Great short stories, Volume III (of 3) : Romance & Adventure

By Various

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Great short stories, Volume III (of 3)

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Great short stories, Volume III (of 3)
Romance & Adventure

Author: Various

Editor: William Patten

Release date: October 10, 2024 [eBook #74550]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: P. F. Collier

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT SHORT STORIES, VOLUME III (OF 3) ***

[Frontispiece: Guy de Maupassant]

GREAT
SHORT STORIES

Edited by William Patten

A NEW COLLECTION
OF FAMOUS EXAMPLES
FROM THE
LITERATURES OF FRANCE,
ENGLAND AND AMERICA

VOLUME III

ROMANCE &
ADVENTURE

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

[Illustration: Title page]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL _By Emile Zola_

THE VENUS OF ILLE _By Prosper Merimee_

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS _By Robert Louis Stevenson_

THE PRISONERS _By Guy de Maupassant_

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN _By Alphonse Daudet_

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING _By Rudyard Kipling_

THE BLACK PEARL _By Victorien Sardon_

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT _By Grant Allen_

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE _By S. R. Crockett_

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION _By Honore de Balzac_

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED _By Wilkie Collins_

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES _By Charles Dickens_

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN _By Bret Harte_

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES _By Francois Coppee_

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER _By Nathaniel Hawthorne_

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL _By Alexandre Dumas_

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL _By James Matthew Barrie_

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LTD. _By Sir Walter Besant_

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

BY EMILE ZOLA

_"The Attack on the Mill" is Zola's contribution to a volume entitled
"Les Soirées de Medan," made up of stories written by several friends
at his country home. Maupassant's celebrated story, "Boule de Suif,"
made its first appearance in this volume. An ardent admirer and
disciple of Balzac, Zola early conceived the idea of writing a
connected history of a family and its branches, somewhat as Balzac
had done in the "Comédie Humaine." He possessed remarkable power to
analyze human nature and wrote in a style so realistic that he was
often called upon to defend it. "The Attack on the Mill" is
frequently cited as one of the best of his short stories._

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

By EMILE ZOLA

It was high holiday at Father Merlier's mill on that pleasant summer
afternoon. Three tables had been brought out into the garden and
placed end to end in the shade of the great elm, and now they were
awaiting the arrival of the guests. It was known throughout the
length and breadth of the land that that day was to witness the
betrothal of old Merlier's daughter, Françoise, to Dominique, a young
man who was said to be not overfond of work, but whom never a woman
for three leagues of the country around could look at without
sparkling eyes, such a well-favored young fellow was he.

That mill of Father Merlier's was truly a very pleasant spot. It was
situated right in the heart of Rocreuse, at the place where the main
road makes a sharp bend. The village has but a single street,
bordered on either side by a row of low, whitened cottages, but just
there, where the road curves, there are broad stretches of
meadow-land, and huge trees, which follow the course of the Morelle,
cover the low grounds of the valley with a most delicious shade. All
Lorraine has no more charming bit of nature to show. To right and
left dense forests, great monarchs of the wood, centuries old, rise
from the gentle slopes and fill the horizon with a sea of waving,
trembling verdure, while away toward the south extends the plain, of
wondrous fertility and checkered almost to infinity with its small
enclosures, divided off from one another by their live hedges. But
what makes the crowning glory of Rocreuse is the coolness of this
verdurous nook, even in the hottest days of July and August. The
Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, and it would seem as if
it gathered to itself on the way all the delicious freshness of the
foliage beneath which it glides for many a league; it brings down
with it the murmuring sounds, the glacial, solemn shadows of the
forest. And that is not the only source of coolness; there are
running waters of all sorts singing among the copses; one can not
take a step without coming on a gushing spring, and, as he makes his
way along the narrow paths, seems to be treading above subterrene
lakes that seek the air and sunshine through the moss above and
profit by every smallest crevice, at the roots of trees or among the
chinks and crannies of the rocks, to burst forth in fountains of
crystalline clearness. So numerous and so loud are the whispering
voices of these streams that they silence the song of the
bullfinches. It is as if one were in an enchanted park, with
cascades falling and flashing on every side.

The meadows below are never athirst. The shadows beneath the
gigantic chestnut trees are of inky blackness, and along the edges of
the fields long rows of poplars stand like walls of rustling foliage.
There is a double avenue of huge plane trees ascending across the
fields toward the ancient castle of Gagny, now gone to rack and ruin.
In this region, where drought is never known, vegetation of all kinds
is wonderfully rank; it is like a flower garden down there in the low
ground between those two wooded hills, a natural garden, where the
lawns are broad meadows and the giant trees represent colossal beds.
When the noonday sun pours down his scorching rays the shadows lie
blue upon the ground, vegetation slumbers in the genial warmth, while
every now and then a breath of almost icy coldness rustles the
foliage.

Such was the spot where Father Merlier's mill enlivened nature run
riot with its cheerful clack. The building itself, constructed of
wood and plaster, looked as if it might be coeval with our planet.
Its foundations were in part laved by the Morelle, which here expands
into a clear pool. A dam, a few feet in height, afforded sufficient
head of water to drive the old wheel, which creaked and groaned as it
revolved, with the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who has
grown old in her place. Whenever Father Merlier was advised to
change it, he would shake his head and say that like as not a young
wheel would be lazier and not so well acquainted with its duties, and
then he would set to work and patch up the old one with anything that
came to hand, old hogshead-staves, bits of rusty iron, zinc, or lead.
The old wheel only seemed the gayer for it, with its odd, round
countenance, all plumed and feathered with tufts of moss and grass,
and when the water poured over it in a silvery tide its gaunt black
skeleton was decked out with a gorgeous display of pearls and
diamonds.

That portion of the mill which was bathed by the Morelle had
something of the look of a Moorish arch that had been dropped down
there by chance. A good half of the structure was built on piles;
the water came in under the floor, and there were deep holes, famous
throughout the whole country for the eels and the huge crawfish that
were to be caught there. Below the fall the pool was as clear as a
looking-glass, and when it was not clouded by foam from the wheel one
could see great fish swimming about in it with the slow, majestic
movements of a fleet. There was a broken stairway leading down to
the stream, near a stake to which a boat was fastened, and over the
wheel was a gallery of wood. Such windows as there were were
arranged without any attempt at order. The whole was a quaint
conglomeration of nooks and corners, bits of wall, additions made
here and there as afterthoughts, beams and roofs, that gave the mill
the aspect of an old dismantled citadel; but ivy and all sorts of
creeping plants had grown luxuriantly and kindly covered up such
crevices as were too unsightly, casting a mantle of green over the
old dwelling. Young ladies who passed that way used to stop and
sketch Father Merlier's mill in their albums.

The side of the house that faced the road was less irregular. A
gateway in stone afforded access to the principal courtyard, on the
right and left hand of which were sheds and stables. Beside a well
stood an immense elm that threw its shade over half the court. At
the further end, opposite the gate, stood the house, surmounted by a
dovecote, the four windows of its first floor symmetrically alined.
The only manifestation of pride that Father Merlier ever allowed
himself was to paint this façade every ten years. It had just been
freshly whitened at the time of our story, and dazzled the eyes of
all the village when the sun lighted it up in the middle of the day.

For twenty years had Father Merlier been mayor of Rocreuse. He was
held in great consideration on account of his fortune; he was
supposed to be worth something like eighty thousand francs, the
result of patient saving. When he married Madeleine Guilliard, who
brought him the mill as her dowry, his entire capital lay in his two
strong arms; but Madeleine had never repented of her choice, so
manfully had he conducted their joint affairs. Now his wife was
dead, and he was left a widower with his daughter Françoise.
Doubtless he might have sat himself down to take his rest and
suffered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its moss, but he would
have found the occupation too irksome and the house would have seemed
dead to him, so he kept on working still, for the pleasure of it. In
those days Father Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, unspeaking
face, on which a laugh was never seen, but beneath which there lay,
none the less, a large fund of good-humor. He had been elected mayor
on account of his money, and also for the impressive air that he knew
how to assume when it devolved on him to marry a couple.

Françoise Merlier had just completed her eighteenth year. She was
small, and for that reason was not accounted one of the beauties of
the country. Until she reached the age of fifteen she was even
homely; the good folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was that the
daughter of Father and Mother Merlier, such a hale, vigorous couple,
had such a hard time of it in getting her growth. When she was
fifteen, however, though still remaining delicate, a change came over
her and she took on the prettiest little face imaginable. She had
black eyes, black hair, and was red as a rose withal; her little
mouth was always graced with a charming smile, there were delicious
dimples in her cheeks, and a crown of sunshine seemed to be ever
resting on her fair, candid forehead. Although small as girls went
in that region, she was far from being slender; she might not have
been able to raise a sack of wheat to her shoulder, but she became
quite plump with age and gave promise of becoming eventually as
well-rounded and appetizing as a partridge. Her father's habits of
taciturnity had made her reflective while yet a young girl; if she
always had a smile on her lips it was in order to give pleasure to
others. Her natural disposition was serious.

As was no more than to be expected, she had every young man in the
countryside at her heels as a suitor, more even for her money than
for her attractiveness, and she had made a choice at last, a choice
that had been the talk and scandal of the entire neighborhood. On
the other side of the Morelle lived a strapping young fellow who went
by the name of Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor born; ten
years previously he had come to Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the
inheritance of an uncle who had owned a small property on the very
borders of the forest of Gagny, just facing the mill and distant from
it only a few musket-shots. His object in coming was to sell the
property, so he said, and return to his own home again; but he must
have found the land to his liking for he made no move to go away. He
was seen cultivating his bit of a field and gathering the few
vegetables that afforded him an existence. He hunted, he fished;
more than once he was near coming in contact with the law through the
intervention of the keepers. This independent way of living, of
which the peasants could not very clearly see the resources, had in
the end given him a bad name. He was vaguely looked on as nothing
better than a poacher. At all events he was lazy, for he was
frequently found sleeping in the grass at hours when he should have
been at work. Then, too, the hut in which he lived, in the shade of
the last trees of the forest, did not seem like the abode of an
honest young man; the old women would not have been surprised at any
time to hear that he was on friendly terms with the wolves in the
ruins of Gagny. Still, the young girls would now and then venture to
stand up for him, for he was altogether a splendid specimen of
manhood, was this individual of doubtful antecedents, tall and
straight as a young poplar, with a milk-white skin and ruddy hair and
beard that seemed to be of gold when the sun shone on them. Now one
fine morning it came to pass that Françoise told Father Merlier that
she loved Dominique and that never, never would she consent to marry
any other young man.

It may be imagined what a knockdown blow it was that Father Merlier
received that day! As was his wont, he said never a word; his
countenance wore its usual reflective look, only the fun that used to
bubble up from within no longer shone in his eyes. Françoise, too,
was very serious, and for a week father and daughter scarcely spoke
to each other. What troubled Father Merlier was to know how that
rascal of a poacher had succeeded in bewitching his daughter.
Dominique had never shown himself at the mill. The miller played the
spy a little, and was rewarded by catching sight of the gallant, on
the other side of the Morelle, lying among the grass and pretending
to be asleep. Françoise could see him from her chamber window. The
thing was clear enough; they had been making sheep's eyes at each
other over the old mill-wheel, and so had fallen in love.

A week slipped by; Françoise became more and more serious. Father
Merlier still continued to say nothing. Then, one evening, of his
own accord, he brought Dominique to the house, without a word.
Françoise was just setting the table. She made no demonstration of
surprise; all she did was to add another plate, but her laugh had
come back to her and the little dimples appeared again upon her
cheeks. Father Merlier had gone that morning to look for Dominique
at his hut on the edge of the forest, and there the two men had had a
conference, with closed doors and windows, that lasted three hours.
No one ever knew what they said to each other; the only thing certain
is that when Father Merlier left the hut he already treated Dominique
as a son. Doubtless the old man had discovered that he whom he had
gone to visit was a worthy young man, even though he did lie in the
grass to gain the love of young girls.

All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women gathered at their doors and
could not find words strong enough to characterize Father Merlier's
folly in thus receiving a ne'er-do-well into his family. He let them
talk. Perhaps he thought of his own marriage. Neither had he
possessed a penny to his name at the time when he married Madeleine
and her mill, and yet that had not prevented him from being a good
husband to her. Moreover Dominique put an end to their tittle-tattle
by setting to work in such strenuous fashion that all the countryside
was amazed. It so happened just then that the boy of the mill drew
an unlucky number and had to go for a soldier, and Dominique would
not hear to their engaging another. He lifted sacks, drove the cart,
wrestled with the old wheel when it took an obstinate fit and refused
to turn, and all so pluckily and cheerfully that people came from far
and near merely for the pleasure of seeing him. Father Merlier
laughed his silent laugh. He was highly elated that he had read the
youngster aright. There is nothing like love to hearten up young men.

In the midst of all that laborious toil Françoise and Dominique
fairly worshiped each other. They had not much to say, but their
tender smiles conveyed a world of meaning. Father Merlier had not
said a word thus far on the subject of their marriage, and they had
both respected his silence, waiting until the old man should see fit
to give expression to his will. At last, one day along toward the
middle of July, he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, in the
shade of the big elm, and had invited his friends of Rocreuse to come
that afternoon and drink a glass of wine with him. When the
courtyard was filled with people and every one there had a full glass
in his hand, Father Merlier raised his own high above his head and
said:

"I have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise and this
stripling will be married in a month from now, on Saint Louis's
fête-day."

Then there was a universal touching of glasses, attended by a
tremendous uproar; every one was laughing. But Father Merlier,
raising his voice above the din, again spoke:

"Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is no more than
customary."

And they kissed, very red in the face, both of them, while the
company laughed louder still. It was a regular fête; they emptied a
small cask. Then, when only the intimate friends of the house
remained, conversation went on in a calmer strain. Night had fallen,
a starlit night and very clear. Dominique and Françoise sat on a
bench, side by side, and said nothing. An old peasant spoke of the
war that the emperor had declared against Prussia. All the lads of
the village were already gone off to the army. Troops had passed
through the place only the night before. There were going to be hard
knocks.

"Bah!" said Father Merlier, with the selfishness of a man who is
quite happy, "Dominique is a foreigner, he won't have to go--and if
the Prussians come this way, he will be here to defend his wife."

The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed to the company an
exceedingly good joke. The army would give them one good,
conscientious thrashing and the affair would be quickly ended.

"I have seen them, I have seen them," the old peasant repeated in a
low voice.

There was silence for a little, then they all touched glasses once
again. Françoise and Dominique had heard nothing; they had managed
to clasp hands behind the bench in such a way as not to be seen by
the others, and this condition of affairs seemed so beatific to them
that they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in the darkness of the
night.

What a magnificent, balmy night! The village lay slumbering on
either side of the white road as peacefully as a little child. The
deep silence was undisturbed save by the occasional crow of a cock in
some distant barnyard, acting on a mistaken impression that dawn was
at hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like long-drawn sighs, almost,
came down from the great woods that lay around and above, sweeping
softly over the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, with their
black intensity of shadow, took on a dim, mysterious majesty of their
own, while all the springs, all the brooks and watercourses that
gargled and trickled in the darkness, might have been taken for the
cool and rhythmical breathing of the sleeping country. Every now and
then the old dozing mill-wheel, like a watchdog that barks uneasily
in his slumber, seemed to be dreaming as if it were endowed with some
strange form of life; it creaked, it groaned, it talked to itself,
rocked by the fall of the Morelle, whose current gave forth the deep,
sustained music of an organ pipe. Never was there a more charming or
happier nook, never did more entire or deeper peace come down to
cover it.

One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête of Saint Louis,
Rocreuse was in a state of alarm and dismay. The Prussians had
beaten the emperor and were advancing on the village by forced
marches. For a week past people passing along the road had brought
tidings of the enemy: "They are at Lormières, they are at Novelles;"
and by dint of hearing so many stories of the rapidity of their
advance, Rocreuse woke up every morning in the full expectation of
seeing them swarming down out of Gagny wood. They did not come,
however, and that only served to make the affright the greater. They
would certainly fall upon the village in the night-time, and put
every soul to the sword.

There had been an alarm the night before, a little before daybreak.
The inhabitants had been aroused by a great noise of men tramping
upon the road. The women were already throwing themselves upon their
knees and making the sign of the cross when some one, to whom it
happily occurred to peep through a half-opened window, caught sight
of red trousers. It was a French detachment. The captain had
forthwith asked for the mayor, and, after a long conversation with
Father Merlier, had remained at the mill.

The sun rose bright and clear that morning, giving promise of a warm
day. There was a golden light floating over the woodland, while in
the low grounds white mists were rising from the meadows. The pretty
village, so neat and trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the
country, with its stream and its fountains, was as gracious as a
freshly plucked bouquet. But the beauty of the day brought gladness
to the face of no one; the villagers had watched the captain and seen
him circle round and round the old mill, examine the adjacent houses,
then pass to the other bank of the Morelle and from thence scan the
country with a field-glass; Father Merlier, who accompanied him,
appeared to be giving explanations. After that the captain had
posted some of his men behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows.
The main body of the detachment had encamped in the courtyard of the
mill. So there was going to be a fight, then? And when Father
Merlier returned, they questioned him. He spoke no word, but slowly
and sorrowfully nodded his head. Yes, there was going to be a fight.

Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard, watching him.
He finally took his pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these
few words:

"Ah! my poor children, I shall not be able to marry you to-day!"

Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown upon his forehead,
raised himself on tiptoe from time to time and stood with eyes bent
on Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to see the Prussians
appear and end the suspense they were in. Françoise, whose face was
grave and very pale, was constantly passing back and forth, supplying
the needs of the soldiers. They were preparing their soup in a
corner of the courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while
awaiting their meal.

The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He had visited the
chambers and the great hall of the mill that looked out on the
stream. Now, seated beside the well, he was conversing with Father
Merlier.

"You have a regular fortress here," he was saying. "We shall have no
trouble in holding it until evening. The bandits are late; they
ought to be here by this time."

The miller looked very grave. He saw his beloved mill going up in
flame and smoke, but uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint,
considering that it would be useless. He only opened his mouth to
say:

"You ought to take steps to hide the boat; there is a hole behind the
wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps you may find it of use to you."

The captain gave an order to one of his men. This captain was a
tall, fine-looking man of about forty, with an agreeable expression
of countenance. The sight of Dominique and Françoise seemed to
afford him much pleasure; he watched them as if he had forgotten all
about the approaching conflict. He followed Françoise with his eyes
as she moved about the courtyard, and his manner showed clearly
enough that he thought her charming. Then, turning to Dominique:

"You are not with the army, I see, my boy?" he abruptly asked.

"I am a foreigner," the young man replied.

The captain did not seem particularly pleased with the answer; he
winked his eyes and smiled. Françoise was doubtless a more agreeable
companion than a musket would have been. Dominique, noticing his
smile, made haste to add:

"I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in an apple at five
hundred yards. See, there's my rifle, behind you."

"You may find use for it," the captain dryly answered.

Françoise had drawn near; she was trembling a little, and Dominique,
regardless of the bystanders, took and held firmly clasped in his own
the two hands that she held forth to him, as if committing herself to
his protection. The captain smiled again, but said nothing more. He
remained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes fixed on space,
apparently lost in dreamy reverie.

It was ten o'clock. The heat was already oppressive. A deep silence
prevailed. The soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds in
the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the
village, where the inhabitants had all barricaded their houses,
doors, and windows. A dog, abandoned by his master, howled
mournfully upon the road. From the woods and the near-by meadows,
that lay fainting in the heat, came a long-drawn whispering, soughing
sound, produced by the union of what wandering breaths of air there
were. A cuckoo sang. Then the silence became deeper still.

And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot rang out. The
captain rose quickly to his feet, the soldiers left their
half-emptied plates. In a few seconds all were at their posts; the
mill was occupied from top to bottom. And yet the captain, who had
gone out through the gate, saw nothing; to right and left the road
stretched away, desolate and blindingly white in the fierce sunshine.
A second report was heard, and still nothing to be seen, not even so
much as a shadow; but just as he was turning to reenter he chanced to
look over toward Gagny and there beheld a little puff of smoke,
floating away on the tranquil air, like thistle-down. The deep peace
of the forest was apparently unbroken.

"The rascals have occupied the wood," the officer murmured. "They
know we are here."

Then the firing went on, and became more and more continuous, between
the French soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians concealed
among the trees. The bullets whistled over the Morelle without doing
any mischief on either side. The firing was irregular; every bush
seemed to have its marksman, and nothing was to be seen save those
bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment on the wind before they
vanished. It lasted thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a
tune with a careless air. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained
in the courtyard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall.
They were more particularly interested in a little soldier who had
his post on the bank of the Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat;
he would lie face downward on the ground, watch his chance, deliver
his fire, then slip back into a ditch a few steps in his rear to
reload, and his movements were so comical, he displayed such cunning
and activity, that it was difficult for any one watching him to
refrain from smiling. He must have caught sight of a Prussian, for
he rose quickly and brought his piece to the shoulder, but before he
could discharge it he uttered a loud cry, whirled completely around
in his tracks and fell backward into the ditch, where for an instant
his legs moved convulsively, just as the claws of a fowl do when it
is beheaded. The little soldier had received a bullet directly
through his heart. It was the first casualty of the day. Françoise
instinctively seized Dominique's hand and held it tight in a
convulsive grasp.

"Come away from there," said the captain. "The bullets reach us
here."

As if to confirm his words, a slight, sharp sound was heard up in the
old elm, and the end of a branch came to the ground, turning over and
over as it fell, but the two young people never stirred, riveted to
the spot as they were by the interest of the spectacle. On the edge
of the wood a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree, as an
actor comes upon the stage from the wings, beating the air with his
arms and falling over upon his back. And beyond that there was no
movement; the two dead men appeared to be sleeping in the bright
sunshine; there was not a soul to be seen in the fields on which the
heat lay heavy. Even the sharp rattle of the musketry had ceased.
Only the Morelle kept on whispering to itself with its low, musical
murmur.

Father Merlier looked at the captain with an astonished air, as if to
inquire whether that were the end of it.

"Here comes their attack," the officer murmured. "Look out for
yourself! Don't stand there!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a terrible discharge of
musketry ensued. The great elm was riddled, its leaves came eddying
down as thick as snowflakes. Fortunately the Prussians had aimed too
high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise from the spot,
while Father Merlier followed them, shouting:

"Get into the small cellar, the walls are thicker there."

But they paid no attention to him; they made their way to the main
hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching
events outside through the chinks of the closed shutters. The
captain was left alone in the courtyard, where he sheltered himself
behind the low wall, while the furious fire was maintained
uninterruptedly. The soldiers whom he had posted outside only
yielded their ground inch by inch; they came crawling in, however,
one after another, as the enemy dislodged them from their positions.
Their instructions were to gain all the time they could, taking care
not to show themselves, in order that the Prussians might remain in
ignorance of the force they had opposed to them. Another hour
passed, and at> a sergeant came in, reporting that there were now
only two or three men left outside, the officer took his watch from
his pocket, murmuring:

"Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for four hours yet."

He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be tightly secured and
everything was made ready for an energetic defense. The Prussians
were on the other side of the Morelle, consequently there was no
reason to fear an assault at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed,
a mile and a quarter away, but they were probably unaware of Its
existence, and it was hardly to be supposed that they would attempt
to cross the stream by fording. The officer therefore simply caused
the road to be watched; the attack, when it came, was to be looked
for from the direction of the fields.

The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to lie there in the
sunlight, void of all life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came
from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians began to show
themselves at the edge of Gagny wood. Heads were protruded here and
there; they seemed to be mustering up their courage. Several of the
soldiers within the mill brought up their pieces to an aim, but the
captain shouted:

"No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come nearer."

They displayed a great deal of prudence in their advance, looking at
the mill with a distrustful air; they seemed hardly to know what to
make of the old structure, so lifeless and gloomy, with its curtains
of ivy. Still, they kept on advancing. When there were fifty of
them or so in the open, directly opposite, the officer uttered one
word:

"Now!"

A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the position, succeeded by
an irregular, dropping fire. François, trembling violently,
involuntarily raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, from his
position behind the soldiers, pressed out upon the field, and when
the smoke drifted away a little, counted three Prussians extended on
their backs in the middle of the meadow. The others had sought
shelter among the willows and the poplars. And then commenced the
siege.

For more than an hour the mill was riddled with bullets; they beat
and rattled on its old walls like hail. The noise they made was
plainly audible as they struck the stone-work, were flattened, and
fell back into the water; they buried themselves in the woodwork with
a dull thud. Occasionally a creaking sound would announce that the
wheel had been hit. Within the building the soldiers husbanded their
ammunition, firing only when they could see something to aim at. The
captain kept consulting his watch every few minutes, and as a ball
split one of the shutters in halves and then lodged in the ceiling:

"Four o'clock," he murmured. "We shall never be able to hold the
position."

The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to pieces beneath that
terrific fire. A shutter that had been perforated again and again
until it looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into the
water and had to be replaced by a mattress. Every moment, almost,
Father Merlier exposed himself to the fire in order to take account
of the damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound of which was
like a bullet in his own heart. Its period of usefulness was ended
this time, for certain; he would never be able to patch it up again.
Dominique had besought Françoise to retire to a place of safety, but
she was determined to remain with him; she had taken a seat behind a
great oaken clothes-press, which afforded her protection. A ball
struck the press, however, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow
sound, whereupon Dominique stationed himself in front of Françoise.
He had as yet taken no part in the firing, although he had his rifle
in his hand; the soldiers occupied the whole breadth of the windows,
so that he could not get near them. At every discharge the floor
trembled.

"Look out! look out!" the captain suddenly shouted.

He had just descried a dark mass emerging from the wood. As soon as
they gained the open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck
the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted company and the
bullets came whistling in through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers
rolled upon the floor; one lay where he fell and never moved a limb;
his comrades pushed him up against the wall because he was in their
way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching some one to end his
agony, but no one had ears for the poor wretch; the bullets were
still pouring in and every one was looking out for himself and
searching for a loop-hole whence he might answer the enemy's fire. A
third soldier was wounded; that one said not a word, but with
staring, haggard eyes sank down beneath a table. François,
horror-stricken by the dreadful spectacle of the dead and dying men,
mechanically pushed away her chair and seated herself on the floor,
against the wall; it seemed to her that she would be smaller there
and less exposed. In the meantime men had gone and secured all the
mattresses in the house; the opening of the window was partially
closed again. The hall was filled with débris of every description,
broken weapons, dislocated furniture.

"Five o'clock," said the captain. "Stand fast, boys. They are going
to make an attempt to pass the stream."

Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet had struck the floor
and, rebounding, grazed her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of
blood appeared. Dominique looked at her, then went to the window and
fired his first shot, and from that time kept on firing
uninterruptedly. He kept on loading and discharging his piece
mechanically, paying no attention to what was passing at his side,
only pausing from time to time to cast a look at Françoise. He did
not fire hurriedly or at random, moreover, but took deliberate aim.
As the captain had predicted, the Prussians were skirting the belt of
poplars and attempting the passage of the Morelle, but each time that
one of them showed himself he fell with one of Dominique's bullets in
his brain. The captain, who was watching the performance, was
amazed; he complimented the young man, telling him that he would like
to have many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique did not hear a
word he said. A ball struck him in the shoulder, another raised a
contusion on his arm. And still he kept on firing.

There were two more deaths. The mattresses were torn to shreds and
no longer availed to stop the windows. The last volley that was
poured in seemed as if it would carry away the mill bodily, so fierce
it was. The position was no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept
repeating:

"Stand fast. Another half-hour yet."

He was counting the minutes, one by one, now. He had promised his
commanders that he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, and he
would not budge a hair's-breadth before the moment that he had fixed
on for his withdrawal. He maintained his pleasant air of good-humor,
smiling at Françoise by way of reassuring her. He had picked up the
musket of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away with the rest.

There were but four soldiers left in the room. The Prussians were
showing themselves _en masse_ on the other bank of the Morelle, and
it was evident that they might now pass the stream at any moment. A
few moments more elapsed; the captain was as determined as ever and
would not give the order to retreat, when a sergeant came running
into the room, saying:

"They are on the road; they are going to take us in rear."

The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. The captain drew out
his watch again.

"Five minutes more," he said. "They won't be here within five
minutes."

Then exactly at six o'clock, he at last withdrew his men through a
little postern that opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw
themselves into the ditch and in that way reached the forest of
Sauval. The captain took leave of Father Merlier with much
politeness, apologizing profusely for the trouble he had caused. He
even added:

"Try to keep them occupied for a while. We shall return."

While this was occurring Dominique had remained alone in the hall.
He was still firing away, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing; his
sole thought was to defend Françoise. The soldiers were all gone and
he had not the remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and brought down
his man at every shot. All at once there was a great tumult. The
Prussians had entered the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last
shot, and they fell upon him with his weapon still smoking in his
hand.

It required four men to hold him; the rest of them swarmed about him,
vociferating like madmen in their horrible dialect. Françoise rushed
forward to intercede with her prayers. They were on the point of
killing him on the spot, but an officer came in and made them turn
the prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few words in German
with his men he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very
good French:

"You will be shot in two hours from now."

III

It was the standing regulation, laid down by the German staff, that
every Frenchman, not belonging to the regular army, taken with arms
in his hands, should be shot. Even the _compagnies franches_ were
not recognized as belligerents. It was the intention of the Germans,
in making such terrible examples of the peasants who attempted to
defend their firesides, to prevent a rising _en masse_, which they
greatly dreaded.

The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years old, subjected
Dominique to a brief examination. Although he spoke French fluently,
he was unmistakably Prussian in the stiffness of his manner.

"You are a native of this country?"

"No, I am a Belgian."

"Why did you take up arms? These are matters with which you have no
concern."

Dominique made no reply. At this moment the officer caught sight of
Françoise where she stood listening, very pale; her slight wound had
marked her white forehead with a streak of red. He looked from one
to the other of the young people and appeared to understand the
situation; he merely added:

"You do not deny having fired on my men?"

"I fired as long as I was able to do so," Dominique quietly replied.

The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was black with powder,
wet with sweat, and the blood from the wound in his shoulder had
trickled down and stained his clothing.

"Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be shot two hours
hence."

Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands and raised them
above her head in a gesture of mute despair. Her action was not lost
upon the officer. Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent
room where their orders were to guard him and not lose sight of him.
The girl had sunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her; her legs
refused to support her; she was denied the relief of tears; it seemed
as if her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued to
examine her attentively and finally addressed her:

"Is that young man your brother?" he inquired.

She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbending as
ever, without the suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an
interval of silence, he spoke again:

"Has he been living in the neighborhood long?"

She answered yes, by another motion of the head.

"Then he must be well acquainted with the woods about here?"

This time she made a verbal answer. "Yes, sir," she said, looking at
him with some astonishment.

He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, requesting that the
mayor of the village should be brought before him. But Françoise had
risen from her chair, a faint tinge of color on her cheeks, believing
that she had caught the significance of his questions, and with
renewed hope she ran off to look for her father.

As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier had hurriedly
descended by the wooden gallery to have a look at his wheel. He
adored his daughter and had a strong feeling of affection for
Dominique, his son-in-law who was to be: but his wheel also occupied
a large space in his heart. Now that the two little ones, as he
called them, had come safe and sound out of the fray, he thought of
his other love, which must have suffered sorely, poor thing, and
bending over the great wooden skeleton he was scrutinizing its wounds
with a heartbroken air. Five of the buckets were reduced to
splinters, the central framework was honeycombed. He was thrusting
his fingers into the cavities that the bullets had made to see how
deep they were, and reflecting how he was ever to repair all that
damage. When Françoise found him he was already plugging up the
crevices with moss and such débris as he could lay hands on.

"They are asking for you, father," said she.

And at last she wept as she told him what she had just heard. Father
Merlier shook his head. It was not customary to shoot people like
that. He would have to look into the matter. And he reentered the
mill with his usual placid, silent air. When the officer made his
demand for supplies for his men, he answered that the people of
Rocreuse were not accustomed to be ridden roughshod, and that nothing
would be obtained from them through violence; he was willing to
assume all the responsibility, but only on condition that he was
allowed to act independently. The officer at first appeared to take
umbrage at this easy way of viewing matters, but finally gave way
before the old man's brief and distinct representations. As the
latter was leaving the room the other recalled him to ask:

"Those woods there, opposite, what do you call them?"

"The woods of Sauval."

"And how far do they extend?"

The miller looked him straight in the face. "I do not know," he
replied.

And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention in money and
provisions that the officer had demanded was in the courtyard of the
mill. Night was closing in; Françoise followed every movement of the
soldiers with an anxious eye. She never once left the vicinity of
the room in which Dominique was imprisoned. About seven o'clock she
had a harrowing emotion; she saw the officer enter the prisoner's
apartment and for a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in
violent discussion. The officer came to the door for a moment and
gave an order in German which she did not understand, but when twelve
men came and formed in the courtyard with shouldered muskets, she was
seized with a fit of trembling and felt as if she should die. It was
all over, then; the execution was about to take place. The twelve
men remained there ten minutes; Dominique's voice kept rising higher
and higher in a tone of vehement denial. Finally the officer came
out, closing the door behind him with a vicious bang and saying:

"Very well; think it over. I give you until to-morrow morning."

And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks by a motion of his hand.
Françoise was stupefied. Father Merlier, who had continued to puff
away at his pipe while watching the platoon with a simple, curious
air, came and took her by the arm with fatherly gentleness. He led
her to her chamber.

"Don't fret," he said to her; "try to get some sleep. To-morrow it
will be light and we shall see more clearly."

He locked the door behind him as he left the room. It was a fixed
principle with him that women are good for nothing and that they
spoil everything whenever they meddle in important matters.
Françoise did not retire to her couch, however; she remained a long
time seated on her bed, listening to the various noises in the house.
The German soldiers quartered in the courtyard were singing and
laughing; they must have kept up their eating and drinking until
eleven o'clock, for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavy
footsteps resounded from time to time through the mill itself,
doubtless the tramp of the guards as they were relieved. What had
most interest for her was the sounds that she could catch in the room
that lay directly under her own; several times she threw herself
prone upon the floor and applied her ear to the boards. That room
was the one in which they had locked up Dominique. He must have been
pacing the apartment, for she could hear for a long time his regular,
cadenced tread passing from the wall to the window and back again;
then there was a deep silence; doubtless he had seated himself. The
other sounds ceased, too; everything was still. When it seemed to
her that the house was sunk in slumber she raised her window as
noiselessly as possible and leaned out.

Without, the night was serene and balmy. The slender crescent of the
moon, which was just setting behind Sauval wood, cast a dim radiance
over the landscape. The lengthening shadows of the great trees
stretched far athwart the fields in bands of blackness, while in such
spots as were unobscured the grass appeared of a tender green, soft
as velvet. But Françoise did not stop to consider the mysterious
charm of night. She was scrutinizing the country and looking to see
where the Germans had posted their sentinels. She could clearly
distinguish their dark forms outlined along the course of the
Morelle. There was only one stationed opposite the mill, on the far
bank of the stream, by a willow whose branches dipped in the water.
Françoise had an excellent view of him; he was a tall young man,
standing quite motionless with face upturned toward the sky, with the
meditative air of a shepherd.

When she had completed her careful inspection of localities she
returned and took her former seat upon the bed. She remained there
an hour, absorbed in deep thought. Then she listened again; there
was not a breath to be heard in the house. She went again to the
window and took another look outside, but one of the moon's horns was
still hanging above the edge of the forest, and this circumstance
doubtless appeared to her unpropitious, for she resumed her waiting.
At last the moment seemed to have arrived; the night was now quite
dark; she could no longer discern the sentinel opposite her, the
landscape lay before her black as a sea of ink. She listened
intently for a moment, then formed her resolve. Close beside her
window was an iron ladder made of bars set in the wall, which
ascended from the mill-wheel to the granary at the top of the
building and had formerly served the miller as a means of inspecting
certain portions of the gearing, but a change having been made in the
machinery the ladder had long since become lost to sight beneath the
thick ivy that covered all that side of the mill. Françoise bravely
climbed over the balustrade of the little balcony in front of her
window, grasped one of the iron bars and found herself suspended in
space. She commenced the descent; her skirts were a great hindrance
to her. Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall and fell into
the Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped, benumbed with fear, but
reflection quickly told her that the waterfall, with its continuous
roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise that she could make, and
then she descended more boldly, putting aside the ivy with her foot,
testing each round of her ladder. When she was on a level with the
room that had been converted into a prison for her lover she stopped.
An unforeseen difficulty came near depriving her of all her courage:
the window of the room beneath was not situated directly under the
window of her bedroom, there was a wide space between it and the
ladder, and when she extended her hand it only encountered the naked
wall.

Would she have to go back the way she came and leave her project
unaccomplished? Her arms were growing very tired, the murmuring of
the Morelle, far down below, was beginning to make her dizzy. Then
she broke off bits of plaster from the wall and threw them against
Dominique's window. He did not hear; perhaps he was asleep. Again
she crumbled fragments from the wall, until the skin was peeled from
her fingers. Her strength was exhausted, she felt that she was about
to fall backward into the stream, when at last Dominique softly
raised his sash.

"It is I," she murmured. "Take me quick; I am about to fall."
Leaning from the window he grasped her and drew her into the room,
where she had a paroxysm of weeping, stifling her sobs in order that
she might not be heard. Then, by a supreme effort of the will, she
overcame her emotion.

"Are you guarded?" she asked, in a low voice.

Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction at seeing her
there, made answer by simply pointing toward his door. There was a
sound of snoring audible on the outside; it was evident that the
sentinel had been overpowered by sleep and had thrown himself upon
the floor close against the door in such a way that it could not be
opened without arousing him.

"You must fly," she continued earnestly. "I came here to bid you fly
and say farewell."

But he seemed not to hear her. He kept repeating:

"What, is it you, is it you? Oh, what a fright you gave me! You
might have killed yourself." He took her hands, he kissed them again
and again. "How I love you, Françoise! You are as courageous as you
are good. The only thing I feared was that I might die without
seeing you again, but you are here, and now they may shoot me when
they will. Let me but have a quarter of an hour with you and I am
ready."

He had gradually drawn her to him; her head was resting on his
shoulder. The peril that was so near at hand brought them closer to
each other, and they forgot everything in that long embrace.

"Ah, François!" Dominique went on in low, caressing tones, "to-day is
the fête of Saint Louis, our wedding-day, that we have been waiting
for so long. Nothing has been able to keep us apart, for we are both
here, faithful to our appointment, are we not? It is now our wedding
morning."

"Yes, yes," she repeated after him, "our wedding morning."

They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. But suddenly she tore
herself from his arms; the terrible reality arose before her eyes.

"You must fly, you must fly," she murmured breathlessly. "There is
not a moment to lose." And as he stretched out his arms in the
darkness to draw her to him again, she went on in tender, beseeching
tones: "Oh! listen to me, I entreat you. If you die, I shall die.
In an hour it will be daylight. Go, go at once; I command you to go."

Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. The iron ladder extended
downward to the wheel; once he had got that far he could climb down
by means of the buckets and get into the boat, which was hidden in a
recess. Then it would be an easy matter for him to reach the other
bank of the stream and make his escape.

"But are there no sentinels?" said he.

"Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot of the first willow."

"And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm?"

Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hand a knife that she had
brought down with her. They were silent.

"And your father--and you?" Dominique continued. "But no, it is not
to be thought of; I must not fly. When I am no longer here those
soldiers are capable of murdering you. You do not know them. They
offered to spare my life if I would guide them into Sauval forest.
When they discover that I have escaped their fury will be such that
they will be ready for every atrocity."

The girl did not stop to argue the question. To all the
considerations that he adduced, her one simple answer was: "Fly. For
love of me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, do not linger here a
single moment longer."

