wonder?” Casi- 
 mir reflected; and then, curiosity taking the upper hand, 
 he followed the Doctor’s example and took to his heels. 
 
 The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Marie 
 himself so little and so weary, that it had taken him 
 a great while to bundle it upstairs to the Desprez’ pri- 
 vate room; and he had just set it down on the floor 
 in front of Anastasie, when the Doctor arrived, and 
 was closely followed by the man of business. Boy and 
 
Jrcasure of praijol^ard 
 
 311 
 
 hamper were both in a most sorry plight; for the one 
 had passed four months underground in a certain cave 
 on the way to Acheres, and the other had run about 
 five miles as hard as his legs would carry him, half 
 that distance under a staggering weight. 
 
 “Jean-Marie,” cried the Doctor, in a voice that was 
 only too seraphic to be called hysterical, “is it — ? It 
 is!” he cried. “O, my son, my son!” And he sat 
 down upon the hamper and sobbed like a little child. 
 
 “You will not go to Paris now,” said Jean-Marie 
 sheepishly. 
 
 “Casimir,” said Desprez, raising his wet face, “do 
 you see that boy, that angel boy? He is the thief; he 
 took the treasure from a man unfit to be intrusted with 
 its use; he brings it back to me when I am sobered 
 and humbled. These, Casimir, are the Fruits of my 
 Teaching, and this moment is the Reward of my Lif^” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Tiens, ’ ’ said Casimir. 
 
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