She promised that she would return to her bedroom; no one should know
that she had assisted him. She concluded by folding him in her arms
and smothering him with kisses, in an extravagant outburst of
passion. He was vanquished. He put only one more question to her:

"Will you swear to me that your father knows what you are doing and
that he counsels my flight?"

"It was my father who sent me to you," Françoise unhesitatingly
replied.

She told a falsehood. At that moment she had but one great,
overmastering longing, to know that he was in safety, to escape from
the horrible thought that the morning's sun was to be the signal for
his death. When he should be far away, then calamity and evil might
burst upon her head; whatever fate might be in store for her would
seem endurable, so that only his life might be spared. Before and
above all other considerations, the selfishness of her love demanded
that he should be saved.

"It is well," said Dominique; "I will do as you desire."

No further word was spoken. Dominique went to the window to raise it
again. But suddenly there was a noise that chilled them with
affright. The door was shaken violently, they thought that some one
was about to open it; it was evidently a party going the rounds who
had heard their voices. They stood by the window, close locked in
each other's arms, awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable.
Again there came the rattling at the door, but it did not open. Each
of them drew a deep sigh of relief; they saw how it was; the soldier
lying across the threshold had turned over in his sleep. Silence was
restored, indeed, and presently the snoring commenced again, sounding
like sweetest music in their ears.

Dominique insisted that Françoise should return to her room first of
all. He took her in his arms, he bade her a silent farewell, then
assisted her to grasp the ladder, and himself climbed out on it in
turn. He refused to descend a single step, however, until he knew
that she was in her chamber. When she was safe in her room she let
fall, in a voice scarce louder than the whispering breeze, the words:

"_Au revoir_, I love you!"

She knelt at the window, resting her elbows on the sill, straining
her eyes to follow Dominique. The night was still very dark. She
looked for the sentinel, but could see nothing of him; the willow
alone was dimly visible, a pale spot upon the surrounding blackness.
For a moment she heard the rustling of the ivy as Dominique
descended, then the wheel creaked, and there was a faint plash which
told that the young man had found the boat. This was confirmed when,
a minute later, she descried the shadowy outline of the skiff on the
gray bosom of the Morelle. Then a horrible feeling of dread seemed
to clutch her by the throat and deprive her of power to breathe; she
momently expected to hear the sentry give the alarm; every faintest
sound among the dusky shadows seemed to her overwrought imagination
to be the hurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, the click
of musket-locks. The seconds slipped by, however; the landscape
still preserved its solemn peace. Dominique must have landed safely
on the other bank. Françoise no longer had eyes for anything. The
silence was oppressive. And she heard the sound of trampling feet, a
hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body falling. This was followed
by another silence, even deeper than that which had gone before.
Then, as if conscious that Death had passed that way, she became very
cold in presence of the impenetrable night.

At early daybreak the repose of the mill was disturbed by the clamor
of angry voices. Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Françoise's
door. She descended to the courtyard, pale and very calm, but when
there could not repress a shudder upon being brought face to face
with the body of a Prussian soldier that lay on the ground beside the
well, stretched out upon a cloak.

Soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily about the corpse.
Several of them shook their fists threateningly in the direction of
the village. The officer had just sent a summons to Father Merlier
to appear before him in his capacity as mayor of the commune.

"Here is one of our men," he said, in a voice that was almost
unintelligible from anger, "who was found murdered on the bank of the
stream. The murderer must be found, so that we may make a salutary
example of him, and I shall expect you to cooperate with us in
finding him."

"Whatever you desire," the miller replied, with his customary
impassiveness. "Only it will be no easy matter."

The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt of the cloak which
concealed the dead man's face, disclosing as he did so a frightful
wound. The sentinel had been struck in the throat and the weapon had
not been withdrawn from the wound. It was a common kitchen-knife,
with a black handle.

"Look at that knife," the officer said to Father Merlier. "Perhaps
it will assist us in our investigation."

The old man had started violently, but recovered himself at once; not
a muscle of his face moved as he replied:

"Every one about here has knives like that. Like enough your man was
tired of fighting and did the business himself. Such things have
happened before now."

"Be silent!" the officer shouted in a fury. "I don't know what it is
that keeps me from applying the torch to the four corners of your
village."

His rage fortunately kept him from noticing the great change that had
come over Françoise's countenance. Her feelings had compelled her to
sit down upon the stone bench beside the well. Do what she would she
could not remove her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon the
ground, almost at her feet. He had been a tall, handsome young man
in life, very like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and golden
hair. The resemblance went to her heart. She thought that perhaps
the dead man had left behind him in his German home some loved one
who would weep for his loss. And she recognized her knife in the
dead man's throat. She had killed him.

The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Rocreuse with some
terrible punishment, when two or three soldiers came running in. The
guard had just that moment ascertained the fact of Dominique's
escape. The agitation caused by the tidings was extreme. The
officer went to inspect the locality, looked out through the still
open window, saw at once how the event had happened, and returned in
a state of exasperation.

Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Dominique's flight. "The
idiot!" he murmured; "he has upset everything."

Françoise heard him, and was in an agony of suffering. Her father,
moreover, had no suspicion of her complicity. He shook his head,
saying to her in an undertone:

"We are in a nice box, now!"

"It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!" cried the officer.
"He has got away to the woods; but he must be found, or by ----, the
village shall stand the consequences." And addressing himself to the
miller: "Come, you must know where he is hiding?"

Father Merlier laughed in his silent way and pointed to the wide
stretch of wooded hills.

"How can you expect to find a man in that wilderness?" he asked.

"Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that you are acquainted with.
I am going to give you ten men; you shall act as guide to them."

"I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to beat up all the
woods of the neighborhood."

The old man's serenity enraged the officer; he saw, indeed, what a
ridiculous proceeding such a hunt would be. It was at that moment
that he caught sight of Françoise where she sat, pale and trembling,
on her bench. His attention was aroused by the girl's anxious
attitude. He was silent for a moment, glancing suspiciously from
father to daughter and back again.

"Is not this man," he at last coarsely asked the old man, "your
daughter's lover?"

Father Merlier's face became ashy pale, and he appeared for a moment
as if about to throw himself on the officer and throttle him. He
straightened himself up and made no reply. Françoise had hidden her
face in her hands.

"Yes, that is how it is," the Prussian continued; "you or your
daughter have assisted him to escape. You are his accomplices. For
the last time, will you surrender him?"

The miller did not answer. He had turned away and was looking at the
distant landscape with an air of supreme indifference, just as if the
officer were talking to some other person. That put the finishing
touch to the latter's wrath.

"Very well, then!" he declared, "you shall be shot in his stead."

And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father Merlier was as
imperturbable as ever. He scarcely did so much as shrug his
shoulders; the whole drama appeared to him to be in very doubtful
taste. He probably believed that they would not take a man's life in
that unceremonious manner. When the platoon was on the ground he
gravely said:

"So, then, you are in earnest?--Very well, I am willing it should be
so. If you feel you must have a victim, it may as well be I as
another."

But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: "Have mercy, good
sir; do not harm my father. Take my life instead of his. It was I
who assisted Dominique to escape; I am the only guilty one."

"Hold your tongue, my girl," Father Merlier exclaimed. "Why do you
tell such a falsehood? She passed the night locked in her room,
monsieur; I assure you that she does not speak the truth."

"I am speaking the truth," the girl eagerly replied. "I left my room
by the window; I incited Dominique to fly. It is the truth, the
whole truth."

The old man's face was very white. He could read in her eyes that
she was not lying and her story terrified him. Ah, those children,
those children! how they spoiled everything, with their hearts and
their feelings! Then he said angrily:

"She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of trash she is
giving you. Come, let us get through with this business."

She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, she raised her
clasped hands in supplication. The officer stood tranquilly by and
watched the harrowing scene.

"_Mon Dieu_," he said at last, "I take your father because the other
has escaped me. Bring me back the other man and your father shall
have his liberty."

She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated by the horror which
his proposal inspired in her.

"It is dreadful," she murmured. "Where can I look for Dominique now?
He is gone; I know nothing beyond that."

"Well, make your choice between them; him or your father."

"Oh! my God! how can I choose? Even if I knew where to find
Dominique I could not choose. You are breaking my heart. I would
rather die at once. Yes, it would be more quickly ended thus. Kill
me, I beseech you, kill me--"

The officer finally became weary of this scene of despair and tears.
He cried:

"Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly. I will give you two
hours. If your lover is not here within two hours, your father shall
pay the penalty that he has incurred."

And he ordered Father Merlier away to the room that had served as a
prison for Dominique. The old man asked for tobacco and began to
smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be descried on his impassive
face. Only when he was alone he wept two big tears that coursed
slowly down his cheeks as he smoked his solitary pipe. His poor,
dear child, what a fearful trial she was enduring!

Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian soldiers passed back
and forth, laughing. Some of them addressed her with coarse
pleasantries which she did not understand. Her gaze was bent upon
the door through which her father had disappeared, and with a slow
movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from
bursting. The officer turned sharply and said to her:

"You have two hours. Try to make good use of them."

She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, buzzing in her ears.
Then she went forth mechanically from the courtyard; she walked
straight ahead with no definite end. Where was she to go? what was
she to do? She did not even endeavor to arrive at any decision, for
she felt how utterly useless were her efforts. And yet she would
have liked to see Dominique; they could have come to some
understanding together. Perhaps they might have hit on some plan to
extricate them from their difficulties. And so, amid the confusion
of her whirling thoughts, she took her way downward to the bank of
the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam by means of some
stepping-stones which were there. Proceeding onward, still
involuntarily, she came to the first willow, at the corner of the
meadow, and stooping down, beheld a sight that made her grow deathly
pale--a pool of blood. It was the spot. And she followed the trace
that Dominique had left in the tall grass; it was evident that he had
run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a diagonal line
were separated from one another by wide intervals. Then, beyond that
point, she lost the trace, but thought she had discovered it again in
an adjoining field. It led her onward to the border of the forest,
where the trail came abruptly to an end.

Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, Françoise
penetrated into the wood. It was a comfort to her to be alone. She
sat down for a moment, then, reflecting that time was passing, rose
again to her feet. How long was it since she left the mill? Five
minutes? or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of time. Perhaps
Dominique had sought concealment in a clearing that she knew of,
where they had gone together one afternoon and eaten hazel-nuts. She
directed her steps toward the clearing, she searched it thoroughly.
A blackbird flew out, whistling his sweet and melancholy note; that
was all. Then she thought that he might have taken refuge in a
hollow among the rocks where he went sometimes with his gun to secure
a bird or a rabbit, but the spot was untenanted. What use was there
in looking for him? She would never find him, and little by little
the desire to discover his hiding-place became a passionate longing.
She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea suddenly took
possession of her that he had climbed into a tree, and thenceforth
she went along with eyes raised aloft and called him by name every
fifteen or twenty steps, so that he might know she was near him. The
cuckoos answered her; a breath of air that rustled the leaves made
her think that he was there and was coming down to her. Once she
even imagined that she saw him; she stopped, with a sense of
suffocation, with a desire to run away. What was she to say to him?
Had she come there to take him back with her and have him shot? Oh!
no, she would not mention those things; she would tell him that he
must fly, that he must not remain in the neighborhood. Then she
thought of her father awaiting her return, and the reflection caused
her most bitter anguish. She sank upon the turf, weeping hot tears,
crying aloud:

"My God! My God! why am I here!"

It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as if seized with
sudden panic, she ran hither and thither, she sought to make her way
out of the forest. Three times she lost her way, and had begun to
think she was never to see the mill again, when she came out into a
meadow, directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of
the village she stopped. Was she going to return alone?

She was standing there when she heard a voice calling her by name,
softly:

"Françoise! Françoise!"

And she beheld Dominique, raising his head above the edge of a ditch.
Just God! she had found him!

Could it be, then, that heaven willed his death? She suppressed a
cry that rose to her lips and slipped into the ditch beside him.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing what she was saying.

"Ah! what has happened?"

She stammered, with eyes downcast: "Why, nothing; I was anxious, I
wanted to see you."

Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell her how it was
that he had remained in the vicinity. He was alarmed for them.
Those rascally Prussians were not above wreaking their vengeance on
women and old men. All had ended well, however, and he added,
laughing:

"The wedding will be deferred for a week, that's all."

He became serious, however, upon noticing that her dejection did not
pass away.

"But what is the matter? You are concealing something from me."

"No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I ran all the way
here."

He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them both to remain there
longer, and was about to climb out of the ditch in order to return to
the forest. She stopped him; she was trembling violently.

"Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for you to remain
here, after all. There is no one looking for you, you have nothing
to fear."

"Françoise, you are concealing something from me," he said again.

Again she protested that she was concealing nothing. She only liked
to know that he was near her. And there were other reasons still
that she gave in stammering accents. Her manner was so strange that
no consideration could now have induced him to go away. He believed,
moreover, that the French would return presently. Troops had been
seen over toward Sauval.

"Ah! let them make haste; let them come as quickly as possible," she
murmured fervently.

At that moment the clock of the church at Rocreuse struck eleven; the
strokes reached them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror; it
was two hours since she had left the mill.

"Listen," she said, with feverish rapidity, "should we need you I
will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief from the window."

And she started off homeward on a run, while Dominique, greatly
disturbed in mind, stretched himself at length beside the ditch to
watch the mill. Just as she was about to enter the village Françoise
encountered an old beggarman, Father Bontemps, who knew every one and
everything in that part of the country. He saluted her; he had just
seen the miller, he said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then,
making numerous signs of the cross and mumbling some inarticulate
words, he went his way.

"The two hours are up," the officer said, when Françoise made her
appearance.

Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench beside the well. He
was smoking still. The young girl again proffered her supplication,
kneeling before the officer and weeping. Her wish was to gain time.
The hope that she might yet behold the return of the French had been
gaining strength in her bosom, and amid her tears and sobs she
thought she could distinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp of
an advancing army. Oh! if they would but come and deliver them all
from their fearful trouble!

"Hear me, sir; grant us an hour, just one little hour. Surely you
will not refuse to grant us an hour!"

But the officer was inflexible. He even ordered two men to lay hold
of her and take her away, in order that they might proceed
undisturbed with the execution of the old man. Then a dreadful
conflict took place in Françoise's heart. She could not allow her
father to be murdered in that manner; no, no, she would die in
company with Dominique rather, and she was just darting away in the
direction of her room in order to signal her _fiance_, when Dominique
himself entered the courtyard.

The officer and his soldiers gave a great shout of triumph, but he,
as if there had been no soul there but Françoise, walked straight up
to her; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore a slight expression
of sternness.

"You did wrong," he said. "Why did you not bring me back with you?
Had it not been for Father Bontemps I should have known nothing of
all this. Well, I am here, at all events."

It was three o'clock. The heavens were piled high with great black
clouds, the tail-end of a storm that had been raging somewhere in the
vicinity. Beneath the coppery sky and ragged scud the valley of
Rocreuse, so bright and smiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm,
full of sinister shadows. The Prussian officer had done nothing with
Dominique beyond placing him in confinement, giving no indication of
his ultimate purpose in regard to him. Françoise, since noon, had
been suffering unendurable agony; notwithstanding her father's
entreaties she would not leave the courtyard. She was waiting for
the French troops to appear, but the hours slipped by, night was
approaching, and she suffered all the more since it appeared as if
the time thus gained would have no effect on the final result.

About three o'clock, however, the Prussians began to make their
preparations for departure. The officer had gone to Dominique's room
and remained closeted with him for some minutes, as he had done the
day before. Françoise knew that the young man's life was hanging in
the balance; she clasped her hands and put up fervent prayers.
Beside her sat Father Merlier, rigid and silent, declining, like the
true peasant he was, to attempt any interference with accomplished
facts.

"Oh! my God! my God!" Françoise exclaimed, "they are going to kill
him!"

The miller drew her to him and took her on his lap as if she had been
a little child. At this juncture the officer came from the room,
followed by two men conducting Dominique between them.

"Never, never!" the latter exclaimed. "I am ready to die."

"You had better think the matter over," the officer replied. "I
shall have no trouble in finding some one else to render us the
service which you refuse. I am generous with you; I offer you your
life. It is simply a matter of guiding us across the forest to
Montredon; there must be paths."

Dominique made no answer.

"Then you persist in your obstinacy?"

"Shoot me, and have done with the matter," he replied.

François, in the distance, entreated her lover with clasped hands;
she was forgetful of all considerations save one, she would have had
him commit a treason. But Father Merlier seized her hands that the
Prussians might not see the wild gestures of a woman whose mind was
disordered by her distress.

"He is right," he murmured, "it is best for him to die."

The firing-party was in readiness. The officer still had hopes of
bringing Dominique over, and was waiting to see him exhibit some
signs of weakness. Deep silence prevailed. Heavy peals of thunder
were heard in the distance, the fields and woods lay lifeless beneath
the sweltering heat. And it was in the midst of this oppressive
silence that suddenly the cry arose:

"The French; the French!"

It was a fact; they were coming. The line of red trousers could be
seen advancing along the Sauval road, at the edge of the forest. In
the mill the confusion was extreme; the Prussian soldiers ran to and
fro, giving vent to guttural cries. Not a shot had been fired as yet.

"The French! the French!" cried Françoise, clapping her hands for
joy. She was like a woman possessed. She had escaped from her
father's embrace and was laughing boisterously, her arms raised high
in air. They had come at last, then, and had come in time, since
Dominique was still there, alive!

A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like a thunder-clap caused
her to suddenly turn her head. The officer had muttered: "We will
finish this business first," and with his own hands pushing Dominique
up against the wall of a shed, had given the command to the squad to
fire. When Françoise turned Dominique was lying on the ground,
pierced by a dozen bullets.

She did not shed a tear, she stood there like one suddenly rendered
senseless. Her eyes were fixed and staring, and she went and seated
herself beneath the shed, a few steps from the lifeless body. She
looked at it wistfully; now and then she would make a movement with
her hand in an aimless, childish way. The Prussians had seized
Father Merlier as a hostage.

It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving that he could not
retreat without being cut to pieces, rapidly made the best
disposition possible of his men; it was as well to sell their lives
dearly. The Prussians were now the defenders of the mill and the
French were the attacking party. The musketry fire began with
unparalleled fury; for half an hour there was no lull in the storm.
Then a deep report was heard and a ball carried away a large branch
of the old elm. The French had artillery; a battery, in position
just beyond the ditch where Dominique had concealed himself,
commanded the main street of Rocreuse. The conflict could not last
long after that.

Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls raked it from wall to wall.
Half the roof was carried away; two of the walls fell in. But it was
on the side toward the Morelle that the damage was greatest. The
ivy, torn from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, débris of every
description floated away upon the bosom of the stream, and through a
great breach Françoise's chamber was visible with its little bed, the
snow-white curtains of which were carefully drawn. Two balls struck
the old wheel in quick succession and it gave one parting groan; the
buckets were carried away down stream, the frame was crushed into a
shapeless mass. It was the soul of the stout old mill parting from
the body.

Then the French came forward to carry the place by storm. There was
a mad hand-to-hand conflict with the bayonet. Under the dull sky the
pretty valley became a huge slaughter-pen; the broad meadows looked
on affrightedly, with their great isolated trees and their rows of
poplars, dotting them with shade, while to right and left the forest
was like the walls of a tilting-ground enclosing the combatants, and
in nature's universal panic the gentle murmur of the springs and
watercourses sounded like sobs and wails.

Françoise had not stirred from the shed, where she remained hanging
over Dominique's body. Father Merlier had met his death from a stray
bullet. Then the French captain, the Prussians being exterminated
and the mill on fire, entered the courtyard at the head of his men.
It was the first success that he had gained since the breaking out of
the war, so, all afire with enthusiasm, drawing himself up to the
full height of his lofty stature, he laughed pleasantly, as a
handsome cavalier like him might laugh, and, perceiving poor idiotic
Françoise where she crouched between the corpses of her father and
her betrothed, among the smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted her
gallantly with his sword and shouted:

"Victory! victory!"

VENUS OF ILLE

BY PROSPER MERIMEE

_Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist, critic, was born in
Paris in 1803, the son of an artist of recognized talent. Rarely
gifted and highly educated, he held various offices in the civil
service, was an Academician, and a Senator of the Empire in 1853. A
great traveler, and admitted through his adaptableness and engaging
personality to all classes of society, from that of Napoleon III to
that of the humblest peasants, observing wherever he went, he
gathered material for his stories, in which a great variety of types
are noticeable. His literary style--clear, simple, artistic, and
marked by sobriety--is considered a model of restraint and
conciseness. "Carmen," on which Bizet's opera is founded, and
"Colomba," his most successful novel, are probably the best known of
his works._

THE VENUS OF ILLE

By PROSPER MERIMEE

[Illustration: Greek text]

I was descending the last slope of the Canigou, and though the sun
was already set I could distinguish on the plain the houses of the
small town of Ille, toward which I directed my steps.

"Of course," I said to the Catalan who since the day before served as
my guide, "you know where M. de Peyrehorade lives?"

"Just don't I," cried he; "I know his house like my own, and if it
were not so dark I would show it to you. It is the finest in Ille.
He is rich, M. de Peyrehorade is, and he marries his son to one
richer even than he."

"Does the marriage come off soon?" I asked him.

"Soon? It may be that the violins are already ordered for the
wedding. To-night perhaps, to-morrow or the next day, how do I know?
It will take place at Puygarrig, for it is Mademoiselle de Puygarrig
that the son is to marry. It will be a sight, I can tell you."

I was recommended to M. de Peyrehorade by my friend M. de P. He was,
I had been told, an antiquarian of much learning and a man of
charming affability. He would take delight in showing me the ruins
for ten leagues around. Therefore I counted on him to visit the
outskirts of Ille, which I knew to be rich in memorials of the Middle
Ages. This marriage, of which I now heard for the first time, upset
all my plans.

"I shall be a troublesome guest," I told myself. "But I am expected;
my arrival has been announced by M. de P.: I must present myself."

When we reached the plain the guide said, "Wager a cigar, sir, that I
can guess what you are going to do at M. de Peyrehorade's."

Offering him one, I answered, "It is not very hard to guess. At this
hour, when one has made six leagues in the Canigou, supper is the
great thing after all."

"Yes, but to-morrow? Here I wager that you have come to Ille to see
the idol. I guessed that when I saw you draw the portraits of the
saints at Serrabona."

"The idol! what idol?" This word had aroused my curiosity.

"What! were you not told at Perpignan how M. de Peyrehorade had found
an idol in the earth?"

"You mean to say an earthen statue?"

"Not at all. A statue in copper, and there is enough of it to make a
lot of big pennies. She weighs as much as a church-bell. It was
deep in the ground at the foot of an olive-tree that we got her."

"You were present at the discovery?"

"Yes, sir. Two weeks ago M. de Peyrehorade told Jean Coll and me to
uproot an old olive-tree which was frozen last year when the weather,
as you know, was very severe. So in working, Jean Coll, who went at
it with all his might, gave a blow with his pickax, and I heard
_bimm_--as if he had struck a bell--and I said, 'What is that?' We
dug on and on, and there was a black hand, which looked like the hand
of a corpse, sticking out of the earth. I was scared to death. I
ran to M. de Peyrehorade and I said to him: 'There are dead people,
master, under the olive-tree! The priest must be called.'

"'What dead people?' said he to me. He came, and he had no sooner
seen the hand than he cried out, 'An antique! an antique!' You would
have thought he had found a treasure. And there he was with the
pickax in his own hands, struggling and doing almost as much work as
we two."

"And at last what did you find?"

"A huge black woman more than half naked, with due respect to you,
sir. She was all in copper, and M. de Peyrehorade told us it was an
idol of pagan times--the time of Charlemagne."

"I see what it is--some virgin or other in bronze from a destroyed
convent."

"A virgin! Had it been one I should have recognized it. It is an
idol, I tell you; you can see it in her look. She fixes you with her
great white eyes--one might say she stares at you. One lowers one's
eyes, yes, indeed, one does, on looking at her."

"White eyes? Doubtless they are set in the bronze. Perhaps it is
some Roman statue."

"Roman! That's it. M. de Peyrehorade says it is Roman. Oh! I see
you are an erudite like himself."

"Is she complete, well preserved?"

"Yes, sir, she lacks nothing. It is a handsomer statue and better
finished than the bust of Louis Philippe in colored plaster which is
in the town-hall. But with all that the face of the idol does not
please me. She has a wicked expression --and, what is more, she is
wicked."

"Wicked! what has she done to you?"

"Nothing to me exactly; but wait a minute. We had gotten down on all
fours to stand her upright, and M. de Peyrehorade was also pulling on
the rope, though he has not much more strength than a chicken. With
much trouble we got her up straight. I reached for a broken tile to
support her, when if she doesn't tumble over backward all in a heap.
I said, 'Take care,' but not quick enough, for Jean did not have time
to draw away his leg--"

"And it was hurt?"

"Broken as clean as a vine-prop. When I saw that I was furious; I
wanted to take my pickax and smash the statue to pieces, but M. de
Peyrehorade stopped me. He gave Jean Coll some money, but all the
same, he is in bed still, though it is two weeks since it happened,
and the physician says that he will never walk as well with that leg
as with the other. It is a pity, for he was our best runner, and,
after M. de Peyrehorade's son, the cleverest racquet player. M.
Alphonse de Peyrehorade was sorry, I can tell you, for Coll always
played on his side. It was beautiful to see how they returned each
other the balls. They never touched the ground."

Chatting in this way we entered Ille, and I soon found myself in the
presence of M. de Peyrehorade. He was a little old man, still hale
and active, with powdered hair, a red nose, and a jovial, bantering
manner. Before opening M. de P.'s letter he had seated me at a
well-spread table, and had presented me to his wife and son as a
celebrated archeologist who was to draw Roussillon from the neglect
in which the indifference of erudites had left it.

While eating heartily, for nothing makes one hungrier than the keen
air of the mountains, I scrutinized my hosts. I have said a word
about M. de Peyrehorade. I must add that he was activity
personified. He talked, got up, ran to his library, brought me
books, showed me engravings, and filled my glass, all at the same
time. He was never two minutes in repose. His wife was a trifle
stout, as are most Catalans when they are over forty years of age.
She appeared to me a thorough provincial, solely occupied with her
housekeeping. Though the supper was sufficient for at least six
persons, she hurried to the kitchen and had pigeons killed and a
number broiled, and she opened I do not know how many jars of
preserves. In no time the table was laden with dishes and bottles,
and if I had but tasted of everything offered me I should certainly
have died of indigestion. Nevertheless, at each dish I refused they
made fresh excuses. They feared I found myself very badly off at
Ille. In the provinces there were so few resources, and of course
Parisians were fastidious!

In the midst of his parent's comings and goings M. Alphonse de
Peyrehorade was as immovable as rent-day. He was a tall young man of
twenty-six, with a regular and handsome countenance, but lacking in
expression. His height and his athletic figure well justified the
reputation of an indefatigable racquet player given him in the
neighborhood.

On that evening he was dressed in an elegant manner; that is to say,
he was an exact copy of a fashion plate in the last number of the
"Journal des Modes." But he seemed to me ill at ease in his clothes;
he was as stiff as a post in his velvet collar, and could only turn
all of a piece. In striking contrast to his costume were his large
sunburnt hands and blunt nails. They were a laborer's hands issuing
from the sleeves of an exquisite. Moreover, though he examined me in
my quality of Parisian most curiously from head to foot, he only
spoke to me once during the whole evening, and that was to ask me
where I had bought my watch-chain.

As the supper was drawing to an end M. de Peyrehorade said to me:
"Ah! my dear guest, you belong to me now you are here. I shall not
let go of you until you have seen everything of interest in our
mountains. You must learn to know our Roussillon, and to do it
justice. You do not suspect all that we have to show you, Phenician,
Celtic, Roman, Arabian, and Byzantine monuments; you shall see them
all from the cedar to the hyssop. I shall drag you everywhere, and
will not spare you a single stone."

A fit of coughing obliged him to pause. I took advantage of it to
tell him that I should be sorry to disturb him on an occasion of so
much interest to his family. If he would but give me his excellent
advice about the excursions to be made, I could go without his taking
the trouble to accompany me.

"Ah! you mean the marriage of that boy there," he exclaimed,
interrupting me; "stuff and nonsense, it will be over the day after
to-morrow. You will go to the wedding with us, which is to be
informal, as the bride is in mourning for an aunt whose heiress she
is. Therefore, there will be no festivities, no ball. It is a pity,
though; you might have seen our Catalans dance. They are pretty, and
might have given you the desire to imitate Alphonse. One marriage,
they say, leads to another. The young people once married I shall be
free, and we will bestir ourselves. I beg your pardon for boring you
with a provincial wedding. For a Parisian tired of
entertainments--and a wedding without a ball at that! Still, you
will see a bride--a bride--well, you shall tell me what you think of
her. But you are a thinker and no longer notice women. I have
better than that to show you. You shall see something; in fact, I
have a fine surprise in store for you to-morrow."

"Good heavens!" said I; "it is difficult to have a treasure in the
house without the public being aware of it. I think I know the
surprise in reserve for me. But if it is your statue which is in
question, the description my guide gave me of it only served to
excite my curiosity and prepared me to admire."

"Ah! So he spoke to you about the idol, as he calls my beautiful
Venus Tur: but I will tell you nothing. To-morrow you shall see her
by daylight and tell me if I am right in thinking the statue a
masterpiece. You could not have arrived more opportunely. There are
inscriptions on it which I, poor ignoramus that I am, explain after
my own fashion; but you a Parisian erudite, will probably laugh at my
interpretation: for I have actually written a paper about it--I, an
old provincial antiquary, have launched myself in literature. I wish
to make the press groan. If you would kindly read and correct it I
might have some hope. For example, I am very anxious to know how you
translate this inscription from the base of the statue: 'CAVE.' But
I do not wish to ask you yet! Wait until to-morrow. Not a word more
about the Venus to-day!"

"You are right, Peyrehorade," said his wife: "drop your idol. Can
you not see that you prevent our guest from eating? You may be sure
that he has seen in Paris much finer statues than yours. In the
Tuileries there are dozens, and they also are in bronze."

"There you have the saintly ignorance of the provinces!" interrupted
M. de Peyrehorade. "The idea of comparing an admirable antique to
the insipid figures of Coustou!

"'How irreverent my housekeeper
Speaks of the gods!"

Do you know that my wife wanted me to melt my statue into a bell for
our church? She would have been the godmother. Just think of it, to
melt a masterpiece by Myron, sir!"

"Masterpiece! Masterpiece! A charming masterpiece she is! to break
a man's leg."

"Madam, do you see that?" said M. de Peyrehorade, in a resolute tone,
extending toward her his right leg in its changeable silk stocking;
"if my Venus had broken that leg there for me I should not regret it."

"Good gracious! Peyrehorade, how can you say such a thing?
Fortunately, the man is better. And yet I can not bring myself to
look at a statue which has caused so great a disaster. Poor Jean
Coll!"

"Wounded by Venus, sir," said M. de Peyrehorade, with a loud laugh;
"wounded by Venus, and the churl complains!

"'Veneris nee præmia noris.'

Who has not been wounded by Venus?"

M. Alphonse, who understood French better than Latin, winked one eye
with an air of intelligence, and looked at me as if to ask, "And you,
Parisian, do you understand?"

The supper came to an end. I had ceased eating an hour before. I
was weary, and I could not manage to hide the frequent yawns which
escaped me. Madame de Peyrehorade was the first to notice them, and
remarked that it was time to go to bed. Then followed fresh
apologies for the poor accommodations I would have. I would not be
as well off as in Paris. It was so uncomfortable in the provinces!
Indulgence was needed for the Roussillonnais. Notwithstanding my
protests that after a tramp in the mountains a bundle of straw would
seem to me a delicious couch, they continued begging me to pardon
poor country people if they did not treat me as well as they could
have wished.

Accompanied by M. de Peyrehorade I ascended at last to the room
arranged for me. The staircase, the upper half of which was in wood,
ended in the centre of a hall, out of which opened several rooms.

"To the right," said my host, "is the apartment which I propose to
give the future Madame Alphonse. Your room is at the opposite end of
the corridor. You understand," he added in a manner which he meant
to be sly--"you understand that newly married people must be alone.
You are at one end of the house, they at the other."

We entered a well-furnished room where the first object on which my
gaze rested was a bed seven feet long, six wide, and so high that one
needed a chair to climb up into it. Having shown me where the bell
was, and assured himself that the sugar-bowl was full and the cologne
bottles duly placed on the toilet-stand, my host asked me a number of
times if anything was lacking, wished me good-night, and left me
alone.

The windows were closed. Before undressing I opened one to breathe
the fresh night air so delightful after a long supper. Facing me was
the Canigou. Always magnificent, it appeared to me on that
particular evening, lighted as it was by a resplendent moon, as the
most beautiful mountain in the world. I remained a few minutes
contemplating its marvelous silhouette, and was about to close the
window when, lowering my eyes, I perceived, a dozen yards from the
house, the statue on its pedestal. It was placed at the corner of a
hedge that separated a small garden from a vast, perfectly level
quadrangle, which I learned later was the racquet court of the town.
This ground was the property of M. de Peyrehorade, and had been given
by him to the parish at the solicitation of his son.

Owing to the distance it was difficult for me to distinguish the
attitude of the statue; I could only judge of its height, which
seemed to be about six feet. At that moment two scamps of the town,
whistling the pretty Roussillon tune, "Montagnes régalades," were
crossing the racquet court quite near the hedge. They paused to look
at the statue, and one of them even apostrophized it aloud. He spoke
Catalonian, but I had been long enough in Roussillon to understand
pretty well what he said.

"There you are, you wench!" (The Catalonian word was much more
forcible.) "There you are!" he said. "It was you, then, who broke
Jean Coll's leg! If you belonged to me I'd break your neck."

"Bah! what with?" said the other youth. "It is of the copper of
pagan times, and harder than I don't know what."

"If I had my chisel" (it seems he was a locksmith's apprentice), "I
would soon force out its big white eyes, as I would pop an almond
from its shell. There are more than a hundred pennies' worth of
silver in them."

They went on a few steps.

"I must wish the idol good-night," said the taller of the
apprentices, stopping suddenly.

He stooped and probably picked up a stone. I saw him unbend his arm
and throw something. A blow resounded on the bronze, and immediately
the apprentice raised his hand to his head with a cry of pain.

"She threw it back at me!" he exclaimed. And my two rascals ran off
as fast as they could. It was evident that the stone had rebounded
from the metal and had punished the wag for the outrage he had done
the goddess. Laughing heartily, I shut the window.

Another Vandal punished by Venus! May all the desecrators of our old
monuments thus get their due!

With this charitable wish I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad day. On one side of my bed stood M. de
Peyrehorade in a dressing-gown; a servant sent by his wife was on the
other side with a cup of chocolate in his hand.

"Come, come, you Parisian, get up! This is quite the laziness of the
capital!" said my host, while I dressed in haste. "It is eight
o'clock, and you are still in bed! I have been up since six. This
is the third time I have been to your door. I approached on tiptoe:
no one, not a sign of life. It is bad for you to sleep too much at
your age. And my Venus, which you have not yet seen! Come, hurry up
and take this cup of Barcelona chocolate. It is real contraband
chocolate, such as can not be found in Paris. Prepare yourself, for
when you are once before my Venus no one will be able to tear you
away from her."

I was ready in five minutes, that is to say, I was half shaved, half
dressed, and burned by the boiling chocolate I had swallowed. I
descended to the garden and saw an admirable statue before me. It
was truly a Venus, and of marvelous beauty. The upper part of the
body was nude, as great divinities were usually represented by the
ancients. The right hand was raised as high as the breast, the palm
turned inward, the thumb and two first fingers extended, and the
others slightly bent. The other hand, drawn close to the hip, held
the drapery which covered the lower half of the body. The attitude
of this statue reminded one of that of the _mourre_ player which is
called, I hardly know why, by the name of Germanicus. Perhaps it had
been intended to represent the goddess as playing at _mourre_.
However that may be, it is impossible to find anything more perfect
than the form of this Venus, anything softer and more voluptuous than
her outlines, or more graceful and dignified than her drapery. I had
expected a work of the decadence; I saw a masterpiece of statuary's
best days.

What struck me most was the exquisite reality of the figure; one
might have thought it molded from life, that is, if Nature ever
produced such perfect models.

The hair, drawn back from the brow, seemed once to have been gilded.
The head was small, like nearly all those Greek statues, and bent
slightly forward. As to the face, I shall never succeed in
describing its strange character; it was of a type belonging to no
other Greek statue which I can remember. It had not the calm, severe
beauty of the Greek sculptors, who systematically gave a majestic
immobility to all the features. On the contrary, I noticed here,
with surprise, a marked intention on the artist's part to reproduce
malice verging on viciousness. All the features were slightly
contracted. The eyes were rather oblique, the mouth raised at the
corners, the nostrils a trifle dilated. Disdain, irony, and cruelty
were to be read in the nevertheless beautiful face.

Truly, the more one gazed at the statue the more one experienced a
feeling of pain that such wonderful beauty could be allied to such an
absence of all sensibility.

"If the model ever existed," I said to M. de Peyrehorade, "and I
doubt if heaven ever produced such a woman, how I pity her lovers!
She must have taken pleasure in making them die of despair. There is
something ferocious in her expression, and yet I have never seen
anything more beautiful."

"'C'est Venus tout entière à sa proie attachée!'" cried M. de
Peyrehorade, delighted with my enthusiasm.

But the expression of demoniac irony was perhaps increased by the
contrast of the bright silver eyes with the dusky green hue which
time had given to the statue. The shining eyes produced a sort of
illusion which simulated reality and life. I remembered what my
guide had said, that those who looked at her were forced to lower
their eyes. It was almost true, and I could not prevent a movement
of anger at myself when I felt ill at ease before this bronze figure.

"Now that you have seen everything in detail, my dear colleague in
antiquities, let us, if you please, open a scientific conference.
What do you say to this inscription which you have not yet noticed?"
He pointed to the base of the statue, and I read these words:

CAVE AMANTEM.

"Quid dicis doctissime?" he asked, rubbing his hands. "Let us see if
we agree as to the meaning of _cave amantem_!"

"But," I replied, "it has two meanings. You can translate it: 'Guard
against him who loves thee,' that is, 'distrust lovers.' But in this
sense I do not know if _cave amantem_ would be good Latin. After
seeing the diabolical expression of the lady I should sooner believe
that the artist meant to warn the spectator against this terrible
beauty. I should then translate it: 'Take care of thyself if _she_
loves thee.'"

"Humph!" said M. de Peyrehorade; "yes, it is an admissible meaning:
but, if you do not mind, I prefer the first translation, which I
would, however, develop. You know Venus's lover?"

"There are several."

"Yes; but the first is Vulcan. Why should it not mean:
'Notwithstanding all thy beauty, thine air of disdain, thou wilt have
a blacksmith, a wretched cripple, for a lover'? A profound lesson,
sir, for coquettes!"

The explication seemed so far-fetched that I could not help smiling.

To avoid formally contradicting my antiquarian friend, I observed,
"Latin is a terrible language in its conciseness," and I drew back
several steps to better contemplate the statue.

"Wait a moment, colleague!" said M. de Peyrehorade, catching hold of
my arm; "you have not seen all. There is another inscription. Climb
up on the pedestal and look at the right arm." So saying, he helped
me up, and without much ceremony I clung to the neck of the Venus,
with whom I was becoming more familiar. For a second I even looked
her straight in the eyes, and on close inspection she appeared more
wicked, and, if possible, more beautiful than before. Then I noticed
that on the arm were engraved, as it seemed to me, characters in
ancient script. With the aid of my spectacles I spelled out what
follows, and M. de Peyrehorade, approving with voice and gesture,
repeated each word as I uttered it. Thus I read:

VENERI TVRBVL ...
EVTVCHES MYRO.
IMPERIO FECIT.

After the word 'Tvrbvl' in the first line it looked to me as if there
were several letters effaced; but 'Tvrbvl' was perfectly legible.

"Which means to say?" my host asked radiantly, with a mischievous
smile, for he thought the 'Tvrbvl' would puzzle me.

"There is one word which I do not yet understand," I answered; "all
the rest is simple. Eutyches Myron has made this offering to Venus
by her command."

"Quite right. But 'Tvrbvl,' what do you make of it? What does it
mean?"

"'Tvrbvl' perplexes me very much. I am trying to think of one of
Venus's familiar characteristics which may enlighten me. But what do
you say to 'Tvrbvlenta'? The Venus who troubles, agitates. You see
I am still preoccupied by her wicked expression. 'Tvrbvlenta' is not
too bad a quality for Venus," I added modestly, for I was not too
well satisfied with my explanation.

"A turbulent Venus! A noisy Venus! Ah! then you think my Venus is a
public-house Venus? Nothing of the kind, sir; she is a Venus of good
society. I will explain 'Tvrbvl' to you--that is, if you promise me
not to divulge my discovery before my article appears in print.
Because, you see, I pride myself on such a find, and, after all, you
Parisian erudites are rich enough to leave a few ears for us poor
devils of provincials to glean!"

From the top of the pedestal, where I was still perched, I promised
him solemnly that I would never be so base as to filch from him his
discovery.

"'Tvrbvl'--sir," said he, coming nearer and lowering his voice for
fear some one besides myself might hear him, "read 'Tvrbvlneræ.'"

"I understand no better."

"Listen to me attentively. Three miles from here, at the foot of the
mountain, is a village called Boulternère. The name is a corruption
of the Latin word 'Tvrbvlnera.' Nothing is more common than these
transpositions. Boulternère was a Roman town. I always suspected
it, but I could get no proof till now, and here it is. This Venus
was the local goddess of the city of Boulternére; and the word
Boulternére, which I have shown is of ancient origin, proves
something very curious, namely, that Boulternére was a Phenician town
before it was Roman!"

He paused a moment to take breath and enjoy my surprise. I succeeded
in overcoming a strong inclination to laugh.

"'Tvrbvlnera' is, in fact, pure Phenician," he continued. "'Tvr,'
pronounce 'tour'--'Tour' and 'Sour' are the same word, are they not?
'Sour' is the Phenician name of Tyr; I do not need to recall the
meaning to you. 'Bvl' is Baal; Bal, Bel, Bui are slight differences
of pronunciation. As to 'Nera,' that troubles me a little. I am
tempted to believe, for want of a Phenician word, that it comes from
the Greek νηρόϛ, moist, marshy. In that case, it is a mongrel word.
To justify νηρόϛ I will show you at Boulternère how the mountain
streams form stagnant pools. Then, again, the ending 'Nera' may have
been added much later in honor of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus,
who may have benefited the city of Turbul. But on account of the
marshes, I prefer the etymology of νηρόϛ."

He took a pinch of snuff in a complacent way, and continued:

"But let us leave the Phenicians and return to the inscription. I
translate it then: 'To Venus of Boulternère Myron dedicates by her
order this statue, his work.'"

I took good care not to criticize his etymology, but I wished in my
turn to give a proof of penetration, so I said:

"Stop a moment, M. de Peyrehorade. Myron has dedicated something,
but I by no means see that it is this statue."

"What!" he cried, "was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor? The talent
was perpetuated in his family, and it must have been one of his
descendants who executed this statue. Nothing can be more certain."

"But," I replied, "on this arm I see a small hole. I think it served
to fasten something, a bracelet for example, which this Myron, being
an unhappy lover, gave to Venus as an expiatory offering. Venus was
irritated against him; he appeased her by consecrating to her a gold
bracelet. Notice that 'fecit' is often used for 'consecravit.' The
terms are synonymous. I could show you more than one example if I
had at hand Gruter or Orellius. It is natural that a lover should
see Venus in a dream and imagine that she commands him to give a gold
bracelet to her statue. Myron consecrated the bracelet to her. Then
the barbarians or some other sacrilegious thieves--"

"Ah! it is easy to see you have written romances!" cried my host,
helping me down from the pedestal. "No, sir; it is a work of Myron's
school. You have only to look at the workmanship to be convinced of
that."

Having made it a rule never to contradict self-opinionated
antiquarians, I bowed with an air of conviction, saying:

"It is an admirable piece of work."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, "another act of
vandalism! Some one must have thrown a stone at my statue!"

He had just perceived a white mark a little above the bosom of the
Venus. I noticed a similar mark on the fingers of the right hand. I
supposed it had been touched by the stone as it passed, or that a bit
of the stone had been broken off as it struck the statue, and had
rebounded on the hand. I told my host of the insult I had witnessed,
and the prompt punishment which had followed it.

He laughed heartily, and, comparing the apprentice to Diomede, wished
he might, like the Greek hero, see all his comrades turned into white
birds.

The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation, and, as
on the preceding evening, I was obliged to eat enough for four. Then
came M. de Peyrehorade's farmers, and, while he was giving them an
audience, his son led me to inspect an open carriage, which he had
bought at Toulouse for his betrothed, and which it is needless to say
I duly admired. After that I went into the stable with him, where he
kept me a half-hour, boasting about his horses, giving me their
genealogy, and telling me of the prizes they had won at the county
races. At last he began to talk to me about his betrothed in
connection with a gray mare which he intended for her.

"We will see her to-day," he said. "I do not know if you will find
her pretty. In Paris people are hard to please. But every one here
and in Perpignan thinks her lovely. The best of it is that she is
very rich. Her aunt from Prades left her a fortune. Oh! I shall be
very happy."

I was profoundly shocked to see a young man appear more affected by
the dower than by the beauty of his bride.

"You are a judge of jewels," continued M. Alphonse; "what do you
think of this? Here is the ring I shall give her to-morrow."

He drew from his little finger a heavy ring, enriched with diamonds,
and fashioned into two clasped hands, an allusion which seemed to me
infinitely poetic. The workmanship was antique, but I fancied it had
been retouched to insert the diamonds. Inside the ring these words
in Gothic characters could be discerned: 'Sempr' ab ti,' which means,
'Thine forever.'

"It is a pretty ring," I said, "but the diamonds which have been
added have made it lose a little of its style."

"Oh! it is much handsomer now," he answered, smiling. "There are
twelve hundred francs' worth of diamonds in it. My mother gave it to
me. It is a very old family ring--it dates from the days of
chivalry. It was my grandmother's, who had it from her grandmother.
Heaven knows when it was made."

"The custom in Paris," I said, "is to give a perfectly plain ring,
usually composed of two different metals, such as gold and platina.
The other ring which you have on would be very suitable. This one
with its diamonds and its clasped hands is so thick that it would be
impossible to wear a glove over it."

"Madame Alphonse must arrange that as she pleases. I think she will
be very glad to have it, all the same. Twelve hundred francs on the
finger is pleasant. That other little ring," he added, looking in a
contented way at the plain ring he wore, "that one a woman in Paris
gave me on Shrove Tuesday. How I did enjoy myself when I was in
Paris two years ago! That is the place to have a good time!" and he
sighed regretfully.

We were to dine that day at Puygarrig, with the relations of the
bride; so we got in the carriage, and drove to the château, which was
four or five miles from Ille. I was presented and received as the
friend of the family. I will not speak of the dinner, or the
conversation which followed. I took but little part in it. M.
Alphonse was seated beside his betrothed, and whispered a word or two
in her ear now and then. As for her, she hardly raised her eyes; and
every time her lover spoke to her she blushed modestly, but answered
without embarrassment.

Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of age. Her slender,
graceful figure formed a striking contrast to the stalwart frame of
her future husband. She was not only beautiful, she was alluring. I
admired the perfect naturalness of all her replies. Her kind look,
which yet was not free from a touch of malice, reminded me, in spite
of myself, of my host's Venus. While making this inward comparison,
I asked myself if the incontestably superior beauty of the statue did
not in great measure come from its tigress-like expression; for
strength, even in evil passions, always arouses in us astonishment,
and a sort of involuntary admiration.

"What a pity," I thought, on leaving Puygarrig, "that such an
attractive girl should be rich, and that her dowry makes her sought
by a man quite unworthy of her."

While returning to Ille, I spoke to Mme. de Peyrehorade, to whom I
thought it only proper to address myself now and then, though I did
not very well know what to say to her: "You must be strong-minded
people in Roussillon," I said. "How is it, madam, that you have a
wedding on a Friday? We would be more superstitious in Paris; no one
would dare be married on that day."

"Do not speak of it," she replied; "if it had depended on me,
certainly another day would have been chosen. But Peyrehorade wished
it, and I had to give in. All the same, it troubles me very much.
Supposing an accident should happen? There must be some reason in
it, or else why is every one afraid of Friday?"

"Friday!" cried her husband, "is Venus's day! Just the day for a
wedding! You see, my dear colleague, I think only of my Venus. I
chose Friday on her account. To-morrow, if you like, before the
wedding, we will make a little sacrifice to her--a sacrifice of two
doves--and if I only knew where to get some incense--"

"For shame, Peyrehorade!" interrupted his wife, scandalized to the
last degree. "Incense to an idol! It would be an abomination! What
would they say of us in the neighborhood?"

"At least," answered M. de Peyrehorade, "you will allow me to place a
wreath of roses and lilies on her head: _Manibus date lilia plenis_.
You see, sir, freedom is an empty word. We have not liberty of
worship!"

The next day's arrangements were ordered in the following manner:
Every one was to be dressed and ready at ten o'clock punctually.
After the chocolate had been served we were to be driven to
Puygarrig. The civil marriage was to take place in the town hall of
the village, and the religious ceremony in the chapel of the château.
Afterward there would be a breakfast. After the breakfast people
would pass the time as they liked until seven o'clock. At that hour
every one would return to M. de Peyrehorade's at Ille, where the two
families were to assemble and have supper. It was natural that being
unable to dance they should wish to eat as much as possible.

By eight o'clock I was seated in front of the Venus, pencil in hand,
recommencing the head of the statue for the twentieth time without
being able to catch the expression. M. de Peyrehorade came and went
about me, giving me advice, repeating his Phenician etymology, and
laying Bengal roses on the pedestal of the statue while he addressed
vows to it in a tragi-comic tone for the young couple who were to
live under his roof. Toward nine o'clock he went in to put on his
best, and at the same moment M. Alphonse appeared looking very stiff
in a new coat, white gloves, chased sleeve-buttons, and varnished
shoes. A rose decorated his buttonhole.

"Will you make my wife's portrait?" he asked, leaning over my
drawing. "She also is pretty."

On the racquet-court of which I have spoken there now began a game
which immediately attracted M. Alphonse's attention. And I, tired,
and despairing of ever being able to copy the diabolical face, soon
left my drawing to look at the players. There were among them some
Spanish muleteers who had arrived the night before. They were from
Aragon and Navarre, and were nearly all marvelously skilful at the
game. Therefore the Illois, though encouraged by the presence and
advice of M. Alphonse, were promptly beaten by the foreign champions.
The native spectators were disheartened. M. Alphonse looked at his
watch. It was only half-past nine. His mother's hair he knew was
not dressed. He hesitated no longer, but taking off his coat asked
for a jacket, and defied the Spaniards. I looked on smiling and a
little surprised. "The honor of the country must be sustained," he
said.

Then I thought him really handsome. He seemed full of life, and his
costume, which but now occupied him so entirely, no longer concerned
him. A few minutes before he would have dreaded to turn his head for
fear of disarranging his cravat. Now he did not give a thought to
his curled hair or his fine shirt-front. And his betrothed? If it
had been necessary I think he would have postponed the wedding. I
saw him hurriedly put on a pair of sandals, roll up his sleeves, and,
with an assured air, take his stand at the head of the vanquished
party like Cæsar rallying his soldiers at Dyrrachium. I leaped the
hedge and placed myself comfortably in the shade of a tree so as to
command a good view of both sides.

Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed the first ball.
It came skimming along the ground, it is true, and was thrown with
astonishing force by an Aragonese who appeared to be the leader of
the Spaniards.

He was a man of about forty, nervous and agile, and at least six feet
tall. His olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.

M. Alphonse threw his racquet angrily on the ground.

"It is this cursed ring," he cried, "which squeezes my finger, and
makes me miss a sure ball."

He drew off his diamond ring with some difficulty; I approached to
take it, but he forestalled me by running to the Venus and shoving it
on her fourth finger. He then resumed his post at the head of the
Illois.

He was pale, but calm and resolute. From that moment he did not miss
a single ball, and the Spaniards were completely beaten. The
enthusiasm of the spectators was a fine sight: some threw their caps
in the air and shouted for joy, while others wrung M. Alphonse's
hands, calling him the honor of the country. If he had repulsed an
invasion I doubt if he would have received warmer or sincerer
congratulations. The vexation of the vanquished added to the
splendor of the victory.

"We will play other games, my good fellow," he said to the Aragonese
in a tone of superiority, "but I will give you points."

I should have wished M. Alphonse to be more modest, and I was almost
pained by his rival's humiliation.

The Spanish giant felt the insult deeply. I saw him pale beneath his
tan. He looked sullenly at his racquet and clinched his teeth, then,
in a smothered voice he muttered:

"Me lo pagarás."

M. de Peyrehorade's voice interrupted his son's triumph. Astonished
at not finding him presiding over the preparation of the new
carriage, my host was even more surprised on seeing him racquet in
hand and bathed in perspiration. M. Alphonse hurried to the house,
washed his hands and face, put on again his new coat and
patent-leather shoes, and in five minutes we were galloping on the
road to Puygarrig. All the racquet players of the town and a crowd
of spectators followed us with shouts of joy. The strong horses
which drew us could hardly keep ahead of the intrepid Catalans.

We were at Puygarrig, and the procession was about to set out for the
town-hall, when M. Alphonse, striking his forehead, whispered to me:

"What a mess! I have forgotten the ring! It is on the finger of the
Venus; may the devil carry her off! Do not tell my mother at any
rate. Perhaps she will not notice it."

"You can send some one for it," I replied.

"My servant remained at Ille. I do not trust these here. Twelve
hundred francs' worth of diamonds might well tempt almost any one.
Moreover, what would they think of my forgetfulness? They would
laugh at me. They would call me the husband of the statue. If it
only is not stolen! Fortunately, the rascals are afraid of the idol.
They do not dare approach it by an arm's length. After all, it does
not matter; I have another ring."

The two ceremonies, civil and religious, were accomplished with
suitable pomp, and Mademoiselle de Puygarrig received the ring of a
Parisian milliner without suspecting that her betrothed was making
her the sacrifice of a love-token. Then we seated ourselves at
table, where we ate, drank, and even sang, all at great length. I
suffered for the bride at the coarse merriment which exploded around
her; still, she faced it better than I would have expected, and her
embarrassment was neither awkward nor affected.

Perhaps courage comes with difficult situations.

The breakfast ended when Heaven pleased. It was four o'clock. The
men went to walk in the park, which was magnificent, or watched the
peasants, in their holiday attire, dance on the lawn of the château.
In this way we passed several hours. Meanwhile, the women were
eagerly attentive to the bride, who showed them her presents. Then
she changed her dress, and I noticed that she had covered her
beautiful hair with a befeathered bonnet; for women are in no greater
hurry than to assume, as soon as possible, the attire which custom
forbids their wearing while they are still young girls.

It was nearly eight o'clock when preparations were made to start for
Ille. But first a pathetic scene took place. Mlle. de Puygarrig's
aunt, a very old and pious woman, who stood to her in a mother's
place, was not to go with us. Before the departure she gave her
niece a touching sermon on her wifely duties, from which sermon
resulted a flood of tears and endless embraces.

M. de Peyrehorade compared this separation to the Rape of the Sabines.

At last, however, we got off, and, on the way, every one exerted
himself to amuse the bride and make her laugh; but all in vain.

At Ille supper awaited us, and what a supper! If the coarse jokes of
the morning had shocked me, I was now much more so by the
equivocations and pleasantries of which the bride and groom were the
principal objects. The bridegroom, who had disappeared for a moment
before seating himself at the table, was pale, cold, and grave.

He drank incessantly some old Collioure wine almost as strong as
brandy. I sat next to him, and thought myself obliged to warn him.
"Be careful! they say that wine--" I hardly know what stupid
nonsense I said to be in harmony with the other guests.

He touched my knee, and whispered:

"When we have left the table ... let me have two words with you."

His solemn tone surprised me. I looked more closely at him, and
noticed a strange alteration in his features.

"Do you feel ill?" I asked.

"No."

And he began to drink again.

Meanwhile, amid much shouting and clapping of hands, a child of
twelve, who had slipped under the table, held up to the company a
pretty pink and white ribbon which he had untied from the bride's
ankle. It was called her garter, and was at once cut into pieces and
distributed among the young men, who, following an old custom still
preserved in some patriarchal families, ornamented their buttonholes
with it. This was the time for the bride to flush up to the whites
of her eyes. But her confusion was at its height when M. de
Peyrehorade, having called for silence, sang several verses in
Catalan, which he said were impromptu. Here is the meaning, if I
understood it correctly:

"What is this, my friends? Has the wine I have drunk made me see
double? There are two Venuses here..."

The bridegroom turned his head suddenly with a frightened look, which
made every one laugh.

"Yes," continued M. de Peyrehorade, "there are two Venuses under my
roof. The one I found in the ground like a truffle; the other,
descended from heaven, has just divided among us her belt."

He meant her garter.

"My son, choose between the Roman Venus and the Catalan the one you
prefer. The rascal takes the Catalan, and his choice is the best.
The Roman is black, the Catalan is white. The Roman is cold, the
Catalan inflames all who approach her."

This equivocal allusion excited such a shout, such noisy applause,
and sonorous laughter, that I thought the ceiling would fall on our
heads. Around the table there were but three serious faces, those of
the newly married couple and mine. I had a terrible headache; and
besides, I do not know why, a wedding always saddens me. This one,
moreover, even disgusted me a little.

The final verses having been sung, and very lively they were, I must
say, every one adjourned to the drawing-room to enjoy the withdrawal
of the bride, who, as it was nearly midnight, was soon to be
conducted to her room.

M. Alphonse drew me into the embrasure of a window, and, turning away
his eyes, said:

"You will laugh at me--but I don't know what is the matter with me
... I am bewitched!"

My first thought was that he fancied himself threatened with one of
those misfortunes of which Montaigne and Madame de Sevigne speak:

"All the world of love is full of tragic histories," etc.

"I thought only clever people were subject to this sort of accident,"
I said to myself.

To him I said: "You drank too much Collioure wine, my dear Monsieur
Alphonse; I warned you against it."

"Yes, perhaps. But something much more terrible than that has
happened."

His voice was broken. I thought him completely inebriated.

"You know about my ring?" he continued, after a pause.

"Well, has it been stolen?"

"No."

"Then you have it?"

"No--I--I can not get it off the finger of that infernal Venus."

"You did not pull hard enough."

"Yes, indeed I did. But the Venus--she has bent her finger."

He stared at me wildly, and leaned against the window-sash to prevent
himself from falling.

"What nonsense!" I said. "You pushed the ring on too far. You can
get it off to-morrow with pincers. But be careful not to damage the
statue."

"No, I tell you. The Venus's finger is crooked, bent under; she
clinches her hand, do you hear me? ... She is my wife apparently,
since I have given her my ring.... She will not return it."

I shivered, and, for a moment, I was all goose-flesh. Then a great
sigh from him brought me a whiff of wine, and all my emotion
disappeared.

The wretch, I thought, is dead drunk.

"You are an antiquarian, sir," added the bridegroom in a mournful
tone; "you understand those statues; there is, perhaps, some hidden
spring, some deviltry which I do not know about. Will you go and
see?"

"Certainly," I replied. "Come with me."

"No, I would prefer to have you go alone."

I left the drawing-room.

The weather had changed during supper, and a heavy rain had begun to
fall. I was about to ask for an umbrella when a sudden thought
stopped me. I should be a great fool, I reflected, to go and verify
what had been told me by a drunken man! Besides, he may have wished
to play some silly trick on me to give cause for laughter to the
honest country people; and the least that can happen to me from it is
to be drenched to the bone and catch a bad cold.

From the door I cast a glance at the statue running with water, and I
went up to my room without returning to the drawing-room. I went to
bed; but sleep was long in coming. All the scenes of the day passed
through my mind. I thought of the young girl, so pure and lovely,
abandoned to a drunken brute. What an odious thing a marriage of
convenience is! A mayor dons a tricolored scarf, a priest a stole,
and then the most virtuous girl in the world is delivered over to the
Minotaur! What can two people who do not love each other find to say
at a moment which two lovers would buy at the price of their lives?
Can a woman ever love a man whom she has once seen coarse? First
impressions are never effaced, and I am sure M. Alphonse will deserve
to be hated.

During my monologue, which I abridge very much, I had heard a great
deal of coming and going in the house. Doors opened and shut, and
carriages drove away. Then I seemed to hear on the stairs the light
steps of a number of women going toward the end of the hall opposite
my room. It was probably the bride's train of attendants leading her
to bed. After that they went downstairs again. Madame de
Peyrehorade's door closed. "How troubled and ill at ease that poor
girl must be," I thought. I tossed about in my bed with bad temper.
A bachelor plays a stupid part in a house where a marriage is
accomplished.

Silence had reigned for some time when it was disturbed by a heavy
tread mounting the stairs. The wooden steps creaked loudly.

"What a clown!" I cried to myself. "I wager that he will fall on the
stairs." All was quiet again. I took up a book to change the
current of my thoughts. It was the county statistics, supplemented
with an address by M. de Peyrehorade on the Druidical remains of the
district of Prades. I grew drowsy at the third page. I slept badly,
and awoke repeatedly. It might have been five o'clock in the
morning, and I had been awake more than twenty minutes, when the cock
crew. Day was about to dawn. Then I heard distinctly the same heavy
footsteps, the same creaking of the stairs which I had heard before I
fell asleep. I thought it strange. Yawning, I tried to guess why M.
Alphonse got up so early. I could imagine no likely reason. I was
about to close my eyes again when my attention was freshly excited by
a singular trampling of feet, which was soon intermingled with the
ringing of bells and the sound of doors opened noisily; then I
distinguished confused cries.

"My drunkard has set something on fire," I thought, jumping out of
bed. I dressed quickly and went into the hall. From the opposite
end came cries and lamentations, and a heartrending voice dominated
all the others: "My son! my son!" It was evident that an accident
had happened to M. Alphonse. I ran to the bridal apartment: it was
full of people. The first sight which struck my gaze was the young
man partly dressed and stretched across the bed, the woodwork of
which was broken. He was livid and motionless. His mother sobbed
and wept beside him. M. de Peyrehorade moved about frantically; he
rubbed his son's temples with cologne water, or held salts to his
nose. Alas! his son had long been dead. On a sofa at the other side
of the room lay the bride, a prey to dreadful convulsions. She was
making inarticulate cries, and two robust maid-servants had all the
trouble in the world to hold her down. "Good heavens!" I exclaimed,
"what has happened?"

I approached the bed and raised the body of the unfortunate young
man: it was already stiff and cold. His clenched teeth and black
face expressed the most fearful anguish. It was evident enough that
his death had been violent and his agony terrible.

Nevertheless, no sign of blood was on his clothes. I opened his
shirt, and on his chest I found a livid mark which extended around
the ribs to the back. One would have said he had been squeezed in an
iron ring. My foot touched something hard on the carpet; I stooped
and saw it was the diamond ring. I dragged M. de Peyrehorade and his
wife into their room, and had the bride carried there.

"You still have a daughter," I said to them. "You owe her your
care." Then I left them alone.

To me it did not seem to admit of a doubt that M. Alphonse had been
the victim of a murder whose authors had discovered a way to
introduce themselves into the bride's room during the night. The
bruises on the chest and their circular direction, however, perplexed
me, for they could not have been made either by a club or an iron
bar. Suddenly I remembered having heard that at Valencia _bravi_
used long leather bags filled with sand to stun people whom they had
been paid to kill. Immediately I thought of the Aragonese muleteer
and his threat. Yet I hardly dared suppose he would have taken such
a terrible revenge for a trifling jest.

I went through the house seeking everywhere for traces of
house-breaking, but could find none. I descended to the garden to
see if the assassins could have made their entrance from there; but
there were no conclusive signs of it. In any case, the evening's
rain had so softened the ground that it could not have retained any
very clear impress. Nevertheless, I noticed some deeply marked
footprints; they ran in two contrary directions, but on the same
path. They started from the corner of the hedge next the
racquet-court and ended at the door of the house. They might have
been made by M. Alphonse when he went to get his ring from the finger
of the statue. Then again, the hedge at this spot was narrower than
elsewhere, and it must have been here that the murderers got over it.
Passing and repassing before the statue, I stopped a moment to
consider it. This time, I must confess, I could not contemplate its
expression of vicious irony without fear; and, my mind being filled
with the horrible scene I had just witnessed, I seemed to see in it a
demoniacal goddess applauding the sorrow fallen on the house.

I returned to my room and stayed there till noon. Then I left it to
ask news of my hosts. They were a little calmer. Mlle. de
Puygarrig, or I should say the widow of M. Alphonse, had regained
consciousness. She had even spoken to the procureur du roi from
Perpignan, then in circuit at Ille, and this magistrate had received
her deposition. He asked for mine. I told him what I knew, and did
not hide from him my suspicions about the Aragonese muleteer. He
ordered him to be arrested on the spot.

"Have you learned anything from Mme. Alphonse?" I asked the procureur
du roi when my deposition was written and signed.

"That unfortunate young woman has gone crazy," he said, smiling
sadly. "Crazy, quite crazy. This is what she says:

"She had been in bed for several minutes with the curtains drawn,
when the door of her room opened and some one entered. Mme. Alphonse
was on the inside of the bed with her face turned to the wall.
Assured that it was her husband, she did not move. Presently the bed
creaked as if laden with a tremendous weight. She was terribly
frightened, but dared not turn her head. Five minutes, or ten
minutes perhaps--she has no idea of the time--passed in this way.
Then she made an involuntary movement, or else it was the other
person who made one, and she felt the contact of something as cold as
ice, that is her expression. She buried herself against the wall
trembling in all her limbs.

"Shortly afterward, the door opened a second time, and some one came
in who said: 'Good-evening, my little wife.' Then the curtains were
drawn back. She heard a stifled cry. The person who was in the bed
beside her sat up apparently with extended arms. Then she turned her
head and saw her husband, kneeling by the bed with his head on a
level with the pillow, held close in the arms of a sort of
greenish-colored giant. She says, and she repeated it to me twenty
times, poor woman!--she says that she recognized--do you guess
whom?--the bronze Venus, M. de Peyrehorade's statue. Since it has
been here every one dreams about it. But to continue the poor
lunatic's story. At this sight she lost consciousness, and probably
she had already lost her mind. She can not tell how long she
remained in this condition. Returned to her senses, she saw the
phantom, or the statue as she insists on calling it, lying immovable,
the legs and lower part of the body on the bed, the bust and arms
extended forward, and between the arms her husband, quite motionless.
A cock crew. Then the statue left the bed, let fall the body, and
went out. Mme. Alphonse rushed to the bell, and you know the rest."

The Spaniard was brought in; he was calm, and defended himself with
much coolness and presence of mind. He did not deny the remark which
I had overheard, but he explained it, pretending that he did not mean
anything except that the next day, when rested, he would beat his
victor at a game of racquets. I remember that he added:

"An Aragonese when insulted does not wait till the next day to
revenge himself. If I had believed that M. Alphonse wished to insult
me I would have ripped him up with my knife on the spot."

His shoes were compared with the footprints in the garden; the shoes
were much the larger.

Finally, the innkeeper with whom the man lodged asserted that he had
spent the entire night rubbing and dosing one of his mules which was
sick. And, moreover, the Aragonese was a man of good reputation,
well known in the neighborhood, where he came every year on business.

So he was released with many apologies.

I have forgotten to mention the statement of a servant who was the
last person to see M. Alphonse alive. It was just as he was about to
join his wife, and calling to this man he asked him in an anxious way
if he knew where I was. The servant answered that he had not seen
me. M. Alphonse sighed, and stood a minute without speaking, then he
said: "Well! the devil must have carried him off also!"

I asked the man if M. Alphonse had on his diamond ring. The servant
hesitated; at last he said he thought not; but for that matter he had
not noticed.

"If the ring had been on M. Alphonse's finger," he added, recovering
himself, "I should probably have noticed it, for I thought he had
given it to Mme. Alphonse."

When questioning the man I felt a little of the superstitious terror
which Mme. Alphonse's statement had spread through the house. The
procureur du roi smiled at me, and I was careful not to insist
further.

A few hours after the funeral of M. Alphonse I prepared to leave
Ille. M. de Peyrehorade's carriage was to take me to Perpignan.
Notwithstanding his feeble condition, the poor old man wished to
accompany me as far as the garden gate. We crossed the garden in
silence, he creeping along supported by my arm. As we were about to
part I threw a last glance at the Venus. I foresaw that my host,
though he did not share the fear and hatred which it inspired in his
family, would wish to rid himself of an object which must ceaselessly
recall to him a dreadful misfortune. My intention was to induce him
to place it in a museum. As I hesitated to open the subject, M. de
Peyrehorade turned his head mechanically in the direction he saw I
was looking so fixedly. He perceived the statue, and immediately
melted into tears. I embraced him, and got into the carriage without
daring to say a word.

Since my departure I have not learned that any new light has been
thrown on this mysterious catastrophe.

M. de Peyrehorade died several months after his son. In his will he
left me his manuscripts, which I may publish some day. I did not
find among them the article relative to the inscriptions on the Venus.

P.S.--My friend M. de P. has just written to me from Perpignan that
the statue no longer exists. After her husband's death Madame de
Peyrehorade's first care was to have it cast into a bell, and in this
new shape it does duty in the church at Ille. "But," adds M. de P.,
"it seems as if bad luck pursues those who own the bronze. Since the
bell rings at Ille the vines have twice been frozen."

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_This splendid tale of adventure is selected from the author's "New
Arabian Nights." Though a part of his earliest work, it is a good
example of his exquisite and finished style. Stevenson as a writer
was as purely romantic as Scott, but in structure, method of
description and narrative, and brilliancy of style, is considered to
have marked the technical advance which had been made since the time
of the "Waverley Novels." His charming personality--a certain
undaunted cheerfulness in face of all human difficulty--shines
through his work and endears him to his readers._

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_Tells How I Camped in Graden 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 entertainment; 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. Northmour, Esquire, of Graden 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 co-existence
in unsociability. 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.

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 German 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
drafty within and half ruinous without. It was impossible for two
young men to lodge with comfort in such a dwelling. But there stood
in the northern part of the estate, in a wilderness of links and
blowing sand-hills, and between a plantation and the sea, a small
Pavilion or Belvedere, 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 remember, and I
suppose I must have made some tart rejoinder. 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 withdraw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me.

It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. I traveled at
that time with a tilt cart, a tent, and a cooking-stove, tramping all
day beside the wagon, and at night, whenever it was possible,
gipsying 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 headquarters, 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 die
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 sundown 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 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 inshore, 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 sundown 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--presented 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
appearances 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 in the chimneys with a strange
and wailing note; and it was with a sense of escape, as if I were
going indoors, 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 encroachments 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 accustomed 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 exposed 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 must bear well to the eastward to
clear Graden Ness and the Graden Bullets. 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 were 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 sheltered me from the wind, which
was cold as well as high.

The life I was leading made me both hardy and frugal. I never drank
but water, and rarely ate anything 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 evening I was awake again before eleven with a full
possession 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 fleeing 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 illumination 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 Northmour'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 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 appetite prevailed, and I
relinquished my jest with regret, 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
padlocked. Northmour, therefore, had entered by the back; this was
the natural, and, indeed, the necessary conclusion; 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 Northmour 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 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 pleasant. I found fires laid, ready for
lighting; three bedrooms prepared with a luxury quite foreign to
Northmour'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 Northmour
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 vessel's head was set
the other way.

_Tells of the Nocturnal 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 morning. From time to time I went down to the edge
of the 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 offing
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 Northmour 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 because 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 sunset 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 daylight. I concluded that
this must be a signal to Northmour'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 uneven
course it appeared to be the light of a lantern 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 deafness, 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 extinguished. Its purpose had been
attained, and those on board were sure that they were expected. The
old woman resumed her preparations; although the other shutters
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 present eccentricity was both disquieting and lugubrious
to consider. A variety of feelings thus led me toward the 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 inshore; 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 earliest possible moment.

A little afterward, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavy chest, and
guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close in front of me as I
lay, and were admitted 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 occasion one of the yachtsmen carried a leather
portmanteau, 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 detested sex was to be installed under
its roof. I remembered one or two particulars, a few notes of
daintiness and almost of coquetry which had struck me the day 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 yachtsman whom I had not yet seen, and
who was conducting two other persons to the pavilion. These two
persons were unquestionably the guests for whom the house was made
ready; and, straining eye and ear, I set myself to watch them as they
passed. One was an unusually 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, unusually tall, and walked feebly with a
heavy stoop. By his side, and either clinging to him or giving him
support--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 something 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 expressive; and I
still hear it again when I am feverish at night, and my mind runs
upon old times. The man 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 shining 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 Northmour 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 moment, to see that he had the
temper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character that was both
explosive 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 written 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.

Partly from a scruple of delicacy--which I dare say 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 uncertainty, 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 Northmour slip at a bound into the
pavilion, and hear him bar the door behind him with a clang of iron!

He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, whom I knew for
the most implacable and daring 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 Northmour 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? 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 prepared 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
undisguised 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
creature, 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 received 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 again 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 and do the cleaning for themselves, while the
old woman continued to inhabit the big empty barrack among the
policies. There must surely be great cause for secrecy, 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
somewhat freely, and I dressed it as well as I could (for its
position made it difficult 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 scrupulous 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.

III

_Tells How I Became Acquainted with my Wife_

For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the uneven
surface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary tactics.
These low hillocks and 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 darkness by the old
woman from the mansion-house. Northmour, and the young lady,
sometimes together, but more often singly, would walk for an hour or
two at a 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 seaward. But it suited me not less
excellently; the highest and most accidented of the sand-hills
immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flat in a hollow, 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 commanded
the bottoms of the links; and at night, when I could venture further,
the lower windows were barricaded 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 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 between her and the sea. I watched these maneuvres,
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
supposed. 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 forcible possession of
her hand. She struggled, and uttered 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 interchanged; 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
handiwork in a great cut under his right eye, and a considerable
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 directly 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 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, "although 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 _betray_," 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 studying 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 believe 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 interruption, "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 Den, 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 growing in along with the first, it was not one which,
at that period, I could have properly explained to the lady of my
heart.

Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though her
whole conduct and position seemed suspicious, 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 imagination 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 influence 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 had 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
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? From 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 interrupted 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 satisfactory 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 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 Northmour? 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.

"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, forgetting 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, but 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, upbraided me for lingering at Graden, and,
when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more
particularly 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, 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 lonely and wandering existence; she, for her part, giving
ear, and saying little. Although we spoke very naturally, and
latterly on topics that might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly
agitated. 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 acquaintance, 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 during 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.

"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!"

_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 Huddlestone: it sounded very beautiful in my ears;
but not so beautiful as that other name of Clara Cassilis, which she
wore during the longer and, I thank God, the happier portion of her
life. Her father, Bernard Huddlestone, 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 involved, 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
unhappy 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,
sudden, 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 Northmour'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 Northmour 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 bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in consequence.
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 continued 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 doctor and some calming
medicine."

"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "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 Englishwoman."

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 continued 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 miserable
haven in the rocks, where many 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
striking 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 in particular had blown out his
brains as soon as payment was suspended. It was strange to myself
that, while I read these details, I continued rather to sympathize
with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so complete already was
the empire of my love for Clara. 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 750_l._ 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
Manchester 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
Huddlestone; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared in the same
mysterious fashion. It was only once referred 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 personage had been
mentioned by rumor in connection with this sum. "The cowardly
desperado"--such, I remember, was the editorial expression--was
supposed to have escaped with a large part of this mysterious fund
still in his possession.

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 village. 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 features 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 that overspread them; and I confess my incredulity received 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 passed
that way. Not only so; but from the recklessness 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 sepulchre 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 pavilion. 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, somewhat 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 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 returned 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 dare say, 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, 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 flashing 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 proceeding, 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 recognized 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
patrolled 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 the upper story filtered through a cranny
of the shutter, and kept me company till the approach of dawn.

_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 without mercy. Over
all the wilderness of links there was not a creature to be seen. Yet
I felt sure the neighborhood was alive with skulking foes. The light
that 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, before 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 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 conclusion. "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 shoulders 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 attention 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 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 hew you keep your faith to your father and to me? This is the
value you set upon 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; 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 friends."

"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 murder on the night of landing; and
what I had subsequently 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 peculiar 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 Northmour. "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."

"Yes, Mr. Northmour," 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 old smile, "perhaps you are not altogether 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 admiration; 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 come 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 Earl'
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 yet Mrs. Cassilis.
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 her as she went away over the sand-hill.

"She is the only woman in the world!" he exclaimed 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
wasps' nest is after Huddlestone. We shall all be lucky if we can
save our skins."

"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.

_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 fortified. 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 am the engineer," said Northmour. "You remember 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
principle; 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 far 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 continued not a cloud arose in our relation. I
bear him this testimony with the most unfeigned satisfaction; nor am
I without 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 inspect the lower
floor. Window by window we tried the different supports, now and
then making an inconsiderable 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 defend
them against an unknown number of foes. I communicated my doubts to
Northmour, who assured me, with unmoved composure, that he entirely
shared them.

"Before morning," said he, "we shall all be butchered and buried in
Graden Floe. For me, that is written."

I could not help shuddering at the mention of the 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 before 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, instead 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 difficulty
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 skullcap of black silk; a huge Bible lay open
before him on the bed, with a pair of gold spectacles in the place,
and a pile of other books lay on the stand by his side. The green
curtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat propped
on 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 disagreeably hairy.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Another
protector--ahem!--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 myself grow
indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I well knew and
heartily derided, as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out of his
humor of repentance.

"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourself 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
American leather--only you forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you
will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance."

"Rogue, 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?"

"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
it--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 ugliest 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 afternoon," 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 can not belong to
them! It should be distributed _pro rata_ among all my creditors."

"Come now, Huddlestone," said Northmour, "none of that."

"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. Huddlestone 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 his spectacles to read.

VII

_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 miserable 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 possession of our faculties, I am sure we
should have condemned 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, and part in circular
notes payable to the name of James Gregory. We took it out, counted
it, enclosed it once more in a despatch-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, perhaps, the maddest action ever perpetrated by two persons
professing to be sane. Had the despatch-box fallen into other hands
than those for which it was intended, we stood criminally convicted
on our own written testimony; but, as I have said, we were neither of
us in a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for action that
drove us to do something, right or wrong, rather 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 pavilion. 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 Northmour, 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 despatch-box; and Northmour waved a white handkerchief over his
head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices, and cried aloud in
Italian that we were there as ambassadors 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 nervously,
as though he feared that some one had crept between him and the
pavilion door.

"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 shivering, 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 many square yards about my path.
But I had not practised 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 somewhat 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 gully. 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, seeing
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, walking as nearly as possible in my old footsteps,
to where Northmour awaited me beside the despatch-box. He was even
paler than when I had left him, and his voice shook a little.

"Could you see what he was like?" 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 reenter
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 barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration and relieve
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 hands, 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 blackguards, 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; I speak for my own satisfaction, and not for your
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 makings of a man. I think I must be fey to-day; you can not
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 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 depths
of the sea. Let us take a drink," he concluded suddenly, 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 dinner, while Northmour and Clara
prepared the meal together 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. Northmour 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
himself in the condemnation. This awakened a sense of gratitude in
my heart, which combined with the immediateness 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 despatch-box still lay untouched where we had left it hours
before.

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, although 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 displayed. Mr.
Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; he had read and
observed for himself; his gifts were sound; and, though I could never
have learned to love the man, I began to understand his success 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 maneuvres of a scoundrelly commission merchant whom he had known
and studied in his youth, and we were all listening with an odd
mixture 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 instant 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 character.

"Snail be d--d!" said Northmour. "Hush!"

The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals; and then a
formidable voice shouted through the shutters the Italian word
"_Traditore!_"

Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelids quivered; next
moment he fell insensible below the table. Northmour 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 second, and all but the surf remained
silent in the neighborhood of the pavilion.

"Quick," said Northmour; "upstairs with him before they come."

VIII

_Tells the Last of 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 coming 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. Northmour went to the fireplace
and spread his hands before the red embers, as if he were cold. I
followed him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing turned my
back 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
forgetfulness 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 I 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 expression 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. "Are they going to
butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone? 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 Northmour; 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 selfishness to hold her back by force.

"Yes," said Northmour, turning coolly from the window; "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 entrance. 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 minutes 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 complete 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 lady, poured out
upon the ambassador a string of the most abominable raillery both in
English and Italian, and bade him begone 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 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 somewhat appeased, "it's
your turn. Here's my hand. Good-by; farewell!" Then, seeing me
stand rigid and indignant, 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 another 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 come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling
humor.

All this time our assailants might have been entering 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
uttered 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 fire 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 fire had taken a firm hold already on the outhouse,
which blazed higher and higher every moment; the back door was in the
centre 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 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 Room. Mr. Huddlestone was putting on
his boots, still violently trembling, 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. Huddlestone, who had
already refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner of command.

"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire a volley, she
will be protected. In the meantime stand behind 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 tremulous, 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
meantime, 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 confused and changeful lustre, 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 hidden 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
backward on the turf.

"_Traditore! Traditore!_" cried the invisible avengers.

And just then, a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so rapid
was the progress of 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 to sea, from the shore at Graden Wester, and far inland
from the peak of Graystiel, the most eastern summit of the Caulder
Hills. Bernard Huddlestone, although God knows what were his
obsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death.

_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 Northmour 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 running like a man
in a panic, now carrying Clara altogether 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, 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 already 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.

"Northmour," I remember 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, Northmour!"

And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly 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? Not she! And now she may
be dying; and you waste this precious time, and abuse her
helplessness. Stand aside, and let me help her."

He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; then suddenly he
stepped aside.

"Help her then," said he.

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.

"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."

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 condition; 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 reopened her eyes.

"Now," said he, "since she is better, you can spare me, can you not?
I wish you a good-night, Mr. Cassilis."

And with that he was gone among the thicket. I made a fire, for I
had now no fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the little
possessions left in my encampment; and, broken as she was by the
excitement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening, I managed, in
one way or another--by persuasion, encouragement, warmth, and such
simple remedies as I could lay my hand on--to bring her back to some
composure 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 Northmour was heard
adding, in the most tranquil tones: "Come 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 leaning against an elder; and, as soon as he perceived
me, he began walking seaward. I had almost overtaken him as he
reached the outskirts of the wood.

"Look," said he, pausing.

A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage. The light of
the morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene. The
pavilion was but a blackened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one of
the gables had fallen out; and, far and near, the face of the links
was 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!"

"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. Huddlestone 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.

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.
Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars
between the thole-pins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.

They were not yet half-way 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 Garibaldi for the liberation of
the Tyrol.

THE PRISONERS

BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT

_Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant, a French novelist, was born in
1850, and died, insane, in 1893. He served a long apprenticeship
under the instruction of Flaubert (his godfather), before publishing
any of his writings. When his first story, "Boule de Suif," appeared
in the collection entitled "Les Soirées de Médan," in 1880, he was
greeted as a master. Notwithstanding his pessimism, he is one of the
most highly esteemed French story-writers of the Nineteenth Century._

THE PRISONERS

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT

There was no sound in the forest except the slight rustle of the snow
as it fell upon the trees. It had been falling, small and fine,
since midday; it powdered the branches with a frosty moss, cast a
silver veil over the dead leaves in the hollow, and spread upon the
pathways a great, soft, white carpet that thickened the immeasurable
silence amid this ocean of trees.

Before the door of the keeper's lodge stood a bare-armed young woman,
chopping wood with an ax upon a stone. She was tall, thin and
strong--a child of the forest, a daughter and wife of gamekeepers.

A voice called from within the house: "Come in, Berthine; we are
alone to-night, and it is getting dark. There may be Prussians or
wolves about."

She who was chopping wood replied by splitting another block; her
bosom rose and fell with the heavy blows, each time she lifted her
arm.

"I have finished, mother. I'm here. There's nothing to be
frightened at; it isn't dark yet."

Then she brought in her fagots and her logs, and piled them up at the
chimney-side, went out again to close the shutters--enormous shutters
of solid oak--and then, when she again came in, pushed the heavy
bolts of the door.

Her mother was spinning by the fire, a wrinkled old woman who had
grown timorous with age.

"I don't like father to be out," said she. "Two women have no
strength."

The younger answered: "Oh, I could very well kill a wolf or a
Prussian, I can tell you." And she turned her eyes to a large
revolver hanging over the fireplace. Her husband had been put into
the army at the beginning of the Prussian invasion, and the two women
had remained alone with her father, the old gamekeeper, Nicholas
Pichou, who had obstinately refused to leave his home and go into the
town.

The nearest town was Rethel, an old fortress perched on a rock. It
was a patriotic place, and the townspeople had resolved to resist the
invaders, to close their gates and stand a siege, according to the
traditions of the city. Twice before, under Henry IV and under Louis
XIV, the inhabitants of Rethel had won fame by heroic defenses. They
would do the same this time; by Heaven, they would, or they would be
burned within their walls.

So they had bought cannons and rifles, and equipped a force, and
formed battalions and companies, and they drilled all day long in the
Place d'Armes. All of them--bakers, grocers, butchers, notaries,
attorneys, carpenters, booksellers, even the chemists--went through
their maneuvres in due rotation at regular hours, under the orders of
M. Lavigne, who had once been a non-commissioned officer in the
dragoons, and now was a draper, having married the daughter and
inherited the shop of old M. Ravaudan.

He had taken the rank of major in command of the place, and all the
young men having gone to join the army, he enrolled all the others
who were eager for resistance. The stout men now walked the streets
at the pace of professional pedestrians, in order to bring down their
fat, and to lengthen their breath; the weak ones carried burdens, in
order to strengthen their muscles.

The Prussians were expected. But the Prussians did not appear. Yet
they were not far off; for their scouts had already twice pushed
across the forest as far as Nicholas Pichou's lodge.

The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had gone to warn the town.
The guns had been pointed, but the enemy had not shown.

The keeper's lodge served as a kind of outpost in the forest of
Aveline. Twice a week the man went for provisions, and carried to
the citizens news from the outlying country.

He had gone that day to announce that a small detachment of German
infantry had stopped at his house, the day before, about two in the
afternoon, and had gone away again almost directly. The subaltern in
command spoke French.

When the old man went on such errands he took with him his two
dogs--two great beasts with the jaws of lions--because of the wolves
who were beginning to get fierce; and he left his two women, advising
them to lock themselves into the house as soon as night began to fall.

The young one was afraid of nothing, but the old one kept on
trembling and repeating:

"It will turn out badly, all this sort of thing. You'll see, it will
turn out badly."

This evening she was more anxious even than usual.

"Do you know what time your father will come back?" said she.

"Oh, not before eleven for certain. When he dines with the Major he
is always late."

She was hanging her saucepan over the fire to make the soup, when she
stopped short, listened to a vague sound which had reached her by way
of the chimney, and murmured:

"There's some one walking in the wood--seven or eight men at least."

Her mother, alarmed, stopped her wheel and muttered: "Oh, good Lord!
And father not here!"

She had not finished speaking when violent blows shook the door.

The women made no answer, and a loud guttural voice called out: "Open
the door."

Then, after a pause, the same voice repeated: "Open the door, or I'll
break it in."

Then Berthine slipped into her pocket the big revolver from over the
mantelpiece, and, having put her ear to the crack of the door, asked:
"Who are you?"

The voice answered: "I am the detachment that came the other day."

The woman asked again: "What do you want?"

"I have lost my way, ever since the morning, in the forest, with my
detachment. Open the door, or I will break it in."

The keeper's wife had no choice; she promptly drew the great bolt,
and pulling back the door she beheld six men in the pale
snow-shadows--six Prussian men, the same who had come the day before.
She said in a firm tone: "What do you want here at this time of
night?"

The officer answered: "I had lost my way, lost it completely; I
recognized the house. I have had nothing to eat since the morning,
nor my men either."

Berthine replied: "But I am all alone with mother, this evening."

The soldier, who seemed a good sort of fellow, answered: "That makes
no difference. I shall not do any harm; but you must give us
something to eat. We are faint and tired to death."

The keeper's wife stepped back.

"Come in," said she.

They came in, powdered with snow and with a sort of mossy cream on
their helmets that made them look like meringues. They seemed tired,
worn out.

The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on each side of the big
table.

"Sit down," said she, "and I'll make you some soup. You do look
quite knocked up."

Then she bolted the door again.

She poured some more water into her saucepan, threw in more butter
and potatoes; then, unhooking a piece of bacon that hung in the
chimney, she cut off half, and added that also to the stew. The eyes
of the six men followed her every movement with an air of awakened
hunger. They had set their guns and helmets in a corner, and sat
waiting on their benches, like well-behaved school children. The
mother had begun to spin again, but she threw terrified glances at
the invading soldiers. There was no sound except the slight purring
of the wheel, the crackle of the fire, and the bubbling of the water
as it grew hot.

But all at once a strange noise made them all start--something like a
horse breathing at the door, the breathing of an animal, deep and
snorting.

One of the Germans had sprung toward the guns. The woman with a
movement and a smile stopped him.

"It is the wolves," said she. "They are like you; they are wandering
about, hungry."

The man would hardly believe, he wanted to see for himself; and as
soon as the door was opened, he perceived two great gray beasts
making off at a quick, long trot.

He came back to his seat, murmuring: "I should not have believed it."

And he sat waiting for his meal.

They ate voraciously; their mouths opened from ear to ear to take the
largest of gulps; their round eyes opened sympathetically with their
jaws, and their swallowing was like the gurgle of rain in a
water-pipe.

The two silent women watched the rapid movements of the great red
beards; the potatoes seemed to melt away into these moving fleeces.

Then, as they were thirsty, the keeper's wife went down into the
cellar to draw cider for them. She was a long time gone; it was a
little vaulted cellar, said to have served both as prison and
hiding-place in the days of the Revolution. The way down was by a
narrow winding stair, shut in by a trap-door at the end of the
kitchen.

When Berthine came back, she was laughing, laughing slyly to herself.
She gave the Germans her pitcher of drink. Then she, too, had her
supper, with her mother, at the other end of the kitchen.

The soldiers had finished eating and were falling asleep, all six,
around the table. From time to time, a head would fall heavily on
the board, then the man, starting awake, would sit up.

Berthine said to the officer: "You may just as well lie down here
before the fire. There's plenty of room for six. I'm going up to my
room with my mother."

The two women went to the upper floor. They were heard to lock their
door and to walk about for a little while, then they made no further
sound.

The Prussians stretched themselves on the stone floor, their feet to
the fire, their heads on their rolled-up cloaks, and soon all six
were snoring on six different notes, sharp or deep, but all sustained
and alarming.

They had certainly been asleep for a considerable time when a shot
sounded, and so loud that it seemed to be fired close against the
walls of the house. The soldiers sat up instantly. There were two
more shots, and then three more.

The door of the staircase opened hastily, and the keeper's wife
appeared, barefooted, a short petticoat over her night-dress, a
candle in her hand, and a face of terror. She whispered: "Here are
the French--two hundred of them at least. If they find you here,
they will burn the house. Go down, quick, into the cellar, and don't
make a noise. If you make a noise, we are lost." The officer,
scared, murmured: "I will, I will. Which way do we go down?"

The young woman hurriedly raised the narrow square trap-door, and the
men disappeared by the winding stair, one after another going
underground, backward, so as to feel the steps with their feet. But
when the point of the last helmet had disappeared, Berthine, shutting
down the heavy oaken plank, thick as a wall, and hard as steel, kept
in place by clamps and a padlock, turned the key twice, slowly, and
then began to laugh with a laugh of silent rapture, and with a wild
desire to dance over the heads of her prisoners.

They made no noise, shut in as if they were in a stone box, only
getting air through a grating.

Berthine at once relighted her fire, put on her saucepan once more,
and made more soup, murmuring: "Father will be tired to-night."

Then she sat down and waited. Nothing but the deep-toned pendulum of
the clock went to and fro with its regular tick in the silence. From
time to time, the young woman cast a look at the dial--an impatient
look, which seemed to say: "How slowly it goes!"

Presently she thought she heard a murmur under her feet; low,
confused words reached her through the vaulted masonry of the cellar.
The Prussians were beginning to guess her trick, and soon the officer
came up the little stair, and thumped the trap-door with his fist.
Once more he cried: "Open the door."

She rose, drew near, and imitating his accent, asked: "What do you
want?"

"Open the door!"

"I shall not open it."

The man grew angry.

"Open the door, or I'll break it in."

She began to laugh.

"Break away, my man; break away."

Then he began to beat, with the butt end of his gun, upon the oaken
trap-door closed over his head; but it would have resisted a
battering-ram.

The keeper's wife heard him go down again. Then, one after another,
the soldiers came up to try their strength and inspect the
fastenings. But, concluding no doubt that their efforts were in
vain, they all went back into the cellar and began to talk again.

The young woman listened to them; then she went to open the outer
door, and stood straining her ears for a sound.

A distant barking reached her. She began to whistle like a huntsman,
and almost immediately two immense dogs loomed through the shadows
and jumped upon her with signs of joy. She held them by the neck, to
keep them from running away, and called with all her might: "Halloa,
father!"

A voice, still very distant, answered: "Halloa, Berthine!"

She waited some moments, then called again: "Halloa, father!"

The voice repeated, nearer: "Halloa, Berthine!"

The keeper's wife returned: "Don't pass in front of the grating.
There are Prussians in the cellar."

All at once the black outline of the man showed on the left, where he
had paused between two tree-trunks. He asked, uneasily: "Prussians
in the cellar! What are they doing there?"

The young woman began to laugh.

"It is those that came yesterday. They got lost in the forest ever
since the morning; I put them in the cellar to keep cool."

And she related the whole adventure; how she had frightened them with
shots of the revolver, and shut them up in the cellar.

The old man, still grave, asked: "What do you expect me to do with
them at this time of night?"

She answered: "Go and fetch M. Lavigne and his men. He'll take them
prisoners; and won't he be pleased!"

Then Father Pichou smiled: "Yes; he will be pleased."

His daughter resumed: "Here's some soup for you; eat it quick and go
off again."

The old keeper sat down and began to eat his soup, after having put
down two plates full for his dogs.

The Prussians, hearing voices, had become silent.

A quarter of an hour later, Pichou started again. Berthine, with her
head in her hands, waited.

The prisoners were moving about again. They shouted and called, and
beat continually with their guns on the immovable trap-door of the
cellar.

Then they began to fire their guns through the grating, hoping, no
doubt, to be heard if any German detachment were passing in the
neighborhood.

The keeper's wife did not stir; but all this noise tried her nerves,
and irritated her. An evil anger awoke in her; she would have liked
to kill them, the wretches, to keep them quiet.

Then, as her impatience increased, she began to look at the clock and
count the minutes.

At last the hands marked the time which she had fixed for their
coming.

She opened the door once more to listen for them. She perceived a
shadow moving cautiously. She was frightened and screamed.

It was her father.

He said: "They sent me to see if there's any change."

"No, nothing."

Then he in his turn gave a long, strident whistle into the darkness.
And soon, something brown was seen coming slowly through the
trees--the advance guard composed of ten men.

The old man kept repeating: "Don't pass before the grating."

And the first comers pointed out the formidable grating to those who
followed.

Finally, the main body appeared, two hundred men in all, each with
two hundred cartridges.

M. Lavigne, trembling with excitement, posted them so as to surround
the house on all sides, leaving, however, a wide, free space round
the little black hole, level with the earth, which admitted air to
the cellar.

Then he entered the dwelling and inquired into the strength and
position of the enemy, now so silent that it might be thought to have
disappeared, flown away, or evaporated through the grating. M.
Lavigne stamped his foot on the trap-door and called: "Mr. Prussian
officer!"

The German did not reply.

The Major repeated: "Mr. Prussian officer!"

It was in vain. For a whole twenty minutes he summoned this silent
officer to capitulate with arms and baggage, promising him life and
military honors for himself and his soldiers. But he obtained no
sign of consent or of hostility. The situation was becoming
difficult.

The soldier-citizens were stamping their feet and striking wide-armed
blows upon their chests, as coachmen do for warmth, and they were
looking at the grating with an ever-growing childish desire to pass
in front of it. At last one of them risked it, a very nimble fellow
called Potdevin. He took a start and ran past like a stag. The
attempt succeeded. The prisoners seemed dead.

A voice called out: "There's nobody there."

Another soldier crossed the space before the dangerous opening. Then
it became a game. Every minute, a man ran out, passing from one
troop to the other as children at play do, and raising showers of
snow behind him with the quick movement of his feet. They had
lighted fires of dead branches to keep themselves warm, and the
flying profile of each Garde-National showed in a bright illumination
as he passed over to the camp on the left.

Some one called out: "Your turn, Maloison."

Maloison was a big baker whom his comrades laughed at, because he was
so fat.

He hesitated. They teased him. Then, making up his mind, he started
at a regular breathless trot which shook his stout person. All the
detachment laughed till they cried. They called out: "Bravo,
Maloison!" to encourage him.

He had gone about two-thirds of the distance when a long flame, rapid
and red, leaped from the grating. A report followed, and the big
baker fell upon his nose with a frightful shriek.

No one ran to help him. Then they saw him drag himself on all fours
across the snow, moaning, and when he was beyond that terrible
passage he fainted. He had a bullet high up in the flesh of the
thigh.

After the first surprise and alarm there was more laughter.

Major Lavigne appeared upon the threshold of the keeper's lodge. He
had just framed his plan of attack, and gave his word of command in a
ringing voice: "Plumber Planchet and his men!"

Three men drew near.

"Unfasten the gutters of the house."

In a quarter of an hour some twenty yards of leaden gutter-pipe were
brought to the Major.

Then, with innumerable prudent precautions, he had a little round
hole bored in the edge of the trap-door, and having laid out an
aqueduct from the pump to this opening, announced with an air of
satisfaction: "We are going to give these German gentlemen something
to drink." A wild cheer of admiration burst forth, followed by
shouts of delight and roars of laughter. The Major organized gangs
of workers, who were to be employed in relays of five minutes. Then
he commanded: "Pump!"

And the iron handle having been put in motion, a little sound rustled
along the pipes and slipped into the cellar, falling from step to
step with the tinkle of a waterfall, suggestive of rocks and little
red fishes.

They waited.

An hour passed; then two, then three.

The Major walked about the kitchen in a fever, putting his ear to the
floor from time to time, trying to guess what the enemy was doing and
whether it would soon capitulate.

The enemy was moving now. Sounds of rattling, of speaking, of
splashing, could be heard. Then toward eight in the morning a voice
issued from the grating: "I want to speak to the French officer."

Lavigne answered from the window, without putting out his head too
far: "Do you surrender?"

"I surrender."

"Then pass out your guns."

A weapon was immediately seen to appear out of the hole and fall into
the snow; then a second, a third--all; and the same voice declared:
"I have no more. Make haste. I am drowned."

The Major commanded: "Stop."

And the handle of the pump fell motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with soldiers, all standing armed, he
slowly lifted the trap-door.

Six drenched heads appeared, six fair heads with long light hair, and
the six Germans were seen issuing forth one by one, shivering,
dripping, scared.

They were seized and bound. Then, as a surprise was apprehended, the
troops set out in two parties, one in charge of the prisoners, the
other in charge of Maloison, on a mattress, carried on poles.

Rethel was entered in triumph.

M. Lavigne received a decoration for having taken prisoner a Prussian
advance-guard; and the fat baker had the military medal for wounds
received in face of the enemy.

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET

_Alphonse Daudet (born 1840, died 1897) has been reckoned for such of
his novels as "Sapho," "Sidonie," "Numa Roumestan," etc., as a stern
censor, unsparing in his exposition and satire of the weakness and
hypocrisy of human nature. In the present selection, however, he
shows us the warm, sympathetic side of his nature. The story is a
political as well as a human document in that it is a moving protest
against Germany's annexation of Alsace and Lorraine._

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN*

By ALPHONSE DAUDET

* Translated for "Great Short Stories" by Mrs. I. L. Meyer.

We were going up the Champs Elysées with Doctor V----, gathering from
the walls pierced by shells, and from the pavements broken by
grape-shot, the story of Paris under siege. Just before we came to
the Place de l'Etoile, the Doctor halted, and, pointing to one of the
great corner houses grouped around the Arch of Triumph, "Do you see
those four closed windows?" he asked. "One of the first days of
August--the terrible month of August of last year, so full of anguish
and disaster--I was called there to a case of apoplexy.

"Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire (a stubborn fellow,
bristling with glory and with patriotism), had leased that flat with
the balcony looking on the Champs Elysées. He had come there at the
beginning of the war (1870-71). Guess for what purpose. To be
present at the triumphal entry of our troops! Poor old man! The
news from Wissembourg arrived one day just as he arose from table; he
read the name of the Napoleon at the foot of the bulletin, of our
defeat, and dropped as if felled by a sledgehammer. I found the old
fellow stretched at full length upon the carpet, livid, apparently
dead. He must have been very tall. As he lay there he looked
gigantic--with fine, clear-cut features, fair teeth, and curling
white hair. Eighty years old! but he did not look sixty. His
granddaughter, a beautiful young girl, knelt close to him, weeping.
She resembled him. Seeing the two faces together you might have
thought them two fine Greek medals of the same impression, one an
antique dimmed by age, somewhat worn around the edges; the other
resplendent in all the velvet gloss of its pristine days. I was
touched by the child's grief; later I became her ally and devoted
friend. She was the daughter and grand-daughter of soldiers. Her
father was on MacMahon's staff; and the man before her, lying, to all
appearances, dead, must have suggested to her mind another equally
terrible possibility. I did my best to give her courage. I had very
little hope. It was an unquestionable hemiplegia, and men eighty
years old never come out of that. The sick man lay in a stupor three
days. During that time the news from Reichshofen reached Paris. You
remember how it reached us! Until that night we had believed it a
great victory--twenty thousand Prussians killed, the Prince Royal a
prisoner.... I do not know by what miracle or stirred by what
magnetic current an echo of the national joy reached the numb brain
and thrilled the paralyzed limbs of my unconscious patient; but when
I approached his bed I found him another man. His eyes were almost
clear, his tongue less thick; he found strength to smile and to
stammer the words: 'Vic-to-ry! Vic-to-ry!'"

"'Yes, Colonel,' I answered, 'a great victory!' In measure as I gave
him the details of our triumph, his features softened and his whole
face brightened. When I went out the granddaughter was waiting for
me. She was very pale. I took her hand in mine. 'Do not weep,' I
said, 'your grandfather is better; he will recover.' And then she
told me the true story of Reichshofen--MacMahon in flight, the army
crushed! We stood there face to face, speechless. She was thinking
of her father. I own that all my thoughts were with her grandfather.
I trembled for him! What could I do? To tell him the truth would
kill him! But what right had I to leave him to the delusive joy that
had called him back from the grave?

"'I can not help it,' said the heroic girl, 'I must tell a lie!' and
drying her eyes, radiant, smiling, she entered the sick room.

"At first it was not so hard; the old fellow was very weak, and as
easily deceived as a child. But as he gained strength our
difficulties increased; his brain cleared; he was impatient for news;
he insisted upon following the movements of the army; and his
granddaughter was forced to sit by his bed and invent bulletins from
the conquered country. It was piteous! The beautiful, tired child
forced to bend over the map of Germany, marking the imaginary
progress of the army with little flags--Bazaine in command in Berlin,
Froissart in Bavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic!

"In her ignorance she came to me for all her details; and I--almost
as ignorant--did what I could for her. But now our best aid came
from the grandfather. He helped us at every point in our imaginary
invasion. He had conquered Germany so many times under the First
Empire he knew the way. He could tell just what was coming.

"'Can you see what they are doing?' he cried. 'They are here! They
turn _right here_, where I place this pin!' As far as the route was
concerned, all that he predicted came true, and when we told him so
he gloried in it. Unhappily for us we could not work fast enough for
him. We might well take cities, win battles, pursue flying
armies--he was insatiable! Every day as soon as I entered the sick
room I was told of new triumphs.

"'Doctor,' cried the young girl, hurrying into the room and facing
me, to bar my progress--'Doctor, we have taken Mayence!' And I cried
as gaily, 'I know it! I heard it this morning!' Sometimes her
joyful voice cried the news to me through the closed door.

"'We are getting on! We are getting on!' laughed the invalid. 'In
less than eight days we shall enter Berlin!'

"We knew that the Prussians were coming, and, as they neared Paris,
we wondered if it would not be safer to get the old man into the
country. But we dared not do it; once out of the house he would look
around him; he would question; he would see and hear. He was too
weak, too numb from his great shock to bear the truth! We decided to
stay where we were. The first day of the investment I went upstairs
with a heavy heart, I remember. I had come through the deserted
streets of Paris, past the ramparts. The troops were dragging up
their cannon. All our suburbs were frontiers. I found my old fellow
sitting up in bed, jubilant and proud.

"'Well,' said he, 'at last the siege is begun!'

"I was stupefied; I stared at him. His granddaughter cried out:
'Yes, Doctor, we have had great news! The siege of Berlin is begun!'

"She said it so pleasantly, threading her needle and taking her
little stitches so calmly! How could he doubt her? He could not
hear the guns; they were too far away. And Paris, wretched,
tortured, sinister under the icy sky. What could he know of that!
Sitting propped up in his bed he could see nothing but a corner of
the Arch of Triumph. In his room everything was of the epoch of the
Empire. Even the bric-à-brac was well fitted to foster his
illusions. Portraits of field-marshals, pictures of battles, the
king of Rome in his cradle; and the stiff consoles ornamented with
brass trophies, and laden with Imperial relics! Medals, bronzes, the
rock of St. Helena under a glass shade, and miniatures (all portraits
of the same pretty woman with curling hair, dressed for a ball, in a
yellow high-necked robe with leg-of-mutton sleeves, and wide belt, in
the stiff fashion of 1806).

"Brave and faithful soldier of Napoleon! his relics formed an
influence stronger for his deception than all our well-meant lies.
He had lived for years in an atmosphere of conquest, and that
atmosphere had prepared him for his dream of Berlin.

"From the beginning of the siege our military movements were simple;
to take Berlin was merely an affair of time. When the old man was
too tired of his enforced idleness, his granddaughter read him
letters from his son--imaginary letters, of course, as nothing was
permitted to enter Paris. Since the battle of Sedan the Colonel's
son, MacMahon's aide, had been ordered to a German fortress.

"You may imagine the anguish of the poor man, separated from his
family, knowing them to be prisoners in Paris, deprived of
everything, possibly sick. Conscious as we were of his sorrow, it
was not easy to pretend that he had written merry letters. Well, we
did our best. The letters were vivacious, somewhat brief.
Naturally, a soldier in the field--nay, more than that, a soldier
always on the march in a conquered country!--could not write long
letters. Sometimes the poor grandchild's heart failed her; try as
she might she could not write; then, for weeks there was no news.
But the old man watched for it; and when we saw that the news must
come, the little one ran into the room, letter in hand. Naturally,
our strategic combinations were chimerical, difficult, even for their
authors, to understand; but the old colonel invented explanations; it
was all practical to him; he listened, smiled knowingly, criticized,
approved. He was admirable when he answered his letters.

"'Never forget that thou art French,' dictated the vibrating voice.
'Be generous to the vanquished. Poor people! do not make them feel
that they have lost! do not bear too heavy in this invasion.'

"Then followed advice oft-repeated, tender and touching little lay
sermons, admonitions calculated to stimulate the young soldier to
every military virtue. Truly, one could find in all that a code of
honor--specially compiled for the use of conquerors; and scattered
here and there throughout the letter were a few general reflections
on politics, the preliminaries of peace, etc.

"'What must be done before the signing of the treaty?' The old man
was not quite decided on the point; he 'must consider' before he
could be sure; he was not exigeant: 'The indemnity of war--nothing
more. Why should we take their provinces? What could we do with
them? Could we ever make France out of Germany?' He dictated it all
so firmly, in so strong a voice, and there was such truth, such
candor, such patriotic zeal in his words, that it was impossible to
listen to him unmoved.

"All that time the siege was in progress; but alas, it was not the
siege of Berlin! It was just at that time of the year when Paris is
bitter cold. The Prussians were shelling the city, and we were shut
in there with epidemics and with famine. But surrounded by our
indefatigable tenderness the old soldier lacked nothing. Even to the
last I was able to provide him with fresh meat and with white bread.
There was no white bread for us. I can not think of anything more
touching than those dinners, so innocently, so ignorantly selfish!
There he was, sitting in his bed fresh and smiling, his napkin under
his chin, and his granddaughter, pale from privation, close to him,
guiding his hand from his plate to his mouth, and holding his glass
while he sipped his drinks with childlike satisfaction! Animated by
the repast and by the calming influence of the warm room, he looked
out on the winter: the tiled roofs; the snow whirling against the
window-pane; and he thought of the far North, and for the hundredth
time told us of the retreat from Russia when they had had nothing to
eat but frozen biscuit and horse-meat.

"Horse-meat!

"'Can you imagine that, little one?'

"You may believe she could imagine that! For two months she had
eaten no other meat. Our task was growing hard. In measure, as his
strength returned, the numbness of all his senses--our chief aid to
deception--was decreasing. Two or three times the volleys fired at
the Porte Maillot had reached his ears, and he had lifted his head
with ears pricked like the ears of a retriever. The last lie must be
told, the last victory reported. Bazaine at Berlin! We told him
that the shot that had startled him had been fired from the Invalides
in honor of the victory.

"Another day they rolled his bed close to the window (I think that it
was the Thursday of Buzenval), and he saw, distinctly, the National
Guards massing on the Avenue de la Grande Armée.

"'What troops are those?' he asked sharply. Then he grumbled under
his breath: 'Badly drilled! Very badly drilled! The whole outfit is
slovenly!'

"Nothing came of it, but it was a warning. We had been warned before
and we had taken precautions; but unfortunately they had fallen short.

"One day, when I arrived, the granddaughter ran to meet me, pale and
anxious. 'They will enter the city to-morrow,' she murmured.

"Was the door of the sick-room open? As I think of it to-night, it
seems to me that there was a strange expression on the fine, old
face. It is probable that he had overheard his granddaughter.

"We had been speaking of the Prussians, but the old man could think
of nothing but the French and their triumphal entry; MacMahon
descending the Avenue in a shower of flowers, to the music of the
fanfares. His son would be riding with the Marshal; and he, the
Colonel, on the balcony, in full uniform, as he was at Lutzen,
saluting the torn flags and the French eagles, dimmed by all the
powder of the war!

"Poor old Jouve! Probably he believed that we had kept the good news
to ourselves, fearing to excite him unduly. He did not say one word
to any one; but the day following, when the victorious battalions of
Prussia timidly entered the long road leading from the Porte Maillot
to the Tuileries, the window was cautiously opened, and the Colonel
appeared on the balcony, with his casque, his lance, and all the
faded glory of the ex-cuirassier of Milhaud. I have often wondered
what subconscious effort of the will, what sudden fanning of the
vital flame, put the old man on his feet and into harness! What is
sure is, that he was there, on foot, erect, looking with wild eyes
over Paris--Paris in her mourning!--the wide, silent streets, the
iron blinds drawn down. Paris, as sinister as a dead-house! He saw
flags everywhere--white flags crossed with red! And not a soul to
greet the returning army! For an instant he thought that he was
dreaming. But, no! from away down there, below the Arch of Triumph,
came a confused, metallic rattling, then a black line, advancing
under the rising sun; then the gleaming combs of brazen helmets. The
little drums of Jena rolled; and through the Arch of the Star of
France, the day-star of the world, rhythmed by the heavy tread of the
German sections, rang the triumphal march of Schubert!...

"Then the mournful silence of the Place de l'Etoile was broken by a
cry:

"'_To arms! To arms! The Prussians!_' and the four Uhlans of the
vanguard, looking up to the balcony, saw a tall, old man throw his
arms above his head, waver, and fall backward.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"And this time Colonel Jouve was really dead."

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

_The question as to which is Kipling's greatest short story is one
that brings different answers according to the temperament of the
person to whom the question is addressed. Many of those who prefer
sentiment in a story select "Without Benefit of Clergy"--those who
prefer a strong study of character under most unusual circumstances
are apt to say "The Man Who Would be King."_

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

By RUDYARD KIPLING

Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not
easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under
circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the
other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I
once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King
and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom--army, law-courts,
revenue, and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that
my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for
myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to
Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which
necessitated traveling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear
as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed.
There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population
are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a
long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though
intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronize refreshment-rooms. They
carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native
sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the
hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in
all weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached
Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and,
following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He
was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste
for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of
out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated,
and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food.
"If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than
the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy
millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven hundred
millions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was
disposed to agree with him. We talked politics--the politics of
Loaferdom that sees things from the underside where the lath and
plaster are not smoothed off--and we talked postal arrangements
because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next
station to Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to
the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond
eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all,
owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was
going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the
Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable
to help him in any way.

"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on
tick," said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me,
and I've got my hands full these days. Did you say you are traveling
back along this line within any days?"

"Within ten," I said.

"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."

"I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you," I
said.

"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's
this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll
be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23d."

"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.

"Well and good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to
get into Jodhpore territory--you must do that--and he'll be coming
through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the
Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't be
inconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious few
pickings to be got out of these Central India States--even though you
pretend to be correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'"

"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.

"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get
escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into
them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o' mouth to
tell him what's come to me, or else he won't know where to go. I
would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central
India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: 'He
has gone South for the week.' He'll know what that means. He's a
big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find him
sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a
Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid. Slip down the
window, and say: 'He has gone South for the week,' and he'll tumble.
It's only cutting your time to stay in those parts by two days. I
ask you as a stranger--going to the West," he said with emphasis.

"Where have you come from?" said I.

"From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him the
message on the Square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own."

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their
mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw
fit to agree.

"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I ask you
to do it--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A
Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep
in it. You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station,
and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want."

"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake of
your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't
try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of
the 'Backwoodsman.' There's a real one knocking about here, and it
might lead to trouble."

"Thank you," said he simply, "and when will the swine be gone? I
can't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of
the Degumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a
jump."

"What did he do to his father's widow, then?"

"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung
from a beam. I found that out myself, and I'm the only man that
would dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll
try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the
loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?"

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had
heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of
newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure,
but I had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life,
and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a
wholesome horror of English newspapers, which may throw light on
their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke
correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with
four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that nobody cares a
straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as
oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is
not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the
other. Native States were created by Providence in order to supply
picturesque scenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark
places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the
Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of
Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers
Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life.
Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and
Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes
I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate
made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the
same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I
had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction,
where a funny little happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to
Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar.
She arrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform
and go down the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the
train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red
beard, half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep,
and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw
his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.

"Tickets again?" said he.

"No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week.
He is gone South for the week!"

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "He
has gone South for the week!" he repeated. "Now that's just like his
impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I
won't."

"He didn't," I said, and dropped away and watched the red lights die
out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing
off the sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate
Carriage this time--and went to sleep.

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it
as a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of
having done my duty was my only reward.

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do
any good if they foregathered and personated Correspondents of
newspapers, and might, if they "stuck up" one of the little rat-trap
states of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into
serious difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them
as accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested
in deporting them: and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having
them headed back from the Degumber borders.

Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were
no Kings and no incidents except the daily manufacture of a
newspaper. A newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable
sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission
ladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his
duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a
perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed for
commands sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve,
or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versus Selection;
missionaries wish to know why they have not been permitted to escape
from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a
brother-missionary under special patronage of the editorial We;
stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they can not
pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or
Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling
machines, carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axle-trees
call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their
disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with
the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamor to have the
glories of their last dance more fully expounded; strange ladies
rustle in and say: "I want a hundred lady's cards printed at once,
please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's duty; and every
dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his
business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time,
the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on
the Continent, and Empires are saying, "You're another," and Mister
Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and
the little black copy-boys are whining, "kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh" ("copy
wanted"), like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as
Modred's shield.

But that is the amusing part of the year. There are other six months
wherein none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by
inch up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just
above reading-light, and the press machines are red-hot of touch, and
nobody writes anything but accounts of amusements in the
Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a
tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and
women that you knew intimately, and the prickly-heat covers you as
with a garment, and you sit down and write: "A slight increase of
sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The
outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the
energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an
end. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death," etc.

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and
reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the
Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as
before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to
come out once in twenty-four hours, and all the people at the
Hill-stations in the middle of their amusements say: "Good gracious!
Why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on
up here."

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say,
"must be experienced to be appreciated."

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper
began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is
to say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was
a great convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed,
the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half
an hour, and in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84° on the
glass until you begin to pray for it--a very tired man could set off
to sleep ere the heat roused him.

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed
alone. A King or courtier or a courtezan or a community was going to
die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on
the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till
the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a
pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo,
the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder-dry
trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a
spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of
a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretense. It was
a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there,
while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the
windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their
foreheads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back,
whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the
last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the
choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I
drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and
whether this dying man, or struggling people, was aware of the
inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason
beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but as the clock-hands
crept up to three o'clock and the machines spun their flywheels two
or three times to see that all was in order, before I said the word
that would set them off, I could have shrieked aloud.

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little
bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front
of me. The first one said: "It's him!" The second said: "So it is!"
And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and
mopped their foreheads. "We see there was a light burning across the
road and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I
said to my friend here, 'The office is open. Let's come along and
speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber State,'" said the
smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and
his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no
mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other.

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble
with loafers. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Half an hour's talk with you cool and comfortable, in the office,"
said the red-bearded man. "We'd like some drink--the Contrack
doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't look--but what we really
want is advice. We don't want money. We ask you as a favor, because
you did us a bad turn about Degumber."

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the
walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's something
like," said he. "This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let
me introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother
Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions
the better, for we have been most things in our time. Soldier,
sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and
correspondents of the 'Backwoodsman' when we thought the paper wanted
one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first and see
that's sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We'll take one
of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light."

I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them
each a tepid peg.

"Well and good," said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from
his mustache. "Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India,
mostly on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty
contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isn't big
enough for such as us."

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's beard seemed to
fill half the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they
sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: "The country isn't half
worked out because they that governs it won't let you touch it. They
spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can't lift a
spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that
without all the Government saying: 'Leave it alone and let us
govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away
to some other place where a man isn't crowded and can come to his
own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid
of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore,
we are going away to be Kings."

"Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot.

"Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in the sun, and it's
a very warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion? Come
to-morrow."

"Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. "We have slept over the
notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have
decided that there is only one place now in the world that two strong
men can Sar-a-whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's
the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred
miles from Peshawar. They have two and thirty heathen idols there,
and we'll be the thirty-third. It's a mountainous country, and the
women of those parts are very beautiful."

"But that is provided against in the Contrack," said Carnehan.
"Neither Women nor Liqu-or, Daniel."

"And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they
fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill
men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any
King we find: 'D'you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show
him how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else.
Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a
Dy-nasty."

"You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the
Border," I said. "You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to
that country. It's one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and
no Englishman has been through it. The people are utter brutes, and
even if you reached them you couldn't do anything."

"That's more like," said Carnehan. "If you could think us a little
more mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about
this country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want
you to tell us that we are fools and to show us your books." He
turned to the book-cases.

"Are you at all in earnest?" I said.

"A little," said Dravot sweetly. "As big a map as you have got, even
if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We
can read, though we aren't very educated."

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two
smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the
"Encyclopædia Britannica," and the men consulted them.

"See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. "Up to Jagdallak,
Peachey and me know the road. We was there with Roberts's Army.
We'll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann
territory. Then we get among the hills--fourteen thousand
feet--fifteen thousand--it will be cold work there, but it don't look
very far on the map."

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan was deep in
the Encyclopædia.

"They're a mixed lot," said Dravot reflectively; "and it won't help
us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more
they'll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang.
H'mm!"

"But all the information about the country is as sketchy and
inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it
really. Here's the file of the United Services' Institute. Read
what Bellew says."

"Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-fired lot of
heathens, but this book here says they think they're related to us
English."

I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps, and the
Encyclopædia.

"There is no use your waiting," said Dravot politely. "It's about
four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep,
and we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two
harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the
Serai we'll say good-by to you."

"You are two fools," I answered. "You'll be turned back at the
Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you
want any money or a recommendation down-country? I can help you to
the chance of work next week."

"Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you," said
Dravot. "It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got
our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know, and you can come up
and help us to govern it."

"Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" said Carnehan, with
subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which
was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a
curiosity:

This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of
God--Amen and so forth.

(One) That me and you will settle this matter together: i.e., to be
Kings of Kafiristan.

(Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled,
look at any Liquor, nor any Woman black, white, or brown, so as to
get mixed up with one or the other harmful.

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and if
one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.

Signed by you and me this day,
Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.
Daniel Dravot.
Both Gentlemen at Large.

"There was no need for the last article," said Carnehan, blushing
modestly; "but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that
loafers are--we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India--and do
you think that we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in
earnest? We have kept away from the two things that make life worth
having."

"You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this
idiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire," I said, "and go
away before nine o'clock."

I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back
of the "Contrack." "Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,"
were their parting words.

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where
the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All
the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the
folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and
Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises,
Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the
Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the
afternoon I went down there to see whether my friends intended to
keep their word or were lying about drunk.

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me,
gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his
servant, bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were
loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them
with shrieks of laughter.

"The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me. "He is going up to
Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or
have his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been
behaving madly ever since."

"The witless are under the protection of God," stammered a
flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretell future events."

"Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut
up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!" grunted the
Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house, whose goods had been
feloniously diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the
Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazaar.
"Ohe, priest, whence come you and whither do you go?"

"From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, waving his whirligig;
"from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea!
Oh, thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs,
and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to
sell charms that are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not
gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain
faithful while they are away, of the men who give me place in their
caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a
golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of Pir Khan be
upon his labors!" He spread out the skirts of his gaberdine and
pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses.

"There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days,
Huzrut," said the Eusufzai trader. "My camels go therewith. Do thou
also go and bring us good luck."

"I will go even now!" shouted the priest. "I will depart upon my
winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he
yelled to his servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount
my own."

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to
me, cried: "Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I
will sell thee a charm--an amulet that shall make thee King of
Kafiristan."

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of
the Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted.

"What d'you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehan can't talk
their patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a handsome
servant. 'Tisn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the
country for fourteen years. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch
on to a caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll
see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan.
Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lord! Put your hand under the camel bags
and tell me what you feel."

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.

"Twenty of 'em," said Dravot placidly. "Twenty of 'em, and
ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls."

"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" I said. "A
Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans."

"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital--every rupee we could beg, borrow,
or steal--are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't
get caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan.
Who'd touch a poor mad priest?"

"Have you got everything you want?" I asked, overcome with
astonishment.

"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness,
Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar.
Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is." I slipped a small
charm compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.

"Good-by," said Dravot, giving me his hand cautiously. "It's the
last time we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days.
Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, as the second camel passed
me.

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away
along the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could
detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai attested
that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the
chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander
through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find
death, certain and awful death.

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day
from Peshawar, wound up his letter with: "There has been much
laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his
estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he
ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed
through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan
that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased, because through
superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good fortune."

The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them,
but, that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary
notice.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and
again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed
again. The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third
summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and a strained waiting
for something to be telegraphed from the other side of the world,
exactly as had happened before. A few great men had died in the past
two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the
trees in the office garden were a few feet taller. But that was all
the difference.

I passed over to the pressroom, and went through just such a scene as
I have already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it
had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At
three o'clock I cried, "Print off," and turned to go, when there
crept to my chair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle,
his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one
over the other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or
crawled--this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name,
crying that he was come back. "Can you give me a drink?" he
whimpered. "For the Lord's sake, give me a drink!"

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and
I turned up the lamp.

"Don't you know me?" he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned
his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met
over the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I
could not tell where.

"I don't know you," I said, handing him the whisky. "What can I do
for you?"

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the
suffocating heat.

"I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King of Kafiristan--me
and Dravot--crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it--you
setting there and giving us the books. I am Peachey--Peachey
Taliaferro Carnehan, and you've been setting here ever since--O Lord!"

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings
accordingly.

"It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet,
which were wrapped in rags. "True as gospel. Kings we were, with
crowns upon our heads--me and Dravot--poor Dan--oh, poor, poor Dan,
that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!"

"Take the whisky," I said, "and take your own time. Tell me all you
can recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across
the border on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his
servant. Do you remember that?"

"I ain't mad--yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I
remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to
pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes and don't say anything."

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He
dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It
was twisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red,
diamond-shaped scar.

"No, don't look there. Look at me," said Carnehan.

"That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We
left with that caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to
amuse the people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the
evenings when all the people was cooking their dinners--cooking their
dinners, and ... what did they do then? They lit little fires with
sparks that went into Dravot's beard, and we all laughed--fit to die.
Little red fires they was, going into Dravot's big red beard--so
funny." His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly.

"You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I said at a
venture, "after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you
turned off to try to get into Kafiristan."

"No, we didn't neither. What are you talking about? We turned off
before Jagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they
wasn't good enough for our two camels--mine and Dravot's. When we
left the caravan, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and
said we would be heathen, because the Kaffirs didn't allow
Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and
such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see
again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheep-skin over his
shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too,
and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That was
in a most mountainous country, and our camels couldn't go along any
more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming
home I saw them fight like wild goats--there are lots of goats in
Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep still, no more than
the goats. Always fighting they are, and don't let you sleep at
night."

"Take some more whisky," I said very slowly. "What did you and
Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no further because of the
rough roads that led into Kafiristan?"

"What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro
Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died
out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey,
turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirligig that you can
sell to the Amir. No; they was two for three ha'pence, those
whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful sore. And then these
camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot: 'For the Lord's sake,
let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,' and with
that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having
anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with
the guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four
mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing: 'Sell me four
mules.' Says the first man: 'If you are rich enough to buy, you are
rich enough to rob;' but before ever he could put his hand to his
knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other party runs
away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken
off the camels, and together we starts forward into those bitter cold
mountainous parts, and never a road broader than the back of your
hand."

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the
nature of the country through which he had journeyed.

"I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't as good as
it might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how
Dravot died. The country was mountainous and the mules were most
contrary, and the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went
up and up, and down and down, and that other party, Carnehan, was
imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of
bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says that if a
King couldn't sing it wasn't worth being King, and whacked the mules
over the rump, and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to
a big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules were near
dead, so we killed them, not having anything in special for them or
us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with the
cartridges that was jolted out.

"Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing
twenty men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was
fair men--fairer than you or me--with yellow hair and remarkable well
built. Says Dravot, unpacking the guns--'This is the beginning of
the business. We'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires
two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred
yards from the rock where we was sitting. The other men began to
run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at
all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men
that had run across the snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow
at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they all falls down
flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them
up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He calls
them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all
the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and
him across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top,
where there was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the
biggest--a fellow they call Imbra--and lays a rifle and a cartridge
at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting
him on the head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round to the
men and nods his head, and says: 'That's all right. I'm in the know
too, and all these old jim-jams are my friends.' Then he opens his
mouth and points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he
says: 'No;' and when the second man brings him food, he says: 'No;'
but when one of the old priests and the boss of the village brings
him food, he says: 'Yes,' very haughtily, and eats it slow. That was
how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just as though
we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those d--d
rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect a man to laugh much
after that."

"Take some more whisky and go on," I said. "That was the first
village you came into. How did you get to the King?"

"I wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was the King, and a
handsome man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him
and the other party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot
sat by the side of old Imbra, and the people came and worshiped.
That was Dravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and
Carnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they knew
where they was, and runs down into the valley and up again the other
side, and finds another village, same as the first one, and the
people all falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says: 'Now what
is the trouble between you two villages?' and the people points to a
woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes
her back to the first village and counts up the dead--eight there
was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and
waves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,' says he.
Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm
and walks them down into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a
line with a spear right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf
from both sides o' the line. Then all the people comes down and
shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says: 'Go and dig the land,
and be fruitful and multiply,' which they did, though they didn't
understand. Then we asks the names of things in their lingo--bread
and water and fire and idols and such, and Dravot leads the priest of
each village up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the
people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot.

"Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as
bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and
told Dravot in dumb show what it was about. 'That's just the
beginning,' says Dravot. 'They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan
picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click off a rifle,
and form fours, and advance in line, and they was very pleased to do
so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and
his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village and one at the other,
and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the next valley.
That was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Carnehan
says: 'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and takes 'em there and
gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were a poor lot,
and we blooded 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new
Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down
quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot, who had got into another
valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous. There was no people
there and the Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes
on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army explains that
unless the people wants to be killed they had better not shoot their
little matchlocks; for they had matchlocks. We makes friends with
the priest and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the
men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow
with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he heard there was a
new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of the men half
a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a
message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must
come and shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The Chief
comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his
arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief
was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief,
and asks him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hated. 'I have,'
says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and sets
two of the Army to show them drill and at the end of two weeks the
men can maneuvre about as well as Volunteers. So he marches with the
Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's
men rushes into a village and takes it; we three Martinis firing into
the brown of the enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the
Chief a rag from my coat and says, 'Occupy till I come:' which was
scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen
hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the snow,
and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter
to Dravot, wherever he be, by land or by sea."

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted: "How
could you write a letter up yonder?"

"The letter?--Oh!--The letter! Keep looking at me between the eyes,
please. It was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the way of it
from a blind beggar in the Punjab."

I remembered that there had once come to the office a blind man with
a knotted twig and a piece of string which he wound round the twig
according to some cipher of his own. He could, after the lapse of
days or hours, repeat the sentence which he had reeled up. He had
reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach
me his method, but failed.

"I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carnehan; "and told him to come
back because this Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle, and
then I struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were
working. They called the village we took along with the Chief,
Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priests at
Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a lot of pending cases about
land to show me, and some men from another village had been firing
arrows at night. I went out and looked for that village and fired
four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the
cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been
away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet. One morning I
heard the devil's own noise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot
marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds of men,
and, which was the most amazing--a great gold crown on his head. 'My
Gord, Carnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, and
we've got the whole country as far as it's worth having. I am the
son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you're my younger brother
and a God too! It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've been
marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every footy
little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than
that, I've got the key of the whole show, as you'll see, and I've got
a crown for you! I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called
Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold I've
seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, and there's
garnets in the sand of the river, and here's a chunk of amber that a
man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.'

"One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips the crown on. It
was too small and too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered
gold it was--five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel.

"'Peachey,' says Dravot, 'we don't want to fight no more. The
Craft's the trick, so help me!' and he brings forward that same Chief
that I left at Bashkai--Billy Fish we called him afterward, because
he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on
the Bolan in the old days. 'Shake hands with him,' says Dravot, and
I shook hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I
said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers,
all right, and I tried the Master's Grip, but that was a slip. 'A
Fellow Craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does he know the word?' 'He
does,' says Dan, 'and all the priests know. It's a miracle! The
Chiefs and the priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's
very like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, but they
don't know the Third Degree, and they've come to find out. It's
Gord's Truth. I've known these long years that the Afghans knew up
to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A God and a
Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third Degree I
will open, and we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the
villages.'

"'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodge without warrant
from any one; and we never held office in any Lodge.'

"'It's a masterstroke of policy,' says Dravot. 'It means running the
country as easy as a four-wheeled bogie on a down grade. We can't
stop to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs
at my heel, and passed and raised according to their merit they shall
be. Billet these men on the villages and see that we run up a Lodge
of some kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The
women must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold a levee of Chiefs
to-night and Lodge to-morrow.'

"I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool as not to see
what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showed the priests'
families how to make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot's apron
the blue border and marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide,
not cloth. We took a great square stone in the temple for the
Master's chair, and little stones for the officers' chairs, and
painted the black pavement with white squares, and did what we could
to make things regular.

"At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big
bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were Gods and sons of
Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make
Kafiristan a country where every man should eat in peace and drink in
quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake
hands, and they was so hairy and white and fair it was just shaking
hands with old friends. We gave them names according as they was
like men we had known in India--Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky
Kergan that was Bazaar-master when I was at Mhow, and so on, and so
on.

"The most amazing miracle was at Lodge next night. One of the old
priests was watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew
we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn't know what the men knew.
The old priest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of
Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girls
had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to
overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. 'It's all up now,' I
says. 'That comes of meddling with the Craft without warrant!'
Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted over
the Grand-Master's chair--which was to say the stone of Imbra. The
priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black
dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master's Mark,
same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not even the
priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls
flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says
Dravot, across the Lodge to me, 'they say it's the missing Mark that
no one could understand the why of. We're more than safe now.' Then
he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says: 'By virtue of the
authority vested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey,
I declare myself Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in
this the Mother Lodge o' the country, and King of Kafiristan equally
with Peachey!' At that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine--I
was doing Senior Warden--and we opens the Lodge in most ample form.
It was an amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the
first two degrees almost without telling, as if the memory was coming
back to them. After that, Peachey and Dravot raised such as was
worthy--high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was
the first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was
not in any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We
didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men because we didn't want
to make the Degree common. And they was clamoring to be raised.

"'In another six months,' says Dravot, 'we'll hold another
Communication and see how you are working.' Then he asks them about
their villages, and learns that they was fighting one against the
other and were fair sick and tired of it. And when they wasn't doing
that they was fighting with the Mohammedans. 'You can fight those
when they come into our country,' says Dravot. 'Tell off every tenth
man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at a
time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or
speared any more so long as he does well, and I know that you won't
cheat me because you're white people--sons of Alexander--and not like
common black Mohammedans. You are my people and by God,' says he,
running off into English at the end--'I'll make a d-- fine Nation of
you, or I'll die in the making!'

"I can't tell all we did for the next six months, because Dravot did
a lot I couldn't see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way
I never could. My work was to help the people plow, and now and
again go out with some of the Army and see what the other villages
were doing, and make 'em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which
cut up the country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when he
walked up and down in the pine wood, pulling that bloody red beard of
his with both fists, I knew he was thinking plans I could not advise
him about, and I just waited for orders.

"But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people. They were
afraid of me and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was the best of
friends with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come
across the hills with a complaint and Dravot would hear him out fair,
and call four priests together and say what was to be done. He used
to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an
old Chief we called Kafuzelum--it was like enough to his real
name--and hold councils with 'em when there was any fighting to be
done in small villages. That was his Council of War, and the four
priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council.
Between the lot of 'em they sent me, with forty men and twenty
rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country
to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir's
workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir's Herati regiments that
would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises.

"I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor there the pick
of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the regiment
some more, and, between the two and the tribes-people, we got more
than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails
that'll throw to six hundred yards, and forty man-loads of very bad
ammunition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, and
distributed 'em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill.

"Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but the old Army that
we first made helped me, and we turned out five hundred men that
could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms pretty
straight. Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to
them. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up
and down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on.

"'I won't make a Nation,' says he. 'I'll make an Empire! These men
aren't niggers; they're English! Look at their eyes--look at their
mouths. Look at the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their
own houses. They're the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and
they've grown to be English. I'll take a census in the spring if the
priests don't get frightened. There must be a fair two million of
'em in these hills. The villages are full o' little children. Two
million people--two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men--and all
English! They only want the rifles and a little drilling. Two
hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on Russia's right
flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,' he says, chewing his
beard in great hunks, 'we shall be emperors of the Earth! Rajah
Brooke will be a suckling to us. I'll treat with the Viceroy on
equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve picked English--twelve
that I know of--to help us govern a bit. There's Mackay,
Sergeant-pensioner at Segowli--many's the good dinner he's given me,
and his wife a pair of trousers. There's Donkin, the Warder of
Tounghoo Jail; there's hundreds that I could lay my hand on if I was
in India. The Viceroy shall do it for me. I'll send a man through
in the spring for those men, and I'll write for a dispensation from
the Grand Lodge for what I've done as Grand-Master. That--and all
the Sniders that'll be thrown out when the native troops in India
take up the Martini. They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do for
fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders
run through the Amir's country in driblets--I'd be content with
twenty thousand in one year--and we'd be an Empire. When everything
was shipshape, I'd hand over the crown--this crown I'm wearing
now--to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she'd say: "Rise up, Sir
Daniel Dravot." Oh, it's big! It's big, I tell you! But there's so
much to be done in every place--Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere
else.'

"'What is it?' I says. 'There are no more men coming in to be
drilled this autumn. Look at those fat, black clouds. They're
bringing the snow.'

"'It isn't that,' says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on my
shoulder; 'and I don't wish to say anything that's against you, for
no other living man would have followed me and made me what I am as
you have done. You're a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the
people know you; but--it's a big country, and somehow you can't help
me, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.'

"'Go to your blasted priests, then!' I said, and I was sorry when I
made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so
superior when I'd drilled all the men, and done all he told me.

"'Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,' says Daniel without cursing.
'You're a King too, and the half of this Kingdom is yours; but can't
you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now--three or four of
'em, that we can scatter about for our Deputies. It's a hugeous
great State, and I can't always tell the right thing to do, and I
haven't time for all I want to do, and here's the winter coming on
and all.' He put half his beard into his mouth, and it was as red as
the gold of his crown.

"'I'm sorry, Daniel,' says I. 'I've done all I could. I've drilled
the men and shown the people how to stack their oats better; and I've
brought in those tinware rifles from Ghorband--but I know what you're
driving at. I take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.'

"'There's another thing too,' says Dravot, walking up and down. 'The
winter's coming and these people won't be giving much trouble, and if
they do we can't move about. I want a wife.'

"'For Gord's sake leave the women alone!' I says. 'We've both got
all the work we can do, though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack,
and keep clear o' women.'

"'The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was Kings; and Kings
we have been these months past,' says Dravot, weighing his crown in
his hand. 'You go get a wife too, Peachey--a nice, strappin', plump
girl that'll keep you warm in the winter. They're prettier than
English girls, and we can take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em once or
twice in hot water, and they'll come as fair as chicken and ham.'

"'Don't tempt me!' I says. 'I will not have any dealings with a
woman not till we are a dam' site more settled than we are now. I've
been doing the work o' two men, and you've been doing the work o'
three. Let's lie off a bit, and see if we can get some better
tobacco from Afghan country and run in some good liquor; but no
women.'

"'Who's talking o' women?' says Dravot. 'I said wife--a Queen to
breed a King's son for the King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe,
that'll make them your blood-brothers, and that'll lie by your side
and tell you all the people thinks about you and their own affairs.
That's what I want.'

"'Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at Mogul Serai when I was
a plate-layer?' says I. 'A fat lot o' good she was to me. She
taught me the lingo and one or two other things; but what happened?
She ran away with the Station Master's servant and half my month's
pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste,
and had the impidence to say I was her husband--all among the drivers
in the running-shed!'

"'We've done with that,' says Dravot. 'These women are whiter than
you or me, and a Queen I will have for the winter months.'

"'For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I says. 'It'll only
bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain't to waste their
strength on women, 'specially when they've got a new raw Kingdom to
work over.'

"'For the last time of answering I will,' said Dravot, and he went
away through the pine-trees looking like a big red devil. The low
sun hit his crown and beard on one side, and the two blazed like hot
coals.

"But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He put it before
the Council, and there was no answer till Billy Fish said that he'd
better ask the girls. Dravot d--d them all round. 'What's wrong
with me?' he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. 'Am I a dog or am I
not enough of a man for your wenches? Haven't I put the shadow of my
hand over this country? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?' It was
me really, but Dravot was too angry to remember. 'Who bought your
guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who's the Grand-Master of the sign
cut in the stone? and he thumped his hand on the block that he used
to sit on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge always.
Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the others. 'Keep your hair
on, Dan,' said I; 'and ask the girls. That's how it's done at Home,
and these people are quite English.'

"'The marriage of the King is a matter of state,' says Dan, in a
white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was going against
his better mind. He walked out of the Council-room, and the others
sat still, looking at the ground.

"'Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 'what's the difficulty
here? A straight answer to a true friend.' 'You know,' says Billy
Fish. 'How should a man tell you who know everything? How can
daughters of men marry Gods or Devils? It's not proper.'

"I remembered something like that in the Bible; but if, after seeing
us as long as they had, they still believed we were Gods, it wasn't
for me to undeceive them.

"'A God can do anything,' says I. 'If the King is fond of a girl
he'll not let her die.' 'She'll have to,' said Billy Fish. 'There
are all sorts of Gods and Devils in these mountains, and now and
again a girl marries one of them and isn't seen any more. Besides,
you two know the Mark cut in the stone. Only the Gods know that. We
thought you were men till you showed the sign of the Master.'

"I wished then that we had explained about the loss of the genuine
secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing.
All that night there was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple
half-way down the hill, and I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of
the priests told us that she was being prepared to marry the King.

"'I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says Dan. 'I don't want to
interfere with your customs, but I'll take my own wife.' 'The girl's
a little bit afraid,' says the priest. 'She thinks she's going to
die, and they are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.'

"'Hearten her very tender, then,' says Dravot, 'or I'll hearten you
with the butt of a gun so that you'll never want to be heartened
again.' He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about
more than half the night, thinking of the wife that he was going to
get in the morning. I wasn't by any means comfortable, for I knew
that dealings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a crowned
King twenty times over, could not but be risky. I got up very early
in the morning while Dravot was asleep, and I saw the priests talking
together in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together, too, and they
looked at me out of the corners of their eyes.

"'What is up, Fish?' I says to the Bashkai man, who was wrapped up in
his furs and looking splendid to behold.

"I can't rightly say,' says he; 'but if you can induce the King to
drop all this nonsense about marriage you'll be doing him and me and
yourself a great service.'

"'That I do believe,' says I. 'But sure, you know, Billy, as well as
me, having fought against and for us, that the King and me are
nothing more than two of the finest men that God Almighty ever made.
Nothing more, I do assure you.'

"'That may be,' says Billy Fish, 'and yet I should be sorry if it
was.' He sinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a minute and
thinks. 'King,' says he, 'be you man or God or Devil, I'll stick by
you to-day. I have twenty of my men with me, and they will follow
me. We'll go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.'

"A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was white
except the greasy fat clouds that blew down and down from the north.
Dravot came out with his crown on his head, swinging his arms and
stamping his feet, and looking more pleased than Punch.

"'For the last time, drop it, Dan,' says I in a whisper. 'Billy Fish
here says that there will be a row.'

"'A row among my people!' says Dravot. 'Not much. Peachey, you're a
fool not to get a wife too. Where's the girl?' says he with a voice
as loud as the braying of a jackass. 'Call up all the chiefs and
priests, and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him.'

"There was no need to call any one. They were all there leaning on
their guns and spears round the clearing in the centre of the pine
wood. A deputation of priests went down to the little empire to
bring up the girl, and the horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy
Fish saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he could, and
behind him stood his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man of them
under six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me was twenty men
of the regular army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she
was, covered with silver and turquoises but white as death, and
looking back every minute at the priests.

"'She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 'What's to be afraid of,
lass? Come and kiss me.' He puts his arm round her. She shuts her
eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of
Dan's flaming red beard.

"'The slut's bitten me!' says he, clapping his hand to his neck, and,
sure enough, his hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his
matchlock men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags him into
the Bashkai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo--'Neither God
nor Devil, but a man!' I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me
in front, and the Army behind began firing into the Bashkai men.

"'God A-mighty!' says Dan. 'What is the meaning o' this?'

"'Come back! Come away!' says Billy Fish. 'Ruin and Mutiny is the
matter. We'll break for Bashkai if we can.'

"I tried to give some sort of orders to my men--the men o' the
regular army--but it was no use, so I fired into the brown of 'em
with an English Martini and drilled three beggars in a line. The
valley was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every soul was
shrieking, 'Not a God nor a Devil, but only a man!' The Bashkai
troops stuck to Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks
wasn't half as good as the Kabul breechloaders, and four of them
dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and
Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him running out at the crowd.

"'We can't stand,' says Billy Fish. 'Make a run for it down the
valley! The whole place is against us.' The matchlock-men ran, and
we went down the valley in spite of Dravot's protestations. He was
swearing horribly and crying out that he was King. The priests
rolled great stones on us, and the regular army fired hard, and there
wasn't more than six men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that
came down to the bottom of the valley alive.

"Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple blew again.
'Come away--for Gord's sake come away!' says Billy Fish. 'They'll
send runners out to all the villages before ever we get to Bashkai.
I can protect you there, but I can't do anything now.'

"My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head from that
hour. He stared up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for
walking back alone and killing the priests with his bare hands; which
he could have done. 'An Emperor am I,' says Daniel, 'and next year I
shall be a Knight of the Queen.'

"'All right, Dan,' says I; 'but come along now while there's time.'

"'It's your fault,' says he, 'for not looking after your army better.
There was mutiny in the midst, and you didn't know--you d--d
engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary's-pass-hunting hound!' He
sat upon a rock and called me every foul name he could lay tongue to.
I was too heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that
brought the smash.

"'I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, 'but there's no accounting for natives.
This business is our Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something out of
it yet, when we've got to Bashkai.'

"'Let's get to Bashkai, then,' says Dan, 'and, by Gord, when I come
back here again I'll sweep the valley so there isn't a bug in a
blanket left!'

"We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was stumping up and
down on the snow, chewing his beard and muttering to himself.

"'There's no hope o' getting clear,' said Billy Fish. 'The priests
will have sent runners to the villages to say that you are only men.
Why didn't you stick on as Gods till things was more settled? I'm a
dead man,' says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow
and begins to pray to his Gods.

"Next morning we was in a cruel bad country--all up and down, no
level ground at all, and no food either. The six Bashkai men looked
at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they wanted to ask something, but
they said never a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat
mountain all covered with snow, and when we climbed up into it,
behold, there was an army in position waiting in the middle!

"'The runners have been very quick,' says Billy Fish, with a little
bit of a laugh. 'They are waiting for us.'

"Three or four men began to fire from the enemy's side, and a chance
shot took Daniel in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his
senses. He looks across the snow at the army, and sees the rifles
that we had brought into the country.

"'We're done for,' says he. 'They are Englishmen, these people--and
it's my blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. Get back,
Billy Fish, and take your men away; you've done what you could, and
now cut for it. Carnehan,' says he, 'shake hands with me and go
along with Billy. Maybe they won't kill you. I'll go and meet 'em
alone. It's me that did it. Me, the King!'

"'Go!' says I. 'Go to Hell, Dan. I'm with you here. Billy Fish,
you clear out, and we two will meet those folk.'

"'I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 'I stay with you. My
men can go.'

"The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word but ran off, and
Dan and me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were
drumming and the horns were horning. It was cold--awful cold. I've
got that cold in the back of my head now. There's a lump of it
there."

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were
blazing in the office, and the perspiration poured down my face and
splashed on the blotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering,
and I feared that his mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh
grip of the piteously mangled hands, and said: "What happened after
that?"

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.

"What was you pleased to say?" whined Carnehan. "They took them
without any sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not
though the King knocked down the first man that set hand on him--not
though old Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em.
Not a single solitary sound did those swines make. They just closed
up tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man called
Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his throat, sir,
then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and
says: 'We've had a dashed fine run for our money. What's coming
next?' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, sir, in
confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, sir. No, he
didn't neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o' one
of those cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter,
sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow
to a rope-bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may
have seen such. They prodded him behind like an ox. 'D-- your
eyes!' says the King. 'D'you suppose I can't die like a gentleman?'
He turns to Peachey--Peachey that was crying like a child. 'I've
brought you to this, Peachey,' says he. 'Brought you out of your
happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you was late
Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me,
Peachey.' 'I do,' says Peachey. 'Fully and freely do I forgive you,
Dan.' 'Shake hands, Peachey,' says he. 'I'm going now.' Out he
goes, looking neither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the
middle of those dizzy dancing ropes, 'Cut, you beggars,' he shouts;
and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round and round,
twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour to fall till he
struck the water, and I could see his body caught on a rock with the
gold crown close beside.

"But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine-trees?
They crucified him, sir, as Peachey's hand will show. They used
wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; and he didn't die. He hung
there and screamed, and they took him down next day, and said it was
a miracle that he wasn't dead. They took him down--poor old Peachey
that hadn't done them any harm--that hadn't done them any..."

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back
of his scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes.

"They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they
said he was more of God than old Daniel that was a man. Then they
turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came
home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel
Dravot he walked before and said: 'Come along, Peachey. 'It's a big
thing we're doing.' The mountains they danced at night, and the
mountains they tried to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held up
his hand, and Peachey came along, bent double. He never let go of
Dan's hand, and he never let go of Dan's head. They gave it to him
as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again, and
though the crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would
Peachey sell the same. You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot!
Look at him now!"

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a
black horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook
therefrom on to my table--the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot!
The morning sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red
beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold
studded with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the
battered temples.

"You behold now," said Carnehan, "the Emperor in his habit as he
lived--the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old
Daniel that was a monarch once!"

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognized the
head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I
attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. "Let me take
away the whisky, and give me a little money," he gasped. "I was a
King once. I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the
Poorhouse till I get my health. No, thank you, I can't wait till you
get a carriage for me. I've urgent private affairs--in the south--at
Marwar."

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the
Deputy Commissioner's house. That day at noon I had occasion to go
down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along
the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering
dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was
not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the
houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to
left:

"The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar--
Who follows in his train?"

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage
and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to
the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he
did not in the least recognize, and I left him singing it to the
missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of
the Asylum.

"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday
morning," said the Superintendent. "Is it true that he was half an
hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?"

"Yes," said I, "but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him
by any chance when he died?"

"Not to my knowledge," said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.

THE BLACK PEARL

BY VICTORIEN SARDOU

_Victorien Sardou, born in 1831, is the most accomplished French
playwright and dramatist. He is the author of "Divorçons," "Fédora,"
"Théodora," "La Tosca," "Madame Sans-Gêne," and other well-known
plays, most if not all of which were written for Sarah Bernhardt.
The present story is an excellent example of the author's manner in
the use of dramatic material._

THE BLACK PEARL

By VICTORIEN SARDOU

When it rains in Amsterdam, it pours; and when the thunder takes a
hand in the performance, things are pretty lively; this is what my
friend Balthazar Van der Lys was saying to himself one summer night,
as he ran along the Amstel on his way home to escape the storm.
Unfortunately, the wind of the Zuyder Zee blew faster than he could
run. A frightful gust tore along the quay, unhinging hundreds of
shutters and twisting scores of signs and lamp posts. At the same
moment, a number of towels and handkerchiefs which had been hung out
to dry were blown pell-mell into the canal, followed by Balthazar's
hat, and it is the greatest wonder in the world that he was not
treated to a bath himself. Then there was another flash of
lightning, a deafening roar of thunder, and the rain came down in
torrents anew, literally wetting our poor friend to the skin, and
causing him to redouble his speed.

On reaching the Orphelinat Straat he rushed under the awning of a
shop to seek refuge from the rain; in his hurry he did not take time
to look where he was going, and the next moment he found himself
fairly in the arms of another man, and the two went rolling over and
over together. The person thus disturbed was seated at the time in
an armchair; this person was no other than our mutual friend,
Cornelius Pump, who was undoubtedly one of the most noted savants of
the age.

"Cornelius! what the mischief were you doing in that chair?" asked
Balthazar, picking himself up.

"Look out!" exclaimed Cornelius, "or you will break the string of my
kite!"

Balthazar turned around, believing that his friend was joking; but,
to his surprise, he saw Cornelius busily occupied in winding up the
string of a gigantic kite, which was floating above the canal at a
tremendous height, and which apparently was struggling fiercely
against all effort made to pull it in. Cornelius pulled away with
all his might in one direction, while the kite pulled away in
another. The monstrous combination of paper and sticks was
ornamented with a tremendous tail, which was decorated with
innumerable pieces of paper.

"A curious idea!" remarked Balthazar, "to fly a kite in such a storm."

"I am not doing so for fun, you fool," answered Cornelius with a
smile; "I wish to verify the presence of nitric acid in yonder
clouds, which are charged with electricity. In proof of which,
behold!" and with a desperate effort the man of science succeeded in
pulling down the kite, and pointed with pride to the bits of paper
which had been burned a dark red.

"Oh, bah!" replied Balthazar in that tone of voice so common to those
who do not understand anything of these little freaks of science. "A
nice time to experiment, upon my word!"

"The best time in the world, my friend," simply answered Cornelius.
"And what an observatory! you can see for yourself! there is not an
obstruction in the way! a glorious horizon! ten lightning-rods in
sight and all on fire! I have been keeping my weather eye open for
this storm and I am delighted that it has put in an appearance at
last!"

A violent thunder-clap shook the ground like an earthquake.

"Go on! grumble away as much as you please," muttered Cornelius. "I
have discovered your secret and will tell it to the world."

"And what is there so interesting in all this, anyway?" asked
Balthazar, who, owing to his drenching, was in anything but a good
humor.

"You poor fool," replied Cornelius, with a smile of pity; "now tell
me, what is that?"

"Why, a flash of lightning, of course!"

"Naturally! but what is the nature of the flash?"

"Why, I always supposed that all flashes were alike."

"That shows how much you know!" answered Cornelius, in a tone of
disgust. "Now, there are several classes of lightning. For
instance, lightning of the first class is generally in the form of a
luminous furrow and is very crooked and forked, effecting a zigzag
movement, and of a white or purple color; then, there is the
lightning of the second class, an extended sheet of flame, usually
red, and which embraces the entire horizon in circumference; and
finally lightning of the third class, which is invariably in the form
of a rebounding, rolling, spherical body; the question is whether it
is really globular in shape or merely an optical illusion? This is
exactly the problem I have been trying to solve! I suppose you will
say that these globes of fire have been sufficiently observed by
Howard, Schubler, Kamtz--"

"Oh, I don't know anything at all about such rot, so I won't venture
an opinion. The rain is coming down again and I want to go home."

"Wait a moment," calmly replied Cornelius; "and as soon as I have
seen a spherical or globular flash I will--"

"I haven't time to wait; besides, I would be a fool when I only have
to go a hundred feet to reach my door. If you want a good fire, a
good supper, a good bed and a good pipe, you will be welcome; and if
you want to look at a globe, why, the globe of my lamp is at your
disposal. I can say no more."

"Stop a moment; my flash will be along presently."

Balthazar, whose patience was now well-nigh exhausted, was preparing
to take his departure, when suddenly the sky was lighted up by a
bright flash, while the thunder burst with a loud report a short
distance away.

The shock was so violent that it almost knocked Balthazar over.

"That was a spherical globe, and no mistake!" joyfully exclaimed
Cornelius. "I have made a wonderful discovery: let's go to supper!"
Balthazar rubbed his eyes and felt of his limbs to assure himself
that he was still in the land of the living.

"The lightning struck near my house!"

"Not at all," replied Cornelius; "it was in the direction of the
Hebrew quarter."

Balthazar did not stop to hear any more, but started off on a dead
run; Cornelius picked up his little bits of paper and was soon
following at his heels, in spite of the drenching rain.

An hour later the two friends, having enjoyed a bountiful supper,
seated themselves in comfortable chairs, and, between the whiffs of
their meerschaums, laughed at the storm which was still raging
furiously outside.

"This is what I call real enjoyment," remarked Cornelius. "A good
bottle of white curaçoa, a good fire, good tobacco, and a congenial
friend to talk to; am I not right, Christina?"

Christina came and went; she was here, there, and everywhere at the
same time, removing plates and placing fresh glasses and a huge
earthen jug on the table. At the mention of her name by Cornelius
she blushed a fiery red, but said nothing in reply.

Christina (it is high time that we tell you) was a young girl who had
been raised out of charity, in the house of our friend Balthazar.

Shortly after the death of her husband, Madam Van der Lys,
Balthazar's mother, felt some one tugging at her dress as she was
kneeling at her devotions one Sunday morning. Fearing that some one
was trying to pick her pocket, she grasped the hand of the supposed
offender. The hand belonged to a little girl, and was as cute and
small as it is possible for a hand to be. The good woman was deeply
moved at this exhibition of crime in one so young, and her first
thought was to let the little one go; but she finally decided to give
the waif a home, like the dear, good woman that she was. Then she
led little Christina out of the church and made her accompany her
home, the child crying all the while with fear that her aunt would
whip her. Madame Van der Lys told her not to be afraid, and
succeeded at last in obtaining the information that the child's
parents belonged to that class of idlers who spend their time in
running about fairs and kermesses; that the child had been broken in
at an early age to all the tricks adopted by strolling mountebanks;
that the father had been killed while performing a dangerous feat on
the horizontal bar; that the mother died in want and misery; and
finally that the aunt was an old hag who used to beat her black and
blue, and who was instructing her in all the branches of crime. I do
not know whether you have ever met Madam Van der Lys, but she was as
good a woman as her son is a good man. She therefore decided to keep
the child, whom the aunt never called to reclaim. She brought her up
well and had her educated by an excellent woman. It was not long
before the little waif knew how to spell, read, and write, and she
soon became a model of good manners and refinement. Then, when the
old lady shuffled off this mortal coil, she had the satisfaction of
leaving behind her, in addition to Gudule, the cook, a lass of
fifteen who was as bright as a florin, and who would never permit her
master's fire to go out for want of proper attention. In addition to
all these good qualities, she was polite, refined, clever, and
pretty; at least such was the opinion of our friend Cornelius, who
had discovered in her eyes a look not at all unlike a flash of
lightning of the third class. But, a truce to this! If I gossip any
more I will be divulging family secrets!

I will add, however, that Christina always gave Cornelius a hearty
welcome because he brought her interesting books. The young savant
made a greater fuss over this little housekeeper than over all the
painted beauties of the town. But it seemed as if the storm had
paralyzed the young girl's tongue. She had declined to take her seat
at the table, and, under the pretext of waiting on the two friends,
she came and went, scarcely listening to what they had to say,
replying only in monosyllables, and making the sign of the cross
every time there was a flash of lightning. Shortly after their
supper, Balthazar turned round to ask her a question, but she was no
longer there, having retired to her room. He rose from his chair,
and approaching the door of her room, listened attentively; but as
all was silent he was evidently convinced that the young girl was
already fast asleep, for he returned to his place and sat down beside
Cornelius, who was busily engaged filling his pipe.

"What's wrong with Christina to-night?" he asked, pointing to her
room.

"Oh, it's the storm," replied Balthazar; "women are so timid!"

"If it were otherwise, we would be deprived of the pleasure of
protecting them as we would children--especially Christina, who is
anything but strong. I really can't look at her without crying; she
is so frail, so delicate!"

"Oh, ho, Master Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, with a knowing
smile; "you are almost as enthusiastic over Christina as you were
over the lightning a little while ago!"

Cornelius blushed to the very roots of his hair as he replied: "Oh,
it's not the same kind of enthusiasm, however!"

"I suppose not!" remarked Balthazar with a hearty laugh. Then taking
Cornelius by the hand and looking him square in the face, he added:
"Come, now, you don't imagine that I can't see what is going on? You
don't only amuse yourself at flying your kite over the Amstel,
overgrown boy that you are, but you also play at racquets with
Christina, and your two hearts answer the place of shuttlecocks."

"What, you suppose that--" muttered the savant, evidently confused.

"For over three months I have known that it was not merely to see my
beautiful countenance that you have called here twice a day--at noon,
on your way to the zoölogical garden, and at four on your way home."

"But this is the shortest way," ventured Cornelius.

"Yes, I know--to the heart!"

"But--"

"Come, now, let us reason: Christina is unlike most girls of her age;
she has a wise head and a loving heart, I assure you; she is
certainly clever enough to admire and appreciate such a talented
person as Mijnheer Cornelius Pump, who thinks nothing of lending her
his rare books. You squeeze her hands, you are solicitous for her
health. You read her a regular lecture on chemistry every time you
see a spot on her dress, on natural history whenever you see a pot of
flowers, and on anatomy whenever you see the cat! She listens to
what you have to say with open ears, and a look of attention which is
really charming; and yet you would pretend that love is a minor
consideration in all this, especially when the man of science is only
twenty-five and his pupil just eighteen?"

"Well, then, I do love her, since you will have it so!" answered
Cornelius, with a look of defiance in his eyes. "So kindly tell me
what you propose to do about it!"

"That's for you to say--"

"Oh, I intend to make her my wife!"

"Then, why the mischief don't you tell her so?"

"That's precisely what I intend to do."

"Then embrace me!" exclaimed Balthazar, "and drink to the health of
Cupid, for I, too, am going to get married--"

"I congratulate you, my boy; and who is the fortunate one?"

"--And I am going to marry Mademoiselle Suzanne Van Miellis, the
daughter of the rich banker," continued Balthazar, all in one breath.

Cornelius gave a low whistle, which, translated, means: The devil!

Balthazar continued:

"And just think of it--I have loved her for over six years! I never
wanted to pop the question because I was afraid her father would tell
me that it was his money and not his daughter that I was after. But
my opportunity came at last. Her father died a short time ago,
leaving her his sole heiress: she is one of the wealthiest girls in
the town."

"The wealthiest by far," gravely interrupted Cornelius.

"One day, as we were walking together by the river she stopped for a
moment, and looking into my eyes she said: 'Now, my friend, I don't
want you to bear me any ill-feeling for what I am going to say; but,
since the death of my father, and coming into my inheritance, I
assure you that I am most unhappy. I can no longer distinguish
between those who love me for my riches and those who love me for
myself; there are so many who pretend to adore me that I am
suspicious of them all; and I would rather throw my fortune into the
Amstel than wed a man who would aspire to my hand through mercenary
motives!'"

"'Ah, mademoiselle,' I sighed; 'you can understand that I was not
overanxious to be mistaken for one of these fortune hunters.'

"'Oh, my dear friend,' she exclaimed; 'I know that you are not that
kind of a man. Now I am going to tell you my ideal of a husband. I
would never accept the love of a man who had not cared for me
previous to the death of my father. Ah! I would indeed be confident
of that man's love, and I would return it to him a hundred-fold!'

"'Then I am that man!' I cried out. 'I have loved you for over six
long years, and I never dared to tell you so, although you must have
noticed that I was slowly but surely dying for the want of your
affection!' Then she looked down at the ground, and whispered:
'Maybe I have,' and she looked at me as if trying to read the truth
in my eyes. It was easy to see that she wanted to believe what I
said, but was afraid to do so.

"'Then you can prove the truth of your assertion,' she remarked,
after a pause. 'Do you remember the first time we met, you gave me a
bunch of flowers? One of these was in the shape of a little heart,
with two blue wings on each side. Well, then--'

"'I know what you are going to say. Then as we were looking at this
little flower together, our heads almost touched and your curls
brushed against my face; as you perceived how close we were to one
another, you suddenly drew back, and the flower was detached from its
stem. I can still hear your little cry of disappointment ringing in
my ears. Then you began to cry, and, as you were not looking, I
picked up the little flower.' 'And you have it?' she asked. 'Yes, I
have always kept it as a souvenir of the happiest moment in my
existence. I will bring it with me the next time I call.'

"You should have seen the look of joy which spread over Suzanne's
countenance at that moment! She held out her pretty hand, which I
eagerly grasped and carried to my lips. 'Ah, my friend,' said she,
'this is all I wanted to know, and I am indeed happy! If you picked
up that little flower it was because you loved me already at that
time, and if you have preserved it, 'tis because you love me still!
Bring it to-morrow; it will be the most welcome wedding gift you
could possibly give me!'

"Oh, my dear old Cornelius, judge of my surprise, of my delight when
I heard those words! I was tempted to do something rash; I was wild
with joy. Suddenly her mother happened along. I threw my arms
around the old lady's neck and kissed her on both cheeks--this cooled
me off. Then I grabbed my hat and took to my heels, intending to
return with the flower this very night. But this confounded storm
has upset all my plans, and I will have to postpone my visit until
to-morrow. There, you have the whole story of my courtship in a
nutshell!"

"May Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Cornelius as he threw his arms
around his friend. "Two weddings at the same time! Long live Madame
Balthazar! Long live Madame Cornelius! Here's to the little
Balthazars and the little Corneliuses!"

"Will you be quiet!" laughingly remarked Balthazar, placing his hand
over his friend's mouth in order to silence him. "You will wake up
Christina."

"Oh, I won't say another word, I promise you. And now show me your
celebrated flower with its blue wings."

"I have it locked up in a little steel casket, which is hidden away
with a lot of jewelry in my desk. I have had it framed in a little
locket, surrounded with gold and black pearls. I was looking at it
only this morning; it is charming. You can judge for yourself."

So saying, he took up the lamp, and, taking a huge bunch of keys from
his pocket, he opened the door of his study. He had hardly crossed
the threshold when Cornelius heard him cry out in surprise. He rose
to go to his assistance, when Balthazar, pale as death, reappeared in
the entrance:

"My God! Cornelius."

"What is it? what is wrong?" exclaimed the man of science.

"Great heavens! I am ruined! Come here! Look!"

And Balthazar raised his lamp so as to light up the interior of his
study.

III

What Cornelius saw justified Balthazar's exclamation of surprise.
The floor was literally strewn with papers of all kinds, and this
profusion of documents clearly proved that something extraordinary
had occurred. A large portfolio in which Balthazar kept all his
private papers was torn open, notwithstanding that it had a steel
lock, and was thrown carelessly on the floor, the papers it had
contained being scattered far and wide.

But this was nothing when compared with that which was to follow.
Balthazar now rushed up to his secrétaire. The lock had been forced.
The top of the desk had been completely hacked to pieces, a great
portion being reduced to splinters. The nails were twisted all out
of shape, and the screws and hinges had alike received rough usage.
As to the lid, it had been forced so as to permit the introduction of
a hand in the pigeon-holes and private drawers.

But, strange to relate, most of the drawers containing valuable
papers had not been touched by the thief, his attention evidently
having been entirely absorbed in the contents of those which had
contained gold and silver. About fifteen hundred ducats, two hundred
florins and the little steel casket filled with jewels, of which we
have heard Balthazar speak, were missing. This drawer was completely
empty; everything had disappeared, gold, silver, jewels, without
leaving a trace behind; and Balthazar experienced a still greater
loss when, on picking up the steel casket from the floor, he
perceived that the medallion had been taken along with the rest!

This discovery affected him more than the loss of all his money.
Rushing to the window, he threw it open and cried out at the top of
his voice:

"Help! Help! Stop thief!"

All the population turned out, and, in accordance with the custom,
would have answered this call for aid with, "Fire! Here we come!"
had not the first cry attracted a squad of policemen who were passing
that way. They ran up to Balthazar's house, and M. Tricamp, the
sergeant, realizing that a robbery had been committed, first
cautioned him to make less noise, and then demanded that he and his
men be admitted without further delay.

The door opened noiselessly and M. Tricamp entered on tiptoe,
followed by another of his men, whom he left on guard in the
vestibule with orders not to permit any one either to come in or go
out. It was almost twelve o'clock; the neighbors were fast asleep,
and it was easy to see that Gudule, the deaf cook, and Christina,
fatigued by the emotions caused by the storm, had heard nothing
unusual, as both were sleeping the sleep of the just.

"And now," said the sergeant, lowering his voice; "what is it all
about?"

Balthazar dragged him into the study and pointed to the torn papers
and broken secrétaire.

M. Tricamp was a little man, whose legs were not big enough to
support his unwieldy form; nevertheless, he was very sharp and
unusually active. He had one more little peculiarity--he was
frightfully near-sighted, which compelled him to look at what he was
examining at very short range.

He was evidently surprised, but it was part of his stock in trade not
to exhibit surprise at anything. He therefore contented himself with
muttering: "Very good! Very good!" and he cast a look of contentment
around the room.

"You see, Mijnheer, what has happened!" exclaimed Balthazar, with a
voice choked with emotion.

"Perfectly!" replied M. Tricamp, with an air of importance. "The
secrétaire has been broken open, your portfolio has been tampered
with! Very well, it is superb!"

"Superb! Why, what do you mean?"

"They took all the money, I suppose?" continued the sergeant.

"Yes, all the money which was in my desk."

"Good!"

"And the jewels, and my medallion!"

"Bravo! a case of premeditated robbery! Capital! And you suspect no
one?"

"No one, Mijnheer."

"So much the better. Then we will have the pleasure of discovering
the criminals."

Balthazar and Cornelius looked at each other in surprise; but M.
Tricamp continued in the same unconcerned manner:

"Let us examine the door!"

Balthazar pointed to the massive door of the study, which was
provided with an old-fashioned brass lock, the likes of which are
only found in the Netherlands at the present time.

Tricamp turned the key. Crick! Crack! It was evident that the lock
had not been tampered with.

"And the window?" asked the officer, handing Balthazar the key of the
study.

"The window was closed," said Cornelius; "we opened it when we called
for assistance. Besides, Mijnheer, it has stout iron bars, and no
one could possibly pass through there."

M. Tricamp assured himself that such was the case, and he remarked
that not even a child could effect an entrance through those bars.
Then he closed and bolted the window and turned his attention toward
the fireplace.

Balthazar followed all of his movements without uttering a word.

M. Tricamp leaned over and examined the interior of the fireplace
most minutely; but here again nothing but failure rewarded him for
his trouble. A thick wall had been built there recently, allowing
only enough room for a small stove-pipe.

M. Tricamp did not question for a moment whether this opening would
permit the passage of a human being, for it seemed altogether too
improbable; therefore, when he drew himself up, he appeared to be
anything but pleased.

"Hum! Hum!" he muttered; "the devil," and he looked up at the
ceiling, having replaced his eye-glass with a pair of spectacles.
Then he took the lamp from Balthazar and placed it on the secrétaire,
removing the shade; and this movement suddenly revealed to him a clue
which had entirely escaped their attention until now.

An old knife, a gift from a friend in the Dutch Indies, was driven
into the wainscoting, about three feet above the secrétaire and
half-way between the floor and the ceiling.

Now, what was that old knife doing there?

A few hours previous to this discovery it was lying safe and snug in
Balthazar's desk.

At the same moment Tricamp drew attention to the fact that the wire
which was attached to the bell was twisted and broken and was
fastened about the handle of the knife. He sprang upon a chair, and
from there to the top of the desk, from whence he proceeded to
examine this bit of fresh evidence.

Suddenly he gave a cry of triumph. He only had to raise his hand
between the knife and the picture molding to ascertain that a large
piece of wall paper had been cut out, together with the wood and the
plastering, the whole being replaced with a care to defy the closest
inspection.

This discovery was so unexpected that the young men could not
withhold their admiration at the sergeant's skill. M. Tricamp
remarked that the paper had been removed with the greatest skill,
thus denoting the work of a professional thief. Raising himself on
tiptoe, he placed his hand through the opening and assured himself
that the paper in the adjoining room had been tampered with in
precisely the same manner.

There was no longer any room for doubt; the thief had certainly
entered the room through this aperture. M. Tricamp descended from
his pedestal and proceeded to describe the movements of the
malefactors from the moment of their arrival until their departure,
just as if he had witnessed the whole performance.

"The manner in which that knife has been planted in the wall plainly
proves that it was intended as a step to assist the thief in his
descent. The wire was used as a sort of rope by which he guided
himself on his way back. Now, doesn't this strike you as being
rational enough?"

Balthazar and Cornelius listened to this explanation with bated
breath. But the former was not the kind of man to enthuse over a
description of a theft, especially when he was the loser by the
operation. What he wanted to know was where his medallion had gone;
now that he knew how the thief had entered, he was anxious to know
how he had gone out.

"Have patience," remarked M. Tricamp, following up his clue with
professional pride; "now that we know their movements, we must assure
ourselves as to their temperament--"

"What nonsense! We haven't the time to bother our heads about such
rot!"

"Pardon me," replied Tricamp, "but in my estimation this is very
important. The study of psychology in criminals is a more important
feature than all the quack examinations formerly so popular with the
police."

"But, Mijnheer, while you are discussing the methods of the police
the thief is running away with my money."

"Well, let him run; we will catch him fast enough!" coldly replied M.
Tricamp. "I claim that it is necessary to study the nature of the
game in order to run it down. Now, all robberies differ more or less
and it is rarely that murders are committed in the same manner. For
instance, two servant girls were accused of stealing their mistress's
shawl. I discovered the criminal at the first glance. The thief had
the choice of two cashmeres: one was blue and the other white; now,
she stole the blue one. One of the servants was a blonde and the
other had red hair. I was confident that the blonde was guilty--the
red-headed girl would never have selected the blue shawl on account
of the combination."

"Wonderful!" remarked Cornelius.

"Then hurry up and tell me the name of the thief, for patience is
wellnigh exhausted."

"I can't do this at the start, but I claim that this is the
criminal's first robbery. You will no doubt not credit this
assertion, as you will probably say to yourself that it shows the
workmanship of an old hand; but any child could loosen a bit of
dried-up wall paper. I will say nothing regarding your portfolio, or
your broken secrétaire, for that plainly bears the imprint of a
novice's hand."

"Then you are sure it is the work of a novice?" interrupted Cornelius.

"Undoubtedly. I will add that he is a clumsy greenhorn. An
out-and-out thief would never have left your room in such disorder;
he would take more pride in his workmanship. Furthermore, the
criminal is neither very strong nor very tall, otherwise he could
have drawn himself up there without the aid of that knife and bit of
wire."

"But it must have required considerable strength to demolish that
desk in that fashion."

"Not at all; a child, or even a woman--"

"A woman?" exclaimed Balthazar.

"Since I first set my foot in this room, such has been my impression."

Balthazar and Cornelius looked at one another, in doubt as to whom he
could possibly suspect.

"Now then, to sum up: it is a young woman; she must be young or she
would not climb so well--petite, since she needed a wire to pull
herself up with. Then, again, she must be familiar with your habits,
for she took advantage of your absence to commit the felony, and she
went direct to the drawer in which you kept your money, as she
apparently did not bother her head about the others. In a word, if
you have a young housekeeper or servant you need look no further, for
she is the guilty one!"

"Christina!" exclaimed the young men in one breath.

"Ah! so there is a Christina about the premises!" remarked M. Tricamp
smilingly. "Well, then, Christina is guilty!"

Both Cornelius and Balthazar were pale as death. Christina! Little
Christina, so good, so kind, so pretty, a thief--nonsense! And then
they remembered her origin and the manner in which she was adopted.
She was only a Bohemian after all! Balthazar dropped into a chair as
if he had been shot, and Cornelius felt as if his heart had just been
seared with a red-hot iron.

"Will you kindly send for this person?" suddenly remarked M. Tricamp,
awakening them from their reverie. "Or, better still, let us visit
her room."

"Her room--her room," faltered Balthazar; "why, there it is," and he
pointed to the adjoining apartment.

"And it took all this time for you to make up your mind who had
committed the theft!" said the sergeant with a sneer.

"But," ventured Cornelius, "she certainly must have heard us."

Tricamp picked up the lamp and, pushing open the door of the
adjoining room, entered, followed by the young men. The room was
empty! Simultaneously they exclaimed: "She has escaped!"

M. Tricamp felt under the mattress to see whether he could find any
of the stolen property. "She has not even slept on the bed
to-night," he said, after carefully inspecting the couch.

At the same moment they heard the sound of struggling outside, and
the officer who had been left on guard downstairs entered the room,
pushing Christina before him. The poor girl appeared more surprised
than afraid.

"This young woman was attempting to escape, Mijnheer; I arrested her
just as she was drawing the bolts of the back door," said the officer.

Christina looked around her with such an air of innocence that no one
believed in her guilt, excepting, of course, M. Tricamp.

"But do tell me what this all means?" asked she of the officer, who
locked the door after her. "Why don't you tell them who I am?" she
continued, addressing Balthazar.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"I have been upstairs with old Gudule, who, you know, is afraid of
the lightning. As I was very tired, I fell asleep in the armchair in
her room. When I awoke I looked out of the window, and as the storm
had ceased I came downstairs with the intention of going to bed; but
I first desired to assure myself that you had bolted the door, and it
was at that moment that this gentleman placed his hand on my shoulder
and informed me that I was under arrest. And, I assure you, he has
given me a good fright--"

"You lie!" coarsely interrupted M. Tricamp. "You were just going out
when my man arrested you; and I will add that you did not go to bed,
so as to avoid the trouble of dressing when the moment arrived for
you to make your escape."

Christina looked a him in astonishment. "Escape? What escape?" she
asked.

"Ah!" muttered M. Tricamp. "What nerve, what deceit!"

"Come here," said Balthazar, who knew not what to believe, "and I
will tell you what it all means!"

He took the young girl by the arm and dragged her into the adjoining
room.

"My God!" exclaimed the young woman, as she crossed the threshold and
perceived the scene of devastation for the first time; "who could
have done this?"

Her surprise seemed to be so sincere that Balthazar hesitated for a
moment, but M. Tricamp was not so easily affected; he dragged
Christina by the arm up to the secrétaire and exclaimed:

"You did it!"

"I!" cried out Christina, who did not as yet realize what it all
meant.

She looked at Balthazar as if to read his thoughts, then she cast a
glance at the drawer of the secrétaire, and seeing that it was empty,
she realized at last the terrible meaning of their accusation. With
a heartrending cry, she exclaimed:

"My God! And you say I have done this!"

But no one had the courage to answer her. Christina advanced a step
closer to Balthazar, but he only lowered his eyes at her approach.
Suddenly she raised her hand to her heart, as if she were
suffocating--she attempted to speak--she tried to pronounce two or
three words, but all she could say was:

"A thief! They say I am a thief!" and she fell backward on the floor
as if dead! Cornelius precipitated himself toward her and raised her
gently in his arms.

"No!" he cried; "no! it is impossible! This child is innocent!"

Then he carried the young girl into her room and laid her on the bed.
Balthazar followed him, and it was easy to see that he was deeply
affected. M. Tricamp, still smiling, entered immediately after them,
but one of his officers motioned to him that he had something to
communicate to him.

"Mijnheer, we already have obtained some information regarding this
young woman."

"Well, and what do you know?"

"The baker across the way says that a little while before the storm
he saw Mademoiselle Christina at the window of the ground floor. She
slipped a package to a man who was standing outside; this man wore a
long cloak and a slouch hat--"

"A package, eh?" muttered M. Tricamp; "excellent! Now, secure the
witness and keep a sharp watch outside. In the first place, go and
send the cook to me at once."

The officer withdrew, and M. Tricamp entered Christina's room.

The young woman was stretched out on the bed in a dead faint, and
Cornelius was rubbing her hands. Without stopping to notice the
condition of the girl, he proceeded with his examination of the
premises. He started in with the bureau and overhauled all the
drawers. Then he approached Balthazar with a smile of satisfaction
on his face.

"After all, what proof is there that this young girl is guilty?"
asked the latter as he gazed tenderly upon the unconscious woman.

"Why, this!" answered M. Tricamp, as he handed Balthazar one of the
missing pearls.

"Where did you find this?"

"There," and he pointed to the top drawer of Christina's bureau.

Balthazar rushed up to the drawer and began to overhaul all of the
young girl's effects, but his search did not result in his finding
any more of the stolen jewels.

At this moment Christina opened her eyes, and looking around her as
if to recall the situation, burst into tears as she buried her face
in the pillow.

"Oh, ho!" ejaculated M. Tricamp, "tears, eh? She is going to
confess"; and as he leaned over her, he added in his sweetest voice:
"Come, my child, return good for evil and confess the truth.
Confession is good for the soul. After all, we are not all perfect.
Now, I suppose you permitted yourself to be led astray, or you
allowed yourself to succumb to a passion for finery. You wanted to
make yourself look pretty, eh, my dear, to please some one you love?"

"What an idea, Mijnheer!" interrupted Cornelius.

"Hush, young man! I know what I am talking about. This woman has an
accomplice as sure as my name is Tricamp;" and leaning over
Christina, he continued: "Am I not right, my dear?"

"Oh, why don't you kill me, instead of torturing me thus!" cried
Christina with a fresh outburst of tears.

This was so unexpected that M. Tricamp started back in surprise.

"Kindly leave us alone with the girl, Mijnheer; your presence
irritates her," remarked Balthazar. "If she has anything to confess
she will do so to my friend and me."

M. Tricamp bowed himself out of the room.

"Oh, just as you please," he replied, "but be very careful; she is a
clever minx."

VII

Cornelius almost closed the door in the sergeant's face; then the two
young men approached Christina, who had assumed a sitting posture,
and was staring before her into space.

"Come, my child," said Balthazar, as he held out his hand; "we are
now alone; you are with friends, so you need not be afraid."

"I don't want to stay here! I want to go away! Oh, let me--let me
go!"

"No, Christina, you can not leave here until you answer us," said
Cornelius.

"Tell us the truth, I beg of you, Christina," added Balthazar, "and I
promise you no harm will come to you--I swear it on my honor. I will
forgive you, and no one will ever know of this--I swear it,
Christina, I swear it before God!--don't you hear me, my child?"

"Yes!" answered Christina, who did not appear to be listening. "Oh,
if I could only cry--if I could only cry!"

Cornelius seized the young girl's burning hands in his. "Christina,
my child, God forgives us all, and we love you too much not to pardon
you. Listen to me, I beg of you. Don't you recognize me?"

"Yes," said Christina, as her eyes filled with tears.

"Well, then, I love you, do you hear?--I love you with all my heart!"

"Oh!" said the young girl as she burst into tears; "and yet you
believe that I am a thief!"

"No, no!" hastily exclaimed Cornelius, "I do not believe it, I do not
believe it! But, my dear child, you must help me to justify you, you
must assist me to discover the criminal, and to do this you must be
frank and tell me everything."

"Yes, you are good, you alone are kind to me. You pity me and do not
believe what they say! They accuse me because I am a
Bohemian--because I stole when I was a child. And they call me _a
thief!--a thief!_ They call me _a thief!_--"

And she fell backward on the bed, sobbing as if her heart would burst.

Balthazar could stand this no longer: he fell upon his knees by the
side of the bed, and exclaimed in a voice of pity, as if he himself
was the accused instead of the accuser:

"Christina, my sister, my child, my daughter--look at me! I am on my
knees before you! I ask your forgiveness for the wrong I have done
you. No one will say anything, no one will do anything; it is all
over!--do you hear? I hope you do not wish to repay all the kindness
my mother and I have shown you by making me suffer all the tortures
of the damned! Well, then, I beg you to tell me what has become of
my little medallion--(I do not ask you where it is, you
understand?--I do not wish to know that, for I do not suspect you).
But if you do know where it is, I beg of you to help me find it. I
implore you by the love you bore my mother, whom you called your own,
I implore you to find it--this is all I want. My future happiness
depends on the recovery of this jewel--give me back my
medallion--please give me back my medallion."

"Oh!" answered Christina in despair, "I would give my life to be able
to tell you where it is!"

"Christina!"

"But I haven't got it; I haven't got it!" she cried, wringing her
hands.

Balthazar, exasperated, sprang to his feet: "But, wretched woman--"

Cornelius silenced him with a gesture, and Christina raised her hands
to her forehead.

"Ah!" she said, as she burst into a loud laugh, "when I am mad, this
farce will be ended, I suppose?"

And, overcome with emotion, she fell backward, hiding her face in the
pillow as if determined not to utter another word.

VIII

Cornelius dragged Balthazar out of the room; he staggered as though
he had been shot. In the other room they found M. Tricamp, who had
not been wasting his time. He had been cross-examining the old cook,
Gudule, who, most unceremoniously aroused by one of the officers, was
still half asleep.

"Come, come, my good woman," remarked M. Tricamp, "control yourself,
if you please!"

"Oh, my good master, my good master!" she exclaimed as Balthazar
entered the room accompanied by Cornelius. "What's the matter? They
dragged me out of bed, and they are asking me all kinds of questions!
For mercy's sake, tell me what it is all about!"

"Don't be alarmed, my good woman," said Balthazar kindly; "you have
nothing to do with all this. But I have been robbed and we are
looking for the thief."

"You have been robbed?"

"Yes."

"My God! I have lived in this house for over thirty years, and not
as much as a pin was ever stolen before! Oh, Mijnheer, why didn't
they wait until I was dead before they began their thieving!"

"Come, come, don't give way like that, my good woman," said M.
Tricamp.

"You will have to speak a little louder, Mijnheer; the woman is
deaf," remarked Balthazar.

"Now, I want to know whether you were in the house when the robbery
was committed?" continued M. Tricamp, raising his voice.

"But I never go out at all, Mijnheer."

"Didn't you go out at all this evening?"

"I wasn't outside the house; besides, it was very stormy, and at my
age one doesn't venture out in a blinding rainstorm for fun."

"Then you were in your room?"

"No, Mijnheer, I was in the kitchen most of the day, knitting by the
stove."

"And you never left the kitchen for a moment?"

"Not for a minute--until I went upstairs to bed."

"Is your eyesight good?"

"Mijnheer?" questioned Gudule, not having heard aright.

"I asked you if you had good eyes," repeated M. Tricamp.

"Oh! I can see all right, even if I am a little bit hard of hearing.
And I have a good memory, too--"

"So you have a good memory, eh? Then tell me who called here to-day."

"Oh, there was the postman; and a neighbor who called to borrow a
pie-plate--and Petersen who came to ask something of Christina."

"Indeed! And who is this Petersen?"

"A neighbor, Mijnheer; a night-watchman; my master knows him well."

"Yes," said Balthazar, addressing the sergeant, "he is a poor devil
who lost his wife a month ago, and his two little children are both
sick. We help the poor fellow from time to time."

"And this Petersen was in the house to-day?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Gudule; "he only spoke to Christina from the
sidewalk."

"And what did he tell her?"

"I did not hear, Mijnheer."

"And did no one else call after him?"

Gudule asked him to repeat the question, then she replied:

"No one at all."

"And where was Christina while you were knitting?"

"Why, the dear child was looking after the cooking for me, as I was
too tired to move from my chair. She is so kind and obliging!"

"But she wasn't in the kitchen all the time?"

"No, Mijnheer, she retired to her own room toward evening."

"So you say she retired to her own room toward evening?"

"Yes, Mijnheer, to dress for supper."

"And--did she remain in her room a long time?"

"About an hour, Mijnheer."

"An hour?"

"Yes, fully an hour, Mijnheer."

"And you heard nothing during all this time?"

"I beg your pardon--"

"I asked you if you heard any noise--for instance, the sound of some
one hammering wood?"

"No, Mijnheer."

"Yes, gentlemen, she is as deaf as a door-post," said M. Tricamp,
turning toward the young men. Then he approached Gudule, and raising
his voice he added:

"I suppose the storm was at its height at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mijnheer; I could hear the thunder plain enough."

"She has no doubt confounded the noise made by the thief, in breaking
in, with the roar of the elements," he muttered to himself. "And
then?" he asked of Gudule in a louder voice.

"And then, Mijnheer, night had fallen and the storm raged furiously;
master had not returned. I was terribly frightened. I got down on
my knees and said my prayers. Just then Christina came down from her
room; she was as white as a ghost, and was trembling all over. Then
the thunder burst overhead and deafened me--"

"Ah! then you noticed that she was nervous?"

"Certainly! And so was I; the storm frightened me almost to death.
Shortly after this, master knocked at the door, and Christina let him
in. Now, Mijnheer, this is all I know, as sure as I am an honest
woman."

"Don't cry, my good woman! I tell you that no one suspects you."

"But then, master, whom do they suspect? Merciful Father!" she
exclaimed, as the truth flashed upon her. "Then they accuse
Christina?"

No one answered her.

"Ah!" continued the old woman, "you do not answer me! Master, is
this true?"

"My poor Gudule!"

"And you let them accuse little Christina!" continued the old woman,
who would not be silenced. "That angel of kindness and loveliness
sent to us from Heaven!"

"Come, come, if it is not you it must be she," brutally interrupted
Tricamp.

"Oh, why don't they blame me? I am an old woman and have not long to
live; but this child is innocent and I won't let them touch a hair of
her head! Ah, Mijnheer Balthazar, do not let them touch Christina,
she is a sacred trust. Don't listen to that bad man--he is the cause
of all this trouble!"

M. Tricamp made a sign to his men, and they seized the old woman by
the arm. Gudule advanced a few steps, then fell on her knees near
the fireplace, weeping and bemoaning her fate. M. Tricamp then
ordered his men not to disturb the woman as she knelt there offering
up a prayer to Heaven that Christina should not suffer for a crime
committed by another.

"You see," remarked the agent of police, turning toward Cornelius,
"that no one has called here whom we might have cause to
suspect--neither the postman, the neighbor, or that fellow Petersen.
It therefore remains between the old woman and the young girl; and,
as I do not believe the old one is sufficiently active to perform
gymnastics, I beg you to draw your own conclusions."

"Oh, do not ask me to form an opinion; I really do not know what to
think; it seems as if it were all a frightful nightmare!"

"I don't know whether it is a dream, but it strikes me that I am
pretty wide awake, and that I reason remarkably well."

"Yes, yes," said Cornelius, pacing nervously up and down the room,
"you reason remarkably well!"

"And my suppositions are logical enough."

"Yes, yes, very logical."

"And so far I have not made a single error. Therefore, you must
admit that the young girl is guilty."

"Well, then, no!" eagerly replied Cornelius, looking the sergeant
square in the face. "No! I will never believe her guilty, unless
she says so herself! And God knows--she might declare that she is
guilty, and yet I would protest that she is innocent!"

"But," objected the sergeant, "what proofs can you produce? I, at
least, have proven the truth of my assertions."

"Ah! I know nothing, I can prove nothing," replied Cornelius, "and
everything you have said, every proof you have produced, is not to be
disputed--"

"Well, then?"

"But my conscience revolts against your assertions nevertheless, and
something seems to cry out: 'No, no; her dear face, her despair, her
agony, are not those of a guilty wretch, and I swear that she is
innocent! I can't prove it--but still I am sure of it, and I will
assert it in the face of the most damaging evidence!' Oh, do not
listen to her accusers! They will lie away the future of a noble
girl! Their logic is born of earthly evidence--mine comes direct
from Heaven, and is therefore true!"

"Then--"

"Do not heed them," continued Cornelius, whose excitement was now
tense; "and remember that when your pride is ready to dispute the
existence of a God something within you cries out to affirm _that He
does exist_! And now, since this voice proclaims the innocence of
the girl, how could I suspect her?"

"If the police reasoned like that, criminals would have an easy time
of it."

"Oh, I will not attempt to convince you," added Cornelius; "continue
your work! Go on with your search for evidence, and pile your proofs
one upon the other in your efforts to crush this unfortunate child.
On the other hand, I will begin my search to discover the proofs of
her innocence!"

"Then I would advise you not to include this among the latter."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I found this black pearl--"

"Where?"

"In her bureau drawer."

"Yes, my friend," interrupted Balthazar, "he found it in my presence
in her drawer."

Cornelius eagerly seized the pearl. The proof was so convincing that
he no longer knew what to believe. The miserable little pearl burned
his hand as though it were a red-hot coal--he looked at it
instinctively without being able to see it--and yet he could not
remove his eyes from this bit of damning evidence! Balthazar took
him by the hand, but Cornelius did not appear to notice him. He
never removed his eyes from the pearl, yet the sight of it filled him
with horror.

"Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, now thoroughly alarmed; but
Cornelius pushed him roughly aside, and leaned over so as to obtain a
better view of the pearl.

"What's the matter with you, Cornelius?" Balthazar asked again.

"Get out of my way!" and he once more pushed his friend aside as he
rushed to the open window.

Balthazar and Tricamp exchanged a knowing glance--while Cornelius,
feverish with excitement, rushed into the study.

"He has gone mad!" grumbled M. Tricamp as he followed him with his
eyes. "Will you permit me to give a drink of curaçoa to my men? It
is daylight now, and the air is somewhat chilly."

"With pleasure. There is the bottle; let the men help themselves."

Tricamp then left the room. As Balthazar turned around, he perceived
old Gudule still kneeling in the corner. A moment later he had
rejoined Cornelius in the study.

Cornelius was examining the handle of the knife with the greatest
attention. This scrutiny lasted several minutes; then, without
offering a word of explanation, he mounted a chair and proceeded to
examine the piece of broken wire.

"Where is the bell?" he suddenly demanded of Balthazar, who really
believed that his friend had taken leave of his senses.

"In the hallway."

Cornelius pulled the wire a number of times, but the bell did not
ring.

"Ah! she did not overlook anything; she has removed the tongue!"
remarked Balthazar with a sneer.

Cornelius, still as silent as a sphinx, continued his examination of
the wire; it passed through a little tin tube about the size of a
putty-blower; the wire moved freely in this groove, therefore there
was nothing out of gear in that direction.

"Now, look at the bell and tell me if it rings when I pull the wire."

Balthazar went out into the hall and did as directed.

"Does it move?" called out Cornelius.

"Just a little," answered Balthazar, "but it can't ring because the
bell is turned upside down, with the tongue in the air."

"Good! We will look into that later. Now, steady the secrétaire
while I get up there."

Then, with the assistance of the knife, Cornelius drew himself up
painfully to where the paper had been removed, as if he desired to
test the practicability of such an ascension.

Just then Gudule set up a frightful howl outside; Balthazar left his
friend in mid-air while he ran out to see what was the matter.

"Oh, master," she cried; "she has just escaped!"

"Christina?"

"Yes, Mijnheer, I saw her as she fled through the garden. Make haste
and follow her before it is too late!"

"The little serpent!" exclaimed M. Tricamp; "she was playing 'possum
then, after all. Now, then, my lads, let me see how soon you will
catch her."

All the officers started off, with Tricamp at their head; while
Balthazar ran into the young girl's room, to assure himself that she
was no longer there.

Instead of Christina, Balthazar was confronted by Cornelius, who had
entered the room through the opening in the partition.

"That's right! Look for her, my friend. You must now admit that she
is guilty, as she has just run away."

"I tell you that she is innocent," exclaimed Cornelius as his eyes
flashed fire; "we alone are guilty--for we have wrongfully accused an
innocent person!"

"You must be mad!"

"You will not say so after I have proven to you that I know the name
of the thief," continued Cornelius as he smiled sarcastically at the
doubts expressed on Balthazar's countenance. "And I am going to tell
you how he entered and how he went out! In the first place, he did
not come in by this window, nor by that opening; he simply glided
down your chimney, and, via the fireplace, reached your study."

"You say that the thief entered my study by the chimney?"

"Certainly! And as he is celebrated for his weakness for metals, his
first move was to gather your gold and your silver; then he forced
the steel lock of your portfolio and the iron lock of your
secrétaire, and gathering together your florins, your ducats, and
your jewels, he carried them off, leaving your knife as a memento of
his little visit. From the study, he jumped into the room of this
unfortunate child, dashing through the woodwork and paper in his mad
flight, and dropping the pearl in this drawer as he passed through
here.--And if you want to know what has become of your medallion,
look!"

He drew aside the curtains of the bed and pointed to the little
copper crucifix suspended on the wall, and which was now completely
gilded in melted gold.

"This is what he did with your medallion!"

And, plunging his hand into the receptacle for the holy water, he
drew out the glass covers of the medallion, which were molded
together with the flower in the centre.

"And this is what he did with the rest!"

Balthazar gazed upon his friend with astonishment. He did not know
what to expect next.

"And now, if you want to know how he went out," continued Cornelius
as he dragged him to the window, "look!"

He pointed to the top pane of the window, which was pierced by a
little hole about the size of a cent.

"But what does all this mean!" exclaimed Balthazar, who began to
believe that he, too, was taking leave of his senses. "Who did this?"

"Why, you fool! Can't you see that _the house has been struck by
lightning_!"

Balthazar might have been struck by lightning, too, for that matter,
as he was more dead than alive, when he at last realized how they had
all been deceived by the hand of Nature. A loud noise was heard
outside. They both rushed to the window and looked out.

A crowd surrounded the house as four officers, carrying a stretcher,
on which Christina was lying, entered the front door!

The poor child, in her despair, had thrown herself into the Amstel,
but Petersen the night-watchman, like the brave lad that he was, had
sprung into the water and pulled her out.

After she had been put to bed, and had received a visit from a
physician, who prescribed plenty of rest and quiet, M. Tricamp
approached the young men.

"As the young girl is not in a condition to be removed to-day, my men
and I will retire."

"Why, hasn't Cornelius told you? Christina is innocent and we know
the thief."

"The thief!" exclaimed M. Tricamp, "and who is it?"

"Why, the lightning, of course!" laughingly replied Balthazar.

M. Tricamp opened his eyes in amazement, as he repeated:

"The lightning?"

"Why, naturally!" replied Cornelius. "You apply the study of
psychology in your criminal researches, while I employ my knowledge
of meteorology--that's the only difference in our methods."

"And you pretend to say that all this was caused by lightning?"
demanded M. Tricamp, who was losing his temper.

"Why, all this is as nothing when compared with some of the capers
lightning has been known to cut. How about the tack it tears up from
the carpet and drives through a mirror without cracking the glass;
and the key it takes out of the lock and conceals in the ice-box; and
the package of cigarettes it delicately removes from the bronze
ash-receiver which it has ignited; and the silver it volatilizes
through the silken meshes of a purse without damaging the latter; and
the needles it magnetizes so thoroughly that they run after a hammer;
and the pretty little hole it made in Christina's window; and the
wallpaper it so deftly disarranged to furnish you with your wonderful
clue; and this medallion, the glass of which it melted without
injuring in the least the flower it contained, thus forming the most
beautiful specimen of enamel I have ever seen, and making a finer
wedding gift than the most skilled artist could have turned out; and
finally, the gold of the medallion which gilded Christina's crucifix!"

"Humbug!" protested M. Tricamp, "it is impossible! And how about the
package! The package she was seen to hand a man from out the window?"

"The man is here to answer that question himself!"--and a perfect
colossus entered the room.

"Petersen!"

"At your service. And the package contained some old dresses for my
little children."

"Old clothes, that's excellent!" replied Tricamp, who was fairly
boiling over with rage. "But how about the gold, and the silver, the
ducats and the florins, and the other jewels; where are they?"

"Zounds!" exclaimed Cornelius, striking his forehead; "that reminds
me--"

He sprang on the table, and reaching up to the overturned bell, he
suddenly exclaimed:

"Here they are!"

A huge ingot of gold, silver, and jewels fell on the floor from the
bell, together with the tongue of the bell, which had been detached,
the whole being melted solidly together.

M. Tricamp picked up the ingot and examined it carefully.

"But tell me," he asked, "what put you on the track?"

Cornelius smiled as he replied:

"This black pearl, Mijnheer, which you handed to me, defying me to
prove Christina's innocence in the face of such evidence."

"The black pearl!"

"Exactly, Mijnheer! Do you see this little white speck? Well, that
was caused by electricity! And, thanks to this little speck, I have
succeeded in saving the honor of a fellow-being."

"You must accept my congratulations," said he, bowing humbly; "the
man of science is more far-sighted than the police, and in future I
intend to add the study of natural philosophy and meteorology to my
other acquirements. Were it not for this undoubted proof I might
have committed a still more serious error. I actually began to
suspect that you were her accomplice."

And then M. Tricamp withdrew, in order not to show his embarrassment,
and Gudule rushed in to say that Christina was better and had heard
everything through the partition.

"My little Christina," said Balthazar as he knelt by her bedstead a
little later, "if you do not want to make me unhappy pray do not
refuse to accept this little token of my esteem."

And he placed the ingot of melted gold and jewels on the bed.

Christina hesitated.

"Oh, you must take it, for you need a dower--" exclaimed Balthazar as
he pressed her hand.

"That is, if you will accept me for a husband?" added Cornelius.

Christina did not reply, but she gave the man who had saved her honor
a look which certainly did not mean--No.

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT

BY GRANT ALLEN

_Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen (born 1848, died 1899) was a
Canadian of Irish descent. Beginning as a writer of popular
scientific and historical works, he gradually entered the field of
fiction, publishing a number of notable novels, among which may be
mentioned: "Philistia"; "The Devil's Die"; "The Woman Who Did"; and
"A Bride from the Desert." The present tale, so Oriental in its
feeling, is a convincing illustration of the versatility of the
author's genius._

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT

By GRANT ALLEN

It was a sultry December day at Medinet Habu. Gray haze spread dim
over the rocks in the desert. The arid red mountains twinkled and
winked through the heated air. I was weary with climbing the great
dry ridge from the Tombs of the Kings. I sat on the broken arm of a
shattered granite Rameses. My legs dangled over the side of that
colossal fragment. In front of me vast colonnades stood out clear
and distinct against the hot, white sky. Beyond lay bare hills; in
the distance, to the left, the muddy Nile, amid green fields, gleamed
like a thin silver thread in the sunlight.

A native, in a single dirty garment, sat sunning himself on a
headless sphinx hard by. He was carving a watermelon with his
knife--thick, red, ripe, juicy. I eyed it hard. With a gesture of
Oriental politeness, he offered me a slice. It was too tempting to
refuse, that baking hot day, in that rainless land, though I knew
acceptance meant ten times its worth in the end in bakshish.

"Arabi?" I asked inquiringly of my Egyptian friend, which is, being
interpreted, "Are you a Mussulman?"

He shook his head firmly, and pointed with many nods to the tiny blue
cross tattooed on his left wrist. "Nusráni," he answered, with a
look of some pride. I smiled my acquiescence. He was a Nazarene, a
Christian.

In a few minutes' time we had fallen into close talk of Egypt, past
and present; the bad old days; the British occupation; the effect of
strong government on the condition of fellahin. To the Christian
population of the Nile valley, of course, the advent of the English
has been a social revolution. For ages downtrodden, oppressed,
despised, these Coptic schismatics at last find themselves suddenly,
in the ends of the earth, co-religionists with the new ruling class
in the country, and able to boast themselves in many ways over their
old Moslem masters.

I speak but little colloquial Arabic myself, though I understand it
with ease when it is spoken, so the conversation between us was
necessarily somewhat one-sided. But my Egyptian friend soon grew
voluble enough for two, and the sight of the piastres laid in his
dusky palm loosed the strings of his tongue to such an alarming
extent that I began to wonder before long whether I should ever get
back again to the Luxor Hotel in time for dinner.

"Ah, yes, excellency," my Copt said slowly, when I asked him at last
about the administration of justice under Ismail's rule, "things were
different then, before the English came, as Allah willed it. It was
stick, stick, stick every month of the year. No prayers availed; we
were beaten for everything. If a fellah didn't pay his taxes when
crops were bad, he was lashed till he found them; if he was a
Christian, and offended the least Moslem official, he was stripped to
the skin, and ruthlessly bastinadoed. And then, for any
insubordination, it was death outright--hanging or beheading, slash,
so, with a simitar." And my companion brought his hand round in a
whirl with swishing force, as if he were decapitating some unseen
criminal on the bare sand before him.

"The innocent must often have been punished with the guilty," I
remarked, in my best Arabic, looking vaguely across at him.

"Ah, yes," he assented, smiling. "So Allah ordained. But sometimes,
even then, the saints were kind; we got off unexpectedly. I could
tell you a strange story that once happened to myself." His eyes
twinkled hard. "It was a curious adventure," he went on; "the
effendi might like, perhaps, to hear it. I was condemned to death,
and all but executed. It shows the wonderful ways of Allah."

These Coptic Christians, indeed, speaking Arabic as they do, and
living so constantly among a Mussulman population, have imbibed many
Mahomedan traits of thought, besides the mere accident of language,
such as speaking of the Christian God as Allah. Fatalism has taken
as strong a hold of their minds as of Islam itself. "Say on," I
answered lightly, drawing a cigarette from my case. "A story is
always of interest to me, my friend. It brings grist to the mill. I
am a man of the pen. I write down in books all the strange things
that are told me."

My Egyptian smiled again. "Then this tale of mine," he said, showing
all his white teeth, and brushing away the flies from his sore eye as
he spoke, "should be worth you money, for it's as strange as any of
the Thousand and One Nights men tell for hire at Cairo. It happened
to me near Assiout, in Ismail's days. I was a bold young man
then--too bold for Egypt. My father had a piece of ground by the
river side that was afterward taken from us by Ismail for the Daira.

"In our village lived a Sheikh, a very hard man; a Mussulman, an
Arab, a descendant of the Prophet. He was the greatest Sheik for
miles and miles around. He had a large white house, with green
blinds to the windows, while all the rest of us in his government
lived in mud-built huts, round and low like beehives. He had date
palms, very many, and doums, and doura patches. Camels were his, and
buffaloes, and asses, and cows; 'twas a very rich man; oh, so rich
and powerful. When he went forth to town he rode on a great white
mule. And he had a harem, too; three wives of his own, who were
beautiful as the day--so girls who had seen them said, for as for us,
we saw them not--plump women every one of them, as the Khedive's at
Cairo, with eyes like a gazelle's, marked round with kohl, and their
nails stained red every day with henna. All the world said the
Sheikh was a happy man, for he had the finest dates of the country to
eat, and servants and camels in plenty to do his bidding.

"Now, there was a girl in our village, a Nusráni like me, a beautiful
young girl; and her name was Laila. Her eyes were like those of that
child there--Zanobi--who carries the effendi's water-gourd on her
head, and her cheeks were round and soft as a grape after the
inundation. I meant to wed her; and she liked me well. In the
evening we sat and talked together under the whispering palm-trees.
But when the time drew near for me to marry her, and I had arranged
with her parents, there came a message from the Sheikh. He had seen
the girl by the river as she went down to draw water with her face
unveiled, and though she was a Nusráni, she fired his soul, and he
wished to take her away from me to put her into his harem.

"When I heard that word I tore my clothes in my rage, and, all
Christian that I was, and of no account with the Moslems, I went up
to the Sheikh's house in a very white anger, and I fell on my face
and asked leave to see him.

"The Sheikh sat in his courtyard, inside his house, and gave audience
to all men, after the fashion of Islam. I entered and spoke to him.
'Oh, Sheikh,' I said boldly, 'Allah and the Khedive have prospered
you with exceeding great prosperity. You have oxen and asses,
buffaloes and camels, men-servants and maid-servants, much millet and
cotton and corn and sugar-cane; you drink Frank wine every day of
your life, and eat the fat of the land; and your harem is full of
beautiful women. Now in the village where I live is a Nusráni girl,
whose name is Laila. Her eyes are bright toward mine, and I love her
as the thirsty land loves water. Yet, hear, O Sheikh; word is
brought me now that you wish to take this girl, who is mine; and I
come to plead with you to-day as Nathan the Prophet pleaded with
David, the King of the Beni Israel. If you take away from me my
Laila, my one ewe lamb--'

"But, at the word, the Sheikh rose up, and clenched his fist, and was
very angry. 'Who is this dog,' he asked, 'that he should dare to
dictate to me?' He called to his slaves that waited on his nod.
'Take this fellow,' he cried in his anger, 'and tie him hand and
foot, and flog him as I bid on his naked back, that he may know,
being a Christian, an infidel dog, not to meddle with the domestic
affairs of Moslems. It were well he were made acquainted with his
own vileness by the instrumentality of a hundred lashes. And go
to-morrow and bring Laila to me, and take care that this Copt shall
never again set eyes on her!'

"Well, effendi, at the words, three strong Arabs seized me--fierce
sons of the desert--and bound me hand and foot, and beat me with a
hundred lashes of the kurbash till my soul was sick and faint within
me. I swooned with the disgrace and with the severity of the blows.
And I was young in those days. And I was very angry.

"That night I went home to my own mud hut, with black blood in my
heart, and took counsel with my brother Sirgeh how I should avenge
this insult. But first I sent word by my brother to Laila's hut that
Laila's father should bring her to meet us in the dusk, in very great
secrecy, by the bank of the river. In the gray twilight she came
down. A dahabiah was passing, and in it was a foreigner, a very
great prince, an American prince of great wealth and wisdom. I
remember his name even. Perhaps the effendi knows him. He was Cyrus
P. Quackenboss, and he came from Cincinnati."

"I have not the honor," I answered, smiling at this very unexpected
Western intrusion.

"Well, anyhow," my Copt continued, unheeding my smile, "we hailed the
dahabiah, and made the American prince understand how the matter
stood. He was very kind. We were brother Christians. He took Laila
on board, and promised to deliver her safe to her aunt at Karnak, so
that the Sheikh might not know where the girl was gone, nor send to
fetch her. And the counsel I took next with my brother was this: In
the dead of night I rose up from my hut, and put a mask of white
linen over the whole of my face to conceal my features, and stole out
alone, with a thick stick in my hands, and went to the Sheikh's
house, down by the bank of the river. As I went, the jackals prowled
around the village for food, and the owls from the tombs flitted high
in the moonlight.

"I broke into the Sheikh's room by the flat-roofed outhouse that led
to his window, and I locked the door; and there, before the Sheikh
could rouse his household, I beat him, blow for blow, within an inch
of his life, in revenge for my own beating, and because of his
injustice in trying to take my Laila from me. The Sheikh was a
powerful man, with muscles like iron, and he grappled me hard, and
tried to wrench the stick from me, and bruised me about the body by
flinging me on the ground; and I was weak with my beating, and very
sore all over. But still, being by nature a strong young man, very
fierce with anger, I fought him hard, and got him under in the end,
and thwacked him till he was as black and blue as I myself was, one
mass of bruises from head to foot with my cudgeling. Then, just as
his people succeeded in forcing the door, I jumped out of the window
upon the flat-roofed outhouse, and leaped lightly to the ground, and
darted like a jackal across the open cotton-fields and between the
plots of doura to my own little hut on the outskirts of the village.
I reached there panting, and I knew the Sheikh would kill me for my
daring.

"Next morning, early, the Sheikh sent to arrest me. He was blind
with rage and with the effect of the blows: his face was livid, and
his cheeks purple. 'By the beard of the Prophet, Athanasio,' he said
to me, hitting me hard on the cheek--my name is Athanasio, effendi,
after our great patriarch--'your blood shall flow for this, you dog
of a Christian. You dare to assault the wearer of a green turban, a
prince in Islam, a descendant of the Prophet! You shall suffer for
it, you cur! Your base blood shall flow for it!'

"I cast myself down, like a slave, on the ground before him--though I
hated him like sin: for it is well to abase one's self in due time
before the face of authority. Besides, by that time, Laila was safe,
and that was all I cared about. 'Suffer for what, O my Sheikh?' I
cried, as though I knew not what he meant. 'What have I done to your
Excellency? Who has told you evil words concerning your poor
servant? Who has slandered me to my lord, that he is so angry
against me?'

"'Take him away!' roared the Sheikh to the three strong Arabs.
'Carry him off to be tried before the Cadi at Assiout.'

"For even in Ismail's days, you see, effendi, before the English
came, the Sheikh himself would not have dared to put me to death
untried. The power of life and death lay with the Cadi at Assiout.

"So they took me to Assiout, into the mosque of Ali, where the Cadi
sat at the seat of judgment and arraigned me before him a week later.
There the Sheikh appeared, end bore witness against me. Those who
spoke for me pleaded that, as the Sheikh himself admitted, the man
who broke into his room, and banged himself so hard, had his face
covered with a linen cloth; how, then, could the Sheikh, in the hurry
and the darkness, be sure he recognized me? Perhaps it was some
other who took this means to ruin me. But the Sheikh, for his part
swore by Allah, and by the Holy Stone of the Kaaba at Mecca, that he
saw me distinctly, and knew it was I. The moonlight through the
window revealed my form to him. And who else in the village but me
had a grudge against his justice?

"The Cadi was convinced. The Cadi gave judgment. I was guilty of
rebellion against the Sheikh and against ul-Islam; and, being a dog
of a Christian, unworthy even to live, his judgment was that after
three days' time I should be beheaded in the prison court of Assiout.

"You may guess, effendi, whether or not I was anxious. But Laila was
safe; and to save my girl from that wretch's harem I was ready, for
my part, to endure anything.

"Two nights long I lay awake and thought strange things by myself in
the whitewashed cells of the jail at Assiout. The governor of the
prison, who was a European--an Italian, he called himself--and a
Christian of Roum, of those who obey the Pope, was very kind indeed
to me. He knew me before (for I had worked in his fields), and was
sorry when I told him the tale about Laila. But what would you have?
Those were Ismail's days. It was the law of Islam. He could not
prevent it.

"On the third evening, my brother came round to the prison to see me.
He came with many tears in his eyes, bringing evil tidings. My poor
old father, he said, was dying at home with grief. They didn't
expect he would live till morning. And Laila, too, had stolen back
from Karnak unperceived, and was hiding in the village. She wished
to see me just once before I died. But if she came to the prison,
the Sheikh would find her out, and carry her off in triumph to his
own harem.

"Would the governor give me leave to go home just that one night, to
bid farewell to Laila and to my dying father?

"Now, the governor, excellency, was a very humane man. And though he
was a Christian of Roum, not a Copt like us, he was kind to the Copts
as his brother Christians. He pondered awhile to himself, and roped
his mustache thus; then he said to me:

"'Athanasio, you are an honest man; the execution is fixed for eight
by the clock to-morrow morning. If I give you leave to go home to
your father to-night, will you pledge me your word of honor before
St. George and the Saints, to return before seven?'

"'Effendi,' I said, kissing his feet, 'you are indeed a good man. I
swear by the mother of God and all the Saints that dwell in heaven,
that if you let me go I will come back again a full hour before the
time fixed for the execution.' And I meant it, too, for I only
wished before I died to say good-by once more to Laila.

"Well, the governor took me secretly into his own house, and telling
me many times over that he trusted to my honor, and would lose his
place if it were known he had let me go, he put me forth, with my
brother, by his own private door, making me swear on no account to be
late for the execution.

"As soon as I got outside, I said to my brother: 'Tell me, Sirgeh, at
whose house is Laila?'

"And my brother answered and smiled, 'Laila is still at Karnak, where
we sent her for safety, and our father is well. But I have a plan
for your escape that I think will serve you.'

"'Never!' I cried, horror-struck, 'if I am to break my word of honor
to the governor of the prison.'

"'That isn't it,' he made reply. 'I have a plan of my own which I
will proceed in words to make clear before you.'

"What happened next would be long to relate, effendi." But I noticed
that the fellah's eyes twinkled as he spoke, like one who passes over
of set purpose an important episode. "All I need tell you now is,
that the whole night through the good governor lay awake, wondering
whether or not I would come home to time, and blaming himself in his
heart for having given such leave to a mere condemned criminal.
Still, effendi, though I am but poor, I am a man of honor. As the
clock struck six in the prison court next morning, I knocked at the
governor's window with the appointed signal; and the governor rose,
and let me into my cell, and praised me for my honor, and was well
pleased to see me. 'I knew, Athanasio,' he said, roping his mustache
once more, 'you were a man to be trusted.'

"At eight o'clock they took me out into the courtyard. The
executioner was there already, a great black Nubian, with a very
sharp simitar. It was terrible to look around; I was greatly
frightened. 'Surely,' said I to myself, 'the bitterness of death is
past. But Laila is saved; and I die for Laila.'

"I knelt down and bent my head. I feared, after all, no respite was
coming. The executioner stood forth and raised the simitar in his
hand. I almost thought I heard it swish through the air; I saw the
bright gleam of the blade as it descended. But just at that moment,
as the executioner delayed, a loud commotion arose in the outer
court. I raised my head and listened. We heard a voice cry, 'In
Allah's name, let me in. There must be no execution!' The gates
opened wide, and into the inner courtyard there strode with long
strides a great white mule, and on its back, scarcely able to sit up,
a sorry figure!

"He was wrapped round in bandages, and swathed from head to foot like
a man sore wounded. His face was bruised, and his limbs swollen.
But he upheld one hand in solemn warning, and in a loud voice again
he cried to the executioner, 'In Allah's name, Hassan, let there be
no execution!'

"The lookers-on, to right and left, raised a mighty cry, and called
out with one voice, 'The Sheikh! The Sheikh! Who can have thus
disfigured him?'

"But the Sheikh himself came forward in great pain, like one whose
bones ache, and, dismounting from the mule, spoke aloud to the
governor. 'In Allah's name,' he said, trembling, 'let this man go;
he is innocent. I swore to him falsely, though I believed it to be
true. For see, last night, about twelve o'clock, the self-same dog
who broke into my house before, entered my room, with violence,
through the open window. He carried in his hands the self-same stick
as last time, and had his face covered, as ever, with a linen cloth.
And I knew by his figure and his voice he was the very same dog that
had previously beaten me. But before I could cry aloud to rouse the
house, the infidel had fallen upon me once more and thwacked me, as
you see, within an inch of my life, and covered me with bruises, and
then bid me take care how I accused innocent people like Athanasio of
hurting me. And after that he jumped through the open window and
went away once more. And I was greatly afraid, fearing the wrath of
Allah, if I let this man Athanasio be killed in his stead, though he
is but an infidel. And I rose and saddled my mule very early, and
rode straight into Assiout, to tell you and the Cadi I had borne
false witness, and to save myself from the guilt of an innocent soul
on my shoulders.'

"Then all the people around cried out with one voice, 'A miracle! a
miracle!' And the Sheikh stood trembling beside, with faintness and
with terror.

"But the governor drew me a few paces apart.

"'Athanasio, you rascal,' he said, half laughing, 'it is you that
have done this thing! It is you that have assaulted him! You got
out last night on your word of honor on purpose to play this scurvy
trick upon us!'

"'Effendi,' I made answer, bowing low, 'life is sweet; he beat me,
unjustly, first, and he would have taken my Laila from me. Moreover,
I swear to you, by St. George and the mother of God, when I left the
prison last night I really believed my father was dying.'

"The governor laughed again. 'Well, you can go, you rogue,' he said.
'The Cadi will soon come round to deliver you. But I advise you to
make yourself scarce as fast as you can, for sooner or later this
trick of yours may be discovered. _I_ can't tell upon you, or I
would lose my place. But you may be found out, for all that. Go, at
once, up the river.'

"That is my hut that you see over yonder, effendi, where Laila and I
live. The Sheikh is dead. And the English are now our real lords in
Egypt."

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

BY S. R. CROCKETT

_Samuel Rutherford Crockett was born in Duchral, Galloway, Scotland,
in 1860, and was educated in Edinburgh, Heidelberg, and New College,
Oxford. He became a minister of the Free Church of Scotland in 1886.
His successful stories include: "The Stickit Minister"; "The
Play-Actress"; "The Men of the Moss Hags"; "Cleg Kelly"; "The Gray
Man"; "The Red Axe"; "The Black Douglas"; "The Silver Skull"; "The
Dark o' the Moon"; "Flower o' the Corn"; and "Red Cap Tales."_

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

By S. R. CROCKETT

"Rise, Robin, rise! The partans are on the sands!"

The crying at our little window raised me out of a sound sleep, for I
had been out seeing the lasses late the night before, and was far
from being wakerife at two by the clock on a February morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, for I was but
young. Hitherto it was my brother John who had answered the raising
word of the free-traders spoken at the window. But now John had a
farmsteading of his own, thanks to Sir William and to my father's
siller that had paid for the stock.

So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with much eagerness and a
beating heart--as who would not when, for the first time, he has the
privilege of man. As I went out to the barn I could hear my mother
(with whom I was ever a favorite) praying for me.

"Save the laddie--save the laddie!" she said over and over.

And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he also cried to me
counsels.

"Be sure you keep up the chains--dinna let them clatter till ye hae
the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Be a guid lad an'
ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keep your head doon, an' gae
by withoot lookin'. He's a magistrate, ye ken. But he'll no' see
you, gin ye dinna see him. Leave twa ankers a-piece o' brandy an'
rum at our dike back. An' abune a', the Lord be wi' ye, an' bring ye
safe back to your sorrowing parents!"

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsy back of Brown
Bess--the pad before where I was to sit--the lintow and the hooked
chains behind. I had a cutlas, the jockteleg, or smuggler's
sheaf-knife, and a pair of brass-mounted pistols ready swung in my
leathern belt. Faith, but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen
me now, ready to ride with the light-horsemen. She would never scorn
me more for a lingle-backed callant, I'se warrant.

"Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no that the partans are on the sands?"

It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meant the
free-traders from the Isle, rolling the barrels ashore.

"I am e'en as ready as ye are yoursel'!" I gave him answer, for I was
not going to let him boast himself prideful all because he had ridden
out with them once or twice before. Besides, his horse and
accoutrement were not one half so good as mine. For my father was an
honest and well-considered man, and in good standing with the laird
and the minister, so that he could afford to do things handsomely.

We made haste to ride along the heuchs, which are very high, steep,
and rocky at this part of the coast.

And at every loaning-end we heard the clinking of the smugglers'
chains, and I thought the sound a livening and a merry one.

"A fair guide-e'en, young Airyolan!" cried one to me, as we came by
Killantrae. And I own the name was sweet to my ears. For it was the
custom to call men by the names of their farms, and Airyolan was my
father's name by rights. But mine for the night, because in my hands
was the honor of the house.

Ere we got down to the Clone, we could hear, all about in the
darkness, athwart and athwart, the clattering of chains, the stir of
many horses, and the voices of men.

Black Taggart was in with his lugger, the "Sea Pyet," and such a
cargo as the Clone men had never run--so ran the talk on every side.
There was not a sleeping wife or a man left indoors in all the parish
of Mochrum, except only the laird and the minister.

By the time that we got down by the shore there was quite a company
of the Men of the Fells, as the shore men called us--all dour, swack,
determined fellows.

"Here come the hill nowt!" said one of the village men, as he caught
sight of us. I knew him for a limber-tongued, ill-livered loon from
the Port, so I delivered him a blow fair and solid between the eyes,
and he dropped without a gurgle. This was to learn him how to speak
to innocent strangers.

Then there was a turmoil indeed, to speak about, for all the men of
the laigh shore crowded about, and knives were drawn. But I cried,
"Corwald, Mochrum, Chippermore, here to me!" And all the stout lads
came about me.

Nevertheless, it looked black for a moment, as the shore men waved
their torches in our faces, and yelled fiercely at us to put us down
by fear.

Then a tall young man on a horse rode straight at the crowd which had
gathered about the loon I had felled. He had a mask over his face
which sometimes slipped awry. But, in spite of the disguise, he
seemed perfectly well known to all there.

"What have we here?" he asked, in a voice of questioning that had
also the power of command in it.

"'Tis these Men of the Fells that have stricken down Jock Webster of
the Port, Maister William!" said one of the crowd.

Then I knew the laird's son, and did my duty to him, telling him of
my provocation, and how I had only given the rascal strength of arm.

"And right well you did," said Maister William, "for these dogs would
swatter in the good brandy, but never help to carry it to the caves,
or bring the well-graithed horses to the shore-side! Carry the loon
away, and stap him into a heather hole till he come to."

So that was all the comfort they got for their tale-telling.

"And you, young Airyolan," said Maister William, "that are so ready
with your strength of arm--there is even a job that you may do.
Muckle Jock, the Preventive man, rides to-night from Isle of
Whithorn, where he has been warning the cutter. Do you meet him and
keep him from doing himself an injury."

"And where shall I meet him, Maister William?" I asked of the young
laird.

"Oh, somewhere on the heuch-taps," said he, carelessly; "and see,
swing these on your horse and leave them at Myrtoun on the bygoing."

He called a man with a torch, who came and stood over me, while I
laid on Brown Bess a pair of small casks of some fine liqueur, of
which more than ordinary care was to be taken, and also a few
packages of soft goods, silks and laces as I deemed.

"Take these to the Loch Yett, and ca' Sandy Fergus to stow them for
ye. Syne do your work with the Exciseman as he comes hame. Gar him
bide till the sun be at its height to-morrow. And a double share o'
the plunder shall be lyin' in the hole at a back of the dike at
Airyolan, when ye ride hame the morn at e'en."

So I bade him a good-night, and rode my ways over the fields and
across many burns to Myrtoun. As I went I looked back, and there,
below me, was a strange sight--all the little harbor of the Clone
lighted up, a hurrying of men down to the shore, the flickering of
torches, and the lappering of the sea making a stir of gallant life
that set the blood to leaping in the veins. It was, indeed, I
thought, worth while living to be a free-trader. Far out, I could
see the dark spars of the lugger, "Sea Pyet," and hear the casks and
ankers dumping into the boats alongside.

Then I began to bethink me that I had a more desperate ploy than any
of them that were down there. For they were many, and I was only
one. Moreover, easily as young Maister William might say, "Meet
Muckle Jock and keep him till the morn at noon!" the matter was not
so easy as supping one's porridge.

Now, I had never seen the Exciseman, but my brother had played at the
cudgels with Jock before this. So I knew more of him than to suppose
that he would bide for the bidding of one man when in the way of his
duty.

When the young laird went away he slipped me a small, heavy packet.

"Half for you and half for the gauger, gin he hears reason," he said.

By the weight and the jingle I judged it to be yellow Geordies, the
best thing that the wee, wee German lairdie ever sent Tory Mochrum.
And not too plenty there, either! Though since the Clone folk did so
well with the clean-run smuggling from the blessed Isle of Man, it is
true that there are more of the Geordies than there used to be.

So I rode round by the back of the White Loch, for Sir William had a
habit of daunering over by the Airlour and Barsalloch, and in my
present ride I had no desire to meet with him.

Yet, as fate would have it, I was not to win clear that night. I had
not ridden more than half-way round the loch when Brown Bess went
floundering into a moss-hole, which are more plenty than paved roads
in that quarter. And what with the weight of the pack, and her
struggling, we threatened to go down altogether. When I thought of
what my father would say, if I went home with my finger in my mouth,
and neither Black Bess nor yet a penny's-worth to the value of her, I
was fairly a-sweat with fear. I cried aloud for help, for there were
cot-houses near by. And, as I had hoped, in a little a man came out
of the shadows of the willow bushes.

"What want ye, yochel?" said he, in a mightily lofty tone.

"I'll 'yochel' ye, gin I had time. Pu' on that rope," I said, for my
spirit was disturbed by the accident. Also, as I have said, I took
ill-talk from no man.

So, with a little laugh, the man laid hold of the rope, and pulled
his best, while I took off what of the packages I could reach, ever
keeping my own feet moving, to clear the sticky glaur of the bog-hole
from off them.

"Tak' that hook out, and ease doon the cask, man!" I cried to him,
for I was in desperation; "I'll gie ye a heartsome gill, even though
the stuff be Sir William's!"

And the man laughed again, being, as I judged, well pleased. For all
that service yet was I not pleased to be called "yochel." But, in
the meantime, I saw not how I could begin to cuff and clout one that
was helping my horse and stuff out of a bog-hole. Yet I resolved
somehow to be even with him, for, though a peaceable man, I never
could abide the calling of ill names.

"Whither gang ye?" said he.

"To the Muckle Hoose o' Myrtoun," said I, "and gang ye wi' me, my
man; and gie me a hand doon wi' the stuff, for I hae nae stomach for
mair wasling in bog-holes. And wha kens but that auld Turk, Sir
William, may happen on us?"

"Ken ye Sir William Maxwell?" said the man.

"Na," said I. "I never so muckle as set e'en on the auld wretch.
But I had sax hard days' wark cutting bushes, and makin' a road for
his carriage wi' wheels, for him to ride in to Mochrum Kirk."

"Saw ye him never there?" said the man as I strapped the packages on
again.

"Na," said I. "My faither is a Cameronian, and gangs to nae Kirk
hereaboots.'

"He has gi'en his son a bonny upbringing, then!" quoth the man.

Now this made me mainly angry, for I can not bide that folk should
meddle with my folk. As far as I am concerned myself, I am a
peaceable man.

"Hear ye," said I, "I ken na wha ye are that speers so mony
questions. Ye may be the de'il, or ye may be the enemy o' Mochrum
himsel', the blackavised Commodore frae Glasserton. But I can
warrant ye that ye'll no mell and claw unyeuked with Robin o'
Airyolan. Hear ye that, my man, and keep a civil tongue within your
ill-lookin' cheek, gin ye want to gang hame in the morning wi' an
uncracked croun!"

The man said no more, and by his gait I judged him to be some
serving-man. For, as far as the light served me, he was not so well
put on as myself. Yet there was a kind of neatness about the
creature that showed him to be no outdoor man either.

However, he accompanied me willingly enough till we came to the
Muckle House of Myrtoun. For I think that he was feared of his head
at my words. And indeed it would not have taken the kittling of a
flea to have garred me draw a staff over his crown. For there is
nothing that angers a Galloway man more than an ignorant, upsetting
town's body, putting in his gab when he desires to live peaceable.

So, when we came to the back entrance, I said to him: "Hear ye to
this. Ye are to make no noise, my mannie, but gie me a lift doon wi'
thae barrels, cannily. For that dour old tod, the laird, is to ken
naething aboot it. Only Miss Peggy and Maister, they ken. 'Deed, it
was William himsel' that sent me on this errand."

So with that the mannie gave a kind of laugh, and helped me down with
the ankers far better than I could have expected. We rolled them
into a shed at the back of the stables, and covered them up snug with
some straw and some old heather thatching.

"Ay, my lad," says I to him, "for a' your douce speech and fair words
ye hae been at this job afore!"

"Well, it is true," he said, "that I hae rolled a barrel or two in my
time."

Then, in the waft of an eye, I knew who he was. I set him down for
Muckle Jock, the Excise officer, that had never gone to the
Glasserton at all, but had been lurking there in the moss, waiting to
deceive honest men. I knew that I needed to be wary with him, for he
was, as I had heard, a sturdy carl, and had won the last throw at the
Stoneykirk wrestling. But all the men of the Fellside have an
excellent opinion of themselves, and I thought I was good for any man
of the size of this one.

So said I to him: "Noo, chiel, ye ken we are no' juist carryin'
barrels o' spring water at this time o' nicht to pleasure King
George. Hearken ye; we are in danger of being laid by the heels in
the jail of Wigton gin the black lawyer corbies get us. Noo, there's
a Preventive man that is crawling and spying ower by on the heights
o' Physgill. Ye' maun e'en come wi' me an' help to keep him oot o'
hairm's way. For it wad not be for his guid that he should gang doon
to the port this nicht!"

The man that I took to be the ganger hummed and hawed a while, till I
had enough of his talk and unstable ways.

"No back-and forrit ways wi' Robin," said I. "Will ye come and help
to catch the King's officer, or will ye not?"

"No a foot will I go," says he. "I have been a King's officer,
myself!"

I laid a pistol to his ear, for I was in some heat.

"Gin you war King Geordie himsel', ay, or Cumberland either, ye shall
come wi' me and help to catch the gauger," said I.

For I bethought me that it would be a bonny ploy, and one long to be
talked about in these parts, thus to lay by the heels the Exciseman
and make him tramp to Glasserton to kidnap himself. The man with the
bandy legs was taking a while to consider, so I said to him: "She is
a guid pistol and new primed!"

"I'll come wi' ye!" said he.

So I set him first on the road, and left my horse in the stables of
Myrtoun. It was the gloam of the morning when we got to the turn of
the road by which, if he were to come at all, the new gauger would
ride from Glasserton. And lo! as if we had set a tryst, there he was
coming over the heathery braes at a brisk trot. So I covered him
with my pistol, and took his horse by the reins, thinking no more of
the other man I had taken for the gauger before.

"Dismount, my lad," I said. "Ye dinna ken me, but I ken you. Come
here, my landlouper, and help to baud him!"

I saw the stranger who had come with me sneaking off, but with my
other pistol I brought him to a stand. So together we got the gauger
into a little thicket or planting. And here, willing or unwilling,
we kept him all day, till we were sure that the stuff would all be
run, and the long trains of honest smugglers on good horses far on
their way to the towns of the north.

Then very honestly I counted out the half of the tale of golden
guineas Maister William had given me, and put them into the pocket of
the gauger's coat.

"Gin ye are a good still-tongued kind of cattle, there is more of
that kind of oats where these came from," said I. "But lie ye here
snug as a paitrick for an hour yet by the clock, lest even yet ye
should come to harm!"

So there we left him, not very sorely angered, for all he had posed
as so efficient and zealous a King's officer.

"Now," said I, to the man that helped me. "I promised ye half o'
Maister William's guineas, that he bade me keep, for I allow that it
micht hae been a different job but for your help. And here they are.
Ye shall never say that Robin of Airyolan roguit ony man--even a
feckless toon's birkie wi' bandy legs!"

The man laughed and took the siller, saying, "Thank'ee!" with an
arrogant air as if he handled bags of them every day. But,
nevertheless, he took them, and I parted from him, wishing him well,
which was more than he did to me. But I know how to use civility
upon occasion.

When I reached home I told my father, and described the man I had
met. But he could make no guess at him. Nor had I myself till the
next rent day, when my father, having a lame leg where the colt had
kicked him, sent me down to pay the owing. The factor I know well,
but I had my money in hand and little I cared for him. But what was
my astonishment to find, sitting at the table with him, the very same
man who had helped me to lay the Exciseman by the heels. But now, I
thought, there was a strangely different air about him.

And what astonished me more, it was this man, and not the factor, who
spoke first to me.

"Ay, Robin of Airyolan, and are you here? Ye are a chiel with birr
and smeddum! There are the bones of a man in ye! Hae ye settled
with the gauger for shackling him by the hill of Physgill?"

Now, as I have said, I thole snash from no man, and I gave him the
word back sharply.

"Hae ye settled wi' him yoursel', sir? For it was you that tied the
ropes!"

My adversary laughed, and looked not at all ill-pleased.

He pointed to the five gold Georges on the table.

"Hark ye, Robin of Airyolan, these are the five guineas ye gied to me
like an honest man. I'll forgie ye for layin' the pistol to my lug,
for ye are some credit to the land that fed ye. Gin ye promise to
wed a decent lass, I'll e'en gie ye a farm. And as sure as my name
is Sir William Maxwell, ye shall sit your lifetime rent free, for the
de'il's errand that ye took me on the nicht of the brandy-running at
the Clone."

I could have sunken through the floor when I heard that it was Sir
William himself--whom, because he had so recently returned from
foreign parts after a sojourn of many years, I had never before seen.

Then both the factor and the laird laughed heartily at my
discomfiture.

"Ken ye o' a lass that wad tak' up wi' ye, Robin?" said Sir William.

"Half a dozen o' them, my lord," said I. "Lasses are neither ill to
seek nor hard to find when Robin of Airyolan gangs a-coortin'!"

"Losh preserve us!" cried the laird, slapping his thigh, "but I never
sallied forth to woo a lass so blithely confident mysel'!"

I said nothing, but dusted my knee-breeks.

"An' mind ye maun see to it that the bairns are a' loons, and as
staunch and stark as yoursel'!" said the factor.

"A man can but do his best," answered I, very modestly as I thought.
For I never can tell why it is that the folk will always say that I
have a good opinion of myself. Nor, on the other hand, can I tell
why I should not.

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

BY HONORE DE BALZAC

_This is one of the best known of Balzac's short stories, and may be
said to rank among the half-dozen best of all. It is one of his
"Studies of Women," its French title is "La Grande Breteche," it
forms part of the second volume in the series entitled "Scenes from
Private Life," and was first published in 1830._

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

By HONORE DE BALZAC

About a hundred yards from the town of Vendôme, on the borders of the
Loire, there is an old gray house, surmounted by very high gables,
and so completely isolated that neither tanyard nor shabby hostelry,
such as you may find at the entrance to all small towns, exists in
its immediate neighborhood.

In front of this building, overlooking the river, is a garden, where
the once well-trimmed box borders that used to define the walks now
grow wild as they list. Several willows that spring from the Loire
have grown as rapidly as the hedge that encloses it, and half conceal
the house. The rich vegetation of those weeds that we call foul
adorns the sloping shore. Fruit trees, neglected for the last ten
years, no longer yield their harvest, and their shoots form coppices.
The wall-fruit grows like hedges against the walls. Paths once
graveled are overgrown with moss, but, to tell the truth, there is no
trace of a path. From the height of the hill, to which cling the
ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendôme, the only spot whence
the eye can plunge into this enclosure, it strikes you that, at a
time not easy to determine, this plot of land was the delight of a
country gentleman, who cultivated roses and tulips and horticulture
in general, and who was besides a lover of fine fruit. An arbor is
still visible, or rather the débris of an arbor, where there is a
table that time has not quite destroyed. The aspect of this garden
of bygone days suggests the negative joys of peaceful, provincial
life, as one might reconstruct the life of a worthy tradesman by
reading the epitaph on his tombstone. As if to complete the
sweetness and sadness of the ideas that possess one's soul, one of
the walls displays a sun-dial decorated with the following
commonplace Christian inscription: "Ultimam cogita!" The roof of
this house is horribly dilapidated, the shutters are always closed,
the balconies are covered with swallows' nests, the doors are
perpetually shut, weeds have drawn green lines in the cracks of the
flights of steps, the locks and bolts are rusty. Sun, moon, winter,
summer, and snow have worn the paneling, warped the boards, gnawed
the paint. The lugubrious silence which reigns there is only broken
by birds, cats, martins, rats and mice, free to course to and fro, to
fight and to eat each other. Everywhere an invisible hand has graven
the word _mystery_.

Should your curiosity lead you to glance at this house from the side
that points to the road, you would perceive a great door which the
children of the place have riddled with holes. I afterward heard
that this door had been closed for the last ten years. Through the
holes broken by the boys you would have observed the perfect harmony
that existed between the façades of both garden and courtyard. In
both the same disorder prevails. Tufts of weed encircle the
paving-stones. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, round whose
blackened crests twine the thousand garlands of the pellitory. The
steps are out of joint, the wire of the bell is rusted, the spouts
are cracked. What fire from heaven has fallen here? What tribunal
has decreed that salt should be strewn on this dwelling? Has God
been blasphemed, has France been here betrayed? These are the
questions we ask ourselves, but get no answer from the crawling
things that haunt the place. The empty and deserted house is a
gigantic enigma, of which the key is lost. In bygone times it was a
small fief, and bears the name of the Grande Bretêche.

I inferred that I was not the only person to whom my good landlady
had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole recipient,
and I prepared to listen.

"Sir," she said, "when the Emperor sent the Spanish prisoners of war
and others here, the Government quartered on me a young Spaniard who
had been sent to Vendôme on parole. Parole notwithstanding he went
out every day to show himself to the sous-préfet. He was a Spanish
grandee! Nothing less! His name ended in os and dia, something like
Burgos de Férédia. I have his name on my books; you can read it if
you like. Oh! but he was a handsome young man for a Spaniard; they
are all said to be ugly. He was only five feet and a few inches
high, but he was well-grown; he had small hands that he took such
care of; ah! you should have seen! He had as many brushes for his
hands as a woman for her whole dressing apparatus! He had thick
black hair, a fiery eye, his skin was rather bronzed, but I liked the
look of it. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen on any one,
although I have had princesses staying here, and, among others,
General Bertrand, the Duke and Duchess d'Abrantès, Monsieur Decazes,
and the King of Spain. He didn't eat much; but his manners were so
polite, so amiable, that one could not owe him a grudge. Oh! I was
very fond of him, although he didn't open his lips four times in the
day, and it was impossible to keep up a conversation with him. For
if you spoke to him, he did not answer. It was a fad, a mania with
them all, I heard say. He read his breviary like a priest, he went
to Mass and to all the services regularly. Where did he sit? Two
steps from the chapel of Madame de Merret. As he took his place
there the first time he went to church, nobody suspected him of any
intention in so doing. Besides, he never raised his eyes from his
prayer-book, poor young man! After that, sir, in the evening he
would walk on the mountains, among the castle ruins. It was the poor
man's only amusement, it reminded him of his country. They say that
Spain is all mountains! From the commencement of his imprisonment he
stayed out late. I was anxious when I found that he did not come
home before midnight; but we got accustomed to this fancy of his. He
took the key of the door, and we left off sitting up for him. He
lodged in a house of ours in the Rue des Casernes. After that, one
of our stable-men told us that in the evening when he led the horses
to the water, he thought he had seen the Spanish grandee swimming far
down the river like a live fish. When he returned, I told him to
take care of the rushes; he appeared vexed to have been seen in the
water. At last, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him
in his room; he had not returned. After searching everywhere, I
found some writing in the drawer of a table, where there were fifty
gold pieces of Spain that are called doubloons and were worth about
five thousand francs; and ten thousand francs' worth of diamonds in a
small sealed box. The writing said, that in case he did not return,
he left us the money and the diamonds, on condition of paying for
Masses to thank God for his escape, and for his salvation. In those
days my husband had not been taken from me; he hastened to seek him
everywhere.

"And now for the strange part of the story. He brought home the
Spaniard's clothes, that he had discovered under a big stone, in a
sort of pilework by the river-side near the castle, nearly opposite
to the Grande Bretêche. My husband had gone there so early that no
one had seen him. After reading the letter, he burned the clothes,
and according to Count Férédia's desire we declared that he had
escaped. The sous-préfet sent all the gendarmerie in pursuit of him;
but brust! they never caught him. Lepas believed that the Spaniard
had drowned himself. I, sir, don't think so; I am more inclined to
believe that he had something to do with the affair of Madame de
Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix that her
mistress thought so much of, that she had it buried with her, was of
ebony and silver. Now in the beginning of his stay here, Monsieur de
Férédia had one in ebony and silver, that I never saw him with later.
Now, sir, don't you consider that I need have no scruples about the
Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs, and that I have a right to them?"

"Certainly; but you haven't tried to question Rosalie?" I said.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir; but to no purpose! the girl's like a wall.
She knows something, but it is impossible to get her to talk."

After exchanging a few more words with me, my landlady left me a prey
to vague and gloomy thoughts, to a romantic curiosity, and a
religious terror not unlike the profound impression produced on us
when by night, on entering a dark church, we perceive a faint light
under high arches; a vague figure glides by--the rustle of a robe or
cassock is heard, and we shudder.

Suddenly the Grande Bretêche and its tall weeds, its barred windows,
its rusty ironwork, its closed doors, its deserted apartments,
appeared like a fantastic apparition before me. I essayed to
penetrate the mysterious dwelling, and to find the knot of its dark
story--the drama that had killed three persons. In my eyes Rosalie
became the most interesting person in Vendôme. As I studied her, I
discovered the traces of secret care, despite the radiant health that
shone in her plump countenance. There was in her the germ of remorse
or hope; her attitude revealed a secret, like the attitude of a bigot
who prays to excess, or of the infanticide who ever hears the last
cry of her child. Yet her manners were rough and ingenuous--her
silly smile was not that of a criminal, and could you but have seen
the great kerchief that encompassed her portly bust, framed and laced
in by a lilac and blue cotton gown, you would have dubbed her
innocent. No, I thought, I will not leave Vendôme without learning
the history of the Grande Bretêche. To gain my ends I will strike up
a friendship with Rosalie, if needs be.

"Rosalie," said I, one evening.

"Sir?"

"You are not married?"

She started slightly.

"Oh, I can find plenty of men, when the fancy takes me to be made
miserable," she said, laughing.

She soon recovered from the effects of her emotion, for all women,
from the great lady to the maid of the inn, possess a composure that
is peculiar to them.

"You are too good-looking and well favored to be short of lovers.
But tell me, Rosalie, why did you take service in an inn after
leaving Madame de Merret? Did she leave you nothing to live on?"

"Oh, yes! But, sir, my place is the best in all Vendôme."

The reply was one of those that judges and lawyers would call
evasive. Rosalie appeared to me to be situated in this romantic
history like the square in the midst of a chessboard. She was at the
heart of the truth and chief interest; she seemed to me to be bound
in the very knot of it. The conquest of Rosalie was no longer to be
an ordinary siege--in this girl was centred the last chapter of a
novel; therefore from this moment Rosalie became the object of my
preference.

One morning I said to Rosalie: "Tell me all you know about Madame de
Merret."

"Oh!" she replied in terror, "do not ask that of me, Monsieur Horace."

Her pretty face fell--her clear, bright color faded--and her eyes
lost their innocent brightness.

"Well, then," she said, at last, "if you must have it so, I will tell
you about it; but promise to keep my secret!"

"Done! my dear girl, I must keep your secret with the honor of a
thief, which is the most loyal in the world."

Were I to transcribe Rosalie's diffuse eloquence faithfully, an
entire volume would scarcely contain it; so I shall abridge.

The room occupied by Madame de Merret at the Bretêche was on the
ground floor. A little closet about four feet deep, built in the
thickness of the wall, served as her wardrobe. Three months before
the eventful evening of which I am about to speak, Madame de Merret
had been so seriously indisposed that her husband had left her to
herself in her own apartment, while he occupied another on the first
floor. By one of those chances that it is impossible to foresee, he
returned home from the club (where he was accustomed to read the
papers and discuss politics with the inhabitants of the place) two
hours later than usual. His wife supposed him to be at home, in bed
and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a
most animated discussion; the billiard-match had been exciting, he
had lost forty francs, an enormous sum for Vendôme, where every one
hoards, and where manners are restricted within the limits of a
praiseworthy modesty, which perhaps is the source of the true
happiness that no Parisian covets. For some time past Monsieur de
Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie if his wife had gone to bed;
and on her reply, which was always in the affirmative, had
immediately gained his own room with the good temper engendered by
habit and confidence. On entering his house, he took it into his
head to go and tell his wife of his misadventure, perhaps by way of
consolation. At dinner he found Madame de Merret most coquettishly
attired. On his way to the club it had occurred to him that his wife
was restored to health, and that her convalescence had added to her
beauty. He was, as husbands are wont to be, somewhat slow in making
this discovery. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was occupied just
then in watching the cook and coachman play a difficult hand at
brisque,* Monsieur de Merret went to his wife's room by the light of
a lantern that he deposited on the first step of the staircase. His
unmistakable step resounded under the vaulted corridor. At the
moment that the Count turned the handle of his wife's door, he
fancied he could hear the door of the closet I spoke of close; but
when he entered Madame de Merret was alone before the fireplace. The
husband thought ingenuously that Rosalie was in the closet, yet a
suspicion that jangled in his ear put him on his guard. He looked at
his wife and saw in her eyes I know not what wild and hunted
expression.

* A game of cards.

"You are very late," she said. Her habitually pure, sweet voice
seemed changed to him.

Monsieur de Merret did not reply, for at that moment Rosalie entered.
It was a thunderbolt for him. He strode about the room, passing from
one window to the other, with mechanical motion and folded arms.

"Have you heard bad news, or are you unwell?" inquired his wife
timidly, while Rosalie undressed her.

He kept silent.

"You can leave me," said Madame de Merret to her maid; "I will put my
hair in curl papers myself."

From the expression of her husband's face she foresaw trouble, and
wished to be alone with him. When Rosalie had gone, or was supposed
to have gone (for she stayed in the corridor for a few minutes),
Monsieur de Merret came and stood in front of his wife, and said
coldly to her:

"Madame, there is some one in your closet!" She looked calmly at her
husband and replied simply:

"No, sir."

This answer was heartrending to Monsieur de Merret; he did not
believe in it. Yet his wife had never appeared to him purer or more
saintly than at that moment. He rose to open the closet door; Madame
de Merret took his hand, looked at him with an expression of
melancholy, and said in a voice that betrayed singular emotion:

"If you find no one there, remember this, all will be over between
us!" The extraordinary dignity of his wife's manner restored the
Count's profound esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those
resolutions that only lack a vaster stage to become immortal.

"No," said he, "Josephine, I will not go there. In either case it
would separate us forever. Hear me, I know how pure you are at
heart, and that your life is a holy one. You would not commit a
mortal sin to save your life."

At these words Madame de Merret turned a haggard gaze upon her
husband.

"Here, take your crucifix," he added. "Swear to me before God that
there is no one in there; I will believe you, I will never open that
door."

Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said:

"I swear."

"Louder," said the husband, "and repeat 'I swear before God that
there is no one in that closet.'"

She repeated the sentence calmly.

"That will do," said Monsieur de Merret, coldly.

After a moment of silence:

"I never saw this pretty toy before," he said, examining the ebony
crucifix inlaid with silver, and most artistically chiseled.

"I found it at Duvivier's, who bought it of a Spanish monk when the
prisoners passed through Vendôme last year."

"Ah!" said Monsieur de Merret, as he replaced the crucifix on the
nail, and he rang. Rosalie did not keep him waiting. Monsieur de
Merret went quickly to meet her, led her to the bay window that
opened on to the garden and whispered to her:

"Listen! I know that Gorenflot wishes to marry you, poverty is the
only drawback, and you told him that you would be his wife if he
found the means to establish himself as a master mason. Well! go and
fetch him, tell him to come here with his trowel and tools. Manage
not to awaken any one in his house but himself; his fortune will be
more than your desires. Above all, leave this room without babbling,
otherwise--" He frowned. Rosalie went away, he recalled her.

"Here, take my latch-key," he said. "Jean!" then cried Monsieur de
Merret, in tones of thunder in the corridor. Jean, who was at the
same time his coachman and his confidential servant, left his game of
cards and came.

"Go to bed, all of you," said his master, signing to him to approach;
and the Count added, under his breath: "When they are all
asleep--_asleep_, d'ye hear?--you will come down and tell me."
Monsieur de Merret, who had not lost sight of his wife all the time
he was giving his orders, returned quietly to her at the fireside and
began to tell her of the game of billiards and the talk of the club.
When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merret
conversing very amicably.

The Count had lately had all the ceilings of his reception rooms on
the ground floor repaired. Plaster of Paris is difficult to obtain
in Vendôme; the carriage raises its price. The Count had therefore
bought a good deal, being well aware that he could find plenty of
purchasers for whatever might remain over. This circumstance
inspired him with the design he was about to execute.

"Sir, Gorenflot has arrived," said Rosalie in low tones.

"Show him in," replied the Count in loud tones.

Madame de Merret turned rather pale when she saw the mason.

"Gorenflot," said her husband, "go and fetch bricks from the
coach-house, and bring sufficient to wall up the door of this closet;
you will use the plaster I have over to coat the wall with." Then
calling Rosalie and the workman aside:

"Listen, Gorenflot," he said in an undertone, "you will sleep here
to-night. But to-morrow you will have a passport to a foreign
country, to a town to which I will direct you. I shall give you six
thousand francs for your journey. You will stay ten years in that
town; if you do not like it, you may establish yourself in another,
provided it be in the same country. You will pass through Paris,
where you will await me. There I will insure you an additional six
thousand francs by contract, which will be paid to you on your
return, provided you have fulfilled the conditions of our bargain.
This is the price for your absolute silence as to what you are about
to do to-night. As to you, Rosalie, I will give you ten thousand
francs on the day of your wedding, on condition of your marrying
Gorenflot; but if you wish to marry, you must hold your tongues;
or--no dowry."

"Rosalie," said Madame de Merret, "do my hair."

The husband walked calmly up and down, watching the door, the mason,
and his wife, but without betraying any insulting doubts. Madame de
Merret chose a moment when the workman was unloading bricks and her
husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: "A
thousand francs a year for you, my child, if you can tell Gorenflot
to leave a chink at the bottom." Then out loud, she added coolly:

"Go and help him!"

Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time that Gorenflot
took to brick up the door. This silence, on the part of the husband,
who did not choose to furnish his wife with a pretext for saying
things of a double meaning, had its purpose; on the part of Madame de
Merret it was either pride or prudence. When the wall was about
half-way up, the sly workman took advantage of a moment when the
Count's back was turned, to strike a blow with his trowel in one of
the glass panes of the closet-door. This act informed Madame de
Merret that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot.

All three then saw a man's face; it was dark and gloomy with black
hair and eyes of flame. Before her husband turned, the poor woman
had time to make a sign to the stranger that signified: Hope!

At four o'clock, toward dawn, for it was the month of September, the
construction was finished. The mason was handed over to the care of
Jean, and Monsieur de Merret went to bed in his wife's room.

On rising the following morning, he said carelessly:

"The deuce! I must go to the Maine for the passport." He put his
hat on his head, advanced three steps toward the door, altered his
mind and took the crucifix.

His wife trembled for joy. "He is going to Duvivier," she thought.
As soon as the Count had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie;
then in a terrible voice:

"The trowel, the trowel!" she cried, "and quick to work! I saw how
Gorenflot did it; we shall have time to make a hole and to mend it
again."

In the twinkling of an eye, Rosalie brought a sort of mattock to her
mistress, who with unparalleled ardor set about demolishing the wall.
She had already knocked out several bricks and was preparing to
strike a more decisive blow when she perceived Monsieur de Merret
behind her. She fainted.

"Lay Madame on her bed," said the Count coldly. He had foreseen what
would happen in his absence and had set a trap for his wife; he had
simply written to the mayor, and had sent for Duvivier. The jeweler
arrived just as the room had been put in order.

"Duvivier," inquired the Count, "did you buy crucifixes of the
Spaniards who passed through here?"

"No, sir."

"That will do, thank you," he said, looking at his wife like a tiger.
"Jean," he added, "you will see that my meals are served in the
Countess's room; she is ill, and I shall not leave her until she has
recovered."

The cruel gentleman stayed with his wife for twenty days. In the
beginning, when there were sounds in the walled closet, and Josephine
attempted to implore his pity for the dying stranger, he replied,
without permitting her to say a word:

"You have sworn on the cross that there is no one there."

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

BY WILKIE COLLINS

_This is known as "The Traveler's Story," and is the first in a
capital series of stories somewhat similar in character that were
published in 1856 in a volume entitled "After Dark." The story first
appeared in "Household Words," of which Charles Dickens (the author's
friend and great admirer) was editor. The author has stated that he
was indebted to Mr. W. S. Herrick for the facts on which the story is
founded._

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

By WILKIE COLLINS

Shortly after my education at college was finished, I happened to be
staying at Paris with an English friend. We were both young men
then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful
city of our sojourn. One night we were idling about the neighborhood
of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake
ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati's; but his
suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French
saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces
there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement no longer,
and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly
respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable
gambling-house.

"For Heaven's sake," said I to my friend, "let us go somewhere where
we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming,
with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it at all. Let us get
away from fashionable Frascati's, to a house where they don't mind
letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or
otherwise."

"Very well," said my friend, "we needn't go out of the Palais Royal
to find the sort of company you want. Here's the place just before
us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish
to see."

In another minute we arrived at the door, and entered the house.

When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the
doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did
not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who
looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types--lamentably true
types--of their respective classes.

We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse.
There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all
blackguardism: here there was nothing but tragedy--mute, weird
tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard,
long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning
up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player,
who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how
often black won, and how often red, never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled
old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned greatcoat, who had lost
his last sou, and still looked on desperately after he could play no
longer, never spoke. Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it
were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I
had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was
something to weep over. I soon found it necessary to take refuge in
excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on
me. Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by going to the
table and beginning to play. Still more unfortunately, as the event
will show, I won--won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a
rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and
staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to
one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city in
Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of
Chances--that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! And a gambler, in
the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole
from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle
amusement. I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew
what it was to want money. I never practised it so incessantly as to
lose more than I could afford, or to gain more. than I could coolly
pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck. In
short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables--just as I
frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses--because they amused me, and
because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

But on this occasion it was very different--now, for the first time
in my life, I felt what the passion for play really was. My
successes first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of
the word, intoxicated me. Incredible as it may appear, it is
nevertheless true, that I only lost when I attempted to estimate
chances, and played according to previous calculation. If I left
everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I
was sure to win--to win in the face of every recognized probability
in favor of the bank. At first some of the men present ventured
their money safely enough on my color; but I speedily increased my
stakes to sums which they dared not risk. One after another they
left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game.

Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and still won.
The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence was
interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in
different languages, every time the gold was shoveled across to my
side of the table--even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on
the floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my success. But one
man present preserved his self-possession, and that man was my
friend. He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to
leave the place, satisfied with what I had already gained. I must do
him the justice to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties
several times, and only left me and went away, after I had rejected
his advice (I was to all intents and purposes gambling drunk) in
terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that
night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried, "Permit
me, my dear sir--permit me to restore to their proper place two
napoleons which you have dropped. Wonderful luck, sir! I pledge you
my word of honor, as an old soldier, in the course of my long
experience in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck as
yours--never! Go on, sir--_Sucre mille bombes_! Go on boldly, and
break the bank!"

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with inveterate
civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided surtout.

If I had been in my senses, I should have considered him, personally,
as being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier. He had
goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose. His
voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he
had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw--even in France. These
little personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling
influence on me. In the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that
moment, I was ready to "fraternize" with anybody who encouraged me in
my game. I accepted the old soldier's offered pinch of snuff;
clapped him on the back, and swore he was the honestest fellow in the
world--the most glorious relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met
with. "Go on!" cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in
ecstasy--"Go on, and win! Break the bank--_Mille tonnerres!_ my
gallant English comrade, break the bank!"

And I _did_ go on--went on at such a rate, that in another quarter of
an hour the croupier called out, "Gentlemen, the bank has
discontinued for to-night." All the notes, and all the gold in that
"bank," now lay in a heap under my hands; the whole floating capital
of the gambling-house was waiting to pour into my pockets!

"Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, my worthy sir," said
the old soldier, as I wildly plunged my hands into my heap of gold.
"Tie it up, as we used to tie up a bit of dinner in the Grand Army;
your winnings are too heavy for any breeches-pockets that ever were
sewed. There! that's it--shovel them in, notes and all! _Credie!_
what luck! Stop! another napoleon on the floor. _Ah! sacre petit
polisson de Napoleon!_ have I found thee at last? Now then, sir--two
tight double knots each way with your honorable permission, and the
money's safe. Feel it! feel it, fortunate sir! hard and round as a
cannon-ball-- _A bas_ if they had only fired such cannon-balls at us
at Austerlitz--_nom d'une pipe_! if they only had! And now, as an
ancient grenadier, as an ex-brave of the French army, what remains
for me to do? I ask what? Simply this, to entreat my valued English
friend to drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast the goddess
Fortune in foaming goblets before we part!"

"Excellent ex-brave! Convivial ancient grenadier! Champagne by all
means! An English cheer for an old soldier! Hurrah! hurrah!
Another English cheer for the goddess Fortune! Hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!"

"Bravo! the Englishman; the amiable, gracious Englishman, in whose
veins circulates the vivacious blood of France! Another glass? _A
bas!_--the bottle is empty! Never mind! _Vive le vin!_ I, the old
soldier, order another bottle, and half a pound of _bonbons_ with it!"

"No, no, ex-brave; never--ancient grenadier! _Your_ bottle last
time; my bottle this! Behold it! Toast away! The French Army! the
great Napoleon! the present company! the croupier! the honest
croupier's wife and daughters--if he has any! the ladies generally!
everybody in the world!"

By the time the second bottle of champagne was emptied, I felt as if
I had been drinking liquid fire--my brain seemed all aflame. No
excess in wine had ever had this effect on me before in my life. Was
it the result of a stimulant acting upon my system when I was in a
highly excited state? Was my stomach in a particularly disordered
condition? Or was the champagne amazingly strong?

"Ex-brave of the French Army!" cried I, in a mad state of
exhilaration, "_I_ am on fire! how are you? You have set me on fire!
Do you hear, my hero of Austerlitz? Let us have a third bottle of
champagne to put the flame out!"

The old soldier wagged his head, rolled his goggle-eyes, until I
expected to see them slip out of their sockets; placed his dirty
forefinger by the side of his broken nose; solemnly ejaculated
"Coffee!" and immediately ran off into an inner room.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran seemed to have a magical
effect on the rest of the company present. With one accord they all
rose to depart. Probably they had expected to profit by my
intoxication; but finding that my new friend was benevolently bent on
preventing me from getting dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of
thriving pleasantly on my winnings. Whatever their motive might be,
at any rate they went away in a body. When the old soldier returned,
and sat down again opposite to me at the table, we had the room to
ourselves. I could see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule which
opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude. The silence was now
deeper than ever.

A sudden change, too, had come over the "ex-brave." He assumed a
portentously solemn look; and when he spoke to me again, his speech
was ornamented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping, enlivened
by no apostrophes or exclamations.

"Listen, my dear sir," said he, in mysteriously confidential
tones--"listen to an old soldier's advice. I have been to the
mistress of the house (a very charming woman, with a genius for
cookery!) to impress on her the necessity of making us some
particularly strong and good coffee. You must drink this coffee in
order to get rid of your little amiable exaltation of spirits before
you think of going home--you must, my good and gracious friend! With
all that money to take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself
to have your wits about you. You are known to be a winner to an
enormous extent by several gentlemen present to-night, who, in a
certain point of view, are very worthy and excellent fellows; but
they are mortal men, my dear sir, and they have their amiable
weaknesses! Need I say more? Ah, no, no! you understand me! Now,
this is what you must do--send for a cabriolet when you feel quite
well again--draw up all the windows when you get into it--and tell
the driver to take you home only through the large and well-lighted
thoroughfares. Do this; and you and your money will be safe. Do
this; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier for giving you a
word of honest advice."

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very lachrymose tones, the
coffee came in, ready poured out in two cups. My attentive friend
handed me one of the cups with a bow. I was parched with thirst, and
drank it off at a draft. Almost instantly afterward I was seized
with a fit of giddiness, and felt more completely intoxicated than
ever. The room whirled round and round furiously; the old soldier
seemed to be regularly bobbing up and down before me like the piston
of a steam-engine. I was half deafened by a violent singing in my
ears; a feeling of utter bewilderment, helplessness, idiocy, overcame
me. I rose from my chair, holding on by the table to keep my
balance; and stammered out that I felt dreadfully unwell--so unwell
that I did not know how I was to get home.

"My dear friend," answered the old soldier--and even his voice seemed
to be bobbing up and down as he spoke--"my dear friend, it would be
madness to go home in _your_ state; you would be sure to lose your
money; you might be robbed and murdered with the greatest ease. _I_
am going to sleep here: _do_ you sleep here, too--they make up
capital beds in this house--take one; sleep off the effects of the
wine, and go home safely with your winnings to-morrow--to-morrow, in
broad daylight."

I had but two ideas left: one, that I must never let go hold of my
handkerchief full of money; the other, that I must lie down somewhere
immediately, and fall off into a comfortable sleep. So I agreed to
the proposal about the bed, and took the offered arm of the old
soldier, carrying my money with my disengaged hand. Preceded by the
croupier, we passed along some passages and up a flight of stairs
into the bedroom which I was to occupy. The ex-brave shook me warmly
by the hand, proposed that we should breakfast together, and then,
followed by the croupier, left me for the night.

I ran to the wash-hand stand; drank some of the water in my jug;
poured the rest out, and plunged my face into it; then sat down in a
chair and tried to compose myself. I soon felt better. The change
for my lungs, from the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-room to the
cool air of the apartment I now occupied, the almost equally
refreshing change for my eyes, from the glaring gaslights of the
"salon" to the dim, quiet flicker of one bedroom-candle, aided
wonderfully the restorative effects of cold water. The giddiness
left me, and I began to feel a little like a reasonable being again.
My first thought was of the risk of sleeping all night in a
gambling-house; my second, of the still greater risk of trying to get
out after the house was closed, and of going home alone at night
through the streets of Paris with a large sum of money about me. I
had slept in worse places than this on my travels; so I determined to
lock, bolt, and barricade my door, and take my chance till the next
morning.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion; looked under the
bed, and into the cupboard; tried the fastening of the window: and
then, satisfied that I had taken every proper precaution, pulled off
my upper clothing, put my light, which was a dim one, on the hearth
among a feathery litter of wood-ashes, and got into bed, with the
handkerchief full of money under my pillow.

I soon felt not only that I could not go to sleep, but that I could
not even close my eyes. I was wide awake, and in a high fever.
Every nerve in my body trembled--every one of my senses seemed to be
preternaturally sharpened. I tossed and rolled, and tried every kind
of position, and perseveringly sought out the cold corners of the
bed, and all to no purpose. Now I thrust my arms over the clothes;
now I poked them under the clothes; now I violently shot my legs
straight out down to the bottom of the bed; now I convulsively coiled
them up as near my chin as they would go; now I shook out my crumpled
pillow, changed it to the cool side, patted it flat and lay down
quietly on my back; now I fiercely doubled it in two, set it up on
end, thrust it against the board of the bed, and tried a sitting
posture. Every effort was in vain; I groaned with vexation as I felt
that I was in for a sleepless night.

What could I do? I had no book to read. And yet, unless I found out
some method of diverting my mind, I felt certain that I was in the
condition to imagine all sorts of horrors; to rack my brain with
forebodings of every possible and impossible danger; in short, to
pass the night in suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous
terror.

I raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the room--which was
brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straight through the
window--to see if it contained any pictures or ornaments that I could
at all clearly distinguish. While my eyes wandered from wall to
wall, a remembrance of Le Maistre's delightful little book, "Voyage
autour de ma Chambre," occurred to me. I resolved to imitate the
French author, and find occupation and amusement enough to relieve
the tedium of my wakefulness, by making a mental inventory of every
article of furniture I could see, and by following up to their
sources the multitude of associations which even a chair, a table, or
a wash-hand stand may be made to call forth.

In the nervous, unsettled state of my mind at that moment, I found it
much easier to make my inventory than to make my reflections, and
thereupon soon gave up all hope of thinking in Le Maistre's fanciful
track--or, indeed, of thinking at all. I looked about the room at
the different articles of furniture, and did nothing more.

There was, first, the bed I was lying in; a four-post bed, of all
things in the world to meet with in Paris--yes, a thorough clumsy
British four-poster, with a regular top lined with chintz--the
regular fringed valance all round--the regular stifling, unwholesome
curtains, which I remembered having mechanically drawn back against
the posts without particularly noticing the bed when I first got into
the room. Then there was the marble-topped wash-hand stand, from
which the water I had spilled, in my hurry to pour it out, was still
dripping, slowly and more slowly, on to the brick floor. Then two
small chairs, with my coat, waistcoat, and trousers flung on them.
Then a large elbow-chair covered with dirty white dimity, with my
cravat and shirt collar thrown over the back. Then a chest of
drawers with two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china
inkstand placed on it by way of ornament for the top. Then the
dressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very
large pincushion. Then the window--an unusually large window. Then
a dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed me. It was
the picture of a fellow in a high Spanish hat, crowned with a plume
of towering feathers. A swarthy, sinister ruffian, looking upward,
shading his eyes with his hand, and looking intently upward--it might
be at some tall gallows on which he was going to be hanged. At any
rate, he had the appearance of thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward too--at
the top of the bed. It was a gloomy and not an interesting object,
and I looked back at the picture. I counted the feathers in the
man's hat--they stood out in relief--three white, two green. I
observed the crown of his hat, which was of a conical shape,
according to the fashion supposed to have been favored by Guido
Fawkes. I wondered what he was looking up at. It couldn't be at the
stars; such a desperado was neither astrologer nor astronomer. It
must be at the high gallows, and he was going to be hanged presently.
Would the executioner come into possession of his conical crowned hat
and plume of feathers? I counted the feathers again--three white,
two green.

While I still lingered over this very improving and intellectual
employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander. The moonlight
shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in
England--the night after a picnic party in a Welsh valley. Every
incident of the drive homeward, through lovely scenery, which the
moonlight made lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance,
though I had never given the picnic a thought for years; though, if I
had _tried_ to recollect it, I could certainly have recalled little
or nothing of that scene long past. Of all the wonderful faculties
that help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime truth
more eloquently than memory? Here was I, in a strange house of the
most suspicious character, in a situation of uncertainty, and even of
peril, which might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollection
almost out of the question; nevertheless, remembering, quite
involuntarily, places, people, conversations, minute circumstances of
every kind, which I had thought forgotten forever; which I could not
possibly have recalled at will, even under the most favorable
auspices. And what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this
strange, complicated, mysterious effect? Nothing but some rays of
moonlight shining in at my bedroom window.

I was still thinking of the picnic--of our merriment on the drive
home--of the sentimental young lady who _would_ quote "Childe Harold"
because it was moonlight. I was absorbed by these past scenes and
past amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which my memories
hung snapped asunder; my attention immediately came back to present
things more vividly than ever, and I found myself, I neither knew why
nor wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.

Looking for what?

Good God! the man had pulled his hat down on his brows! No! the hat
itself was gone! Where was the conical crown? Where the
feathers--three white, two green? Not there! In place of the hat
and feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his forehead, his
eyes, his shading hand?

Was the bed moving?

I turned on my back and looked up. Was I mad? drunk? dreaming?
giddy again? or was the top of the bed really moving down--sinking
slowly, regularly, silently, horribly, right down throughout the
whole of its length and breadth--right down upon me, as I lay
underneath?

My blood seemed to stand still. A deadly, paralyzing coldness stole
all over me as I turned my head round on the pillow and determined to
test whether the bed-top was really moving or not, by keeping my eye
on the man in the picture.

The next look in that direction was enough. The dull, black, frowzy
outline of the valance above me was within an inch of being parallel
with his waist. I still looked breathlessly. And steadily and
slowly--very slowly--I saw the figure, and the line of frame below
the figure, vanish, as the valance moved down before it.

I am, constitutionally, anything but timid. I have been on more than
one occasion in peril of my life, and have not lost my
self-possession for an instant; but when the conviction first settled
on my mind that the bed-top was really moving, was steadily and
continuously sinking down upon me, I looked up shuddering, helpless,
panic-stricken, beneath the hideous machinery for murder, which was
advancing closer and closer to suffocate me where I lay.

I looked up, motionless, speechless, breathless. The candle, fully
spent, went out; but the moonlight still brightened the room. Down
and down, without pausing and without sounding, came the bed-top, and
still my panic terror seemed to bind me faster and faster to the
mattress on which I lay--down and down it sank, till the dusty odor
from the lining of the canopy came stealing into my nostrils.

At that final moment the instinct of self-preservation startled me
out of my trance, and I moved at last. There was just room for me to
roll myself sidewise off the bed. As I dropped noiselessly to the
floor, the edge of the murderous canopy touched me on the shoulder.

Without stopping to draw my breath, without wiping the cold sweat
from my face, I rose instantly on my knees to watch the bed-top. I
was literally spellbound by it. If I had heard footsteps behind me,
I could not have turned round; if a means of escape had been
miraculously provided for me, I could not have moved to take
advantage of it. The whole life in me was, at that moment,
concentrated in my eyes.

It descended--the whole canopy, with the fringe round it, came
down--down--close down; so close that there was not room now to
squeeze my finger between the bed-top and the bed. I felt at the
sides, and discovered that what had appeared to me from beneath to be
the ordinary light canopy of a four-post bed was in reality a thick,
broad mattress, the substance of which was concealed by the valance
and its fringe. I looked up and saw the four posts rising hideously
bare. In the middle of the bed-top was a huge wooden screw that had
evidently worked it down through a hole in the ceiling, just as
ordinary presses are worked down on the substance selected for
compression. The frightful apparatus moved without making the
faintest noise. There had been no creaking as it came down; there
was now not the faintest sound from the room above. Amidst a dead
and awful silence I beheld before me--in the nineteenth century, and
in the civilized capital of France--such a machine for secret murder
by suffocation as might have existed in the worst days of the
Inquisition, in the lonely inns among the Hartz Mountains, in the
mysterious tribunals of Westphalia! Still, as I looked on it, I
could not move, I could hardly breathe, but I began to recover the
power of thinking, and in a moment I discovered the murderous
conspiracy framed against me in all its horror.

My cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged too strongly. I had
been saved from being smothered by having taken an overdose of some
narcotic. How I had chafed and fretted at the fever fit which had
preserved my life by keeping me awake! How recklessly I had confided
myself to the two wretches who had led me into this room, determined,
for the sake of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep by the surest and
most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplishing my destruction!
How many men, winners like me, had slept, as I had proposed to sleep,
in that bed, and had never been seen or heard of more! I shuddered
at the bare idea of it.

But ere long all thought was again suspended by the sight of the
murderous canopy moving once more. After it had remained on the
bed--as nearly as I could guess--about ten minutes, it began to move
up again. The villains who worked it from above evidently believed
that their purpose was now accomplished. Slowly and silently, as it
had descended, that horrible bed-top rose toward its former place.
When it reached the upper extremities of the four posts, it reached
the ceiling too. Neither hole nor screw could be seen; the bed
became in appearance an ordinary bed again--the canopy an ordinary
canopy--even to the most suspicious eyes.

Now, for the first time, I was able to move--to rise from my
knees--to dress myself in my upper clothing--and to consider of how I
should escape. If I betrayed by the smallest noise that the attempt
to suffocate me had failed, I was certain to be murdered. Had I made
any noise already? I listened intently, looking toward the door.

No! no footsteps in the passage outside--no sound of a tread, light
or heavy, in the room above--absolute silence everywhere. Besides
locking and bolting my door, I had moved an old wooden chest against
it, which I had found under the bed. To remove this chest (my blood
ran cold as I thought of what its contents _might_ be!) without
making some disturbance was impossible; and, moreover, to think of
escaping through the house, now barred up for the night, was sheer
insanity. Only one chance was left me--the window. I stole to it on
tiptoe.

My bedroom was on the first floor, above an entresol, and looked into
the back street. I raised my hand to open the window, knowing that
on that action hung, by the merest hair-breadth, my chance of safety.
They keep vigilant watch in a House of Murder. If any part of the
frame cracked, if the hinge creaked, I was a lost man! It must have
occupied me at least five minutes, reckoning by time--five hours
reckoning by suspense--to open that window. I succeeded in doing it
silently--in doing it with all the dexterity of a house-breaker--and
then looked down into the street. To leap the distance beneath me
would be almost certain destruction! Next, I looked round at the
sides of the house. Down the left side ran a thick water-pipe--it
passed close by the outer edge of the window. The moment I saw the
pipe, I knew I was saved. My breath came and went freely for the
first time since I had seen the canopy of the bed moving down upon me!

To some men the means of escape which I had discovered might have
seemed difficult and dangerous enough--to me the prospect of slipping
down the pipe into the street did not suggest even a thought of
peril. I had always been accustomed, by the practise of gymnastics,
to keep up my schoolboy powers as a daring and expert climber; and
knew that my head, hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in any
hazards of ascent or descent. I had already got one leg over the
window-sill, when I remembered the handkerchief filled with money
under my pillow. I could well have afforded to leave it behind me,
but I was revengefully determined that the miscreants of the
gambling-house should miss their plunder as well as their victim. So
I went back to the bed and tied the heavy handkerchief at my back by
my cravat.

Just as I had made it tight and fixed it in a comfortable place, I
thought I heard a sound of breathing outside the door. The chill
feeling of horror ran through me again as I listened. No! dead
silence still in the passage--I had only heard the night air blowing
softly into the room. The next moment I was on the window-sill--and
the next I had a firm grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees.

I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I thought I
should, and immediately set off at the top of my speed to a branch
"Prefecture" of Police, which I knew was situated in the immediate
neighborhood. A "Sub-prefect," and several picked men among his
subordinates, happened to be up, maturing, I believe, some scheme for
discovering the perpetrator of a mysterious murder which all Paris
was talking of just then. When I began my story, in a breathless
hurry and in very bad French, I could see that the Sub-prefect
suspected me of being a drunken Englishman who had robbed somebody;
but he soon altered his opinion as I went on, and before I had
anything like concluded, he shoved all the papers before him into a
drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with another (for I was
bareheaded), ordered a file of soldiers, desired his expert followers
to get ready all sorts of tools for breaking open doors and ripping
up brick flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and familiar
manner possible, to lead me with him out of the house. I will
venture to say that when the Sub-prefect was a little boy, and was
taken for the first time to the play, he was not half as much pleased
as he was now at the job in prospect for him at the gambling-house!

Away we went through the streets, the Sub-prefect cross-examining and
congratulating me in the same breath as we marched at the head of our
formidable _posse comitatus_. Sentinels were placed at the back and
front of the house the moment we got to it, a tremendous battery of
knocks was directed against the door; a light appeared at a window; I
was told to conceal myself behind the police--then came more knocks,
and a cry of "Open in the name of the law!" At that terrible summons
bolts and locks gave way before an invisible hand, and the moment
after the Sub-prefect was in the passage, confronting a waiter half
dressed and ghastly pale. This was the short dialogue which
immediately took place:

"We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping in this house?"

"He went away hours ago."

"He did no such thing. His friend went away; _he_ remained. Show us
to his bedroom!"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-prefect, he is not here! he--"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Garçon, he is. He slept here--he didn't
find your bed comfortable--he came to us to complain of it--here he
is among my men--and here am I ready to look for a flea or two in his
bedstead. Renaudin! (calling to one of the subordinates, and
pointing to the waiter), collar that man, and tie his hands behind
him. Now, then, gentlemen, let us walk upstairs!"

Every man and woman in the house was secured--the "Old Soldier" the
first. Then I identified the bed in which I had slept, and then we
went into the room above.

No object that was at all extraordinary appeared in any part of it.
The Sub-prefect looked round the place, commanded everybody to be
silent, stamped twice on the floor, called for a candle, looked
attentively at the spot he had stamped on, and ordered the flooring
there to be carefully taken up. This was done in no time. Lights
were produced, and we saw a deep raftered cavity between the floor of
this room and the ceiling of the room beneath. Through this cavity
there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron thickly greased; and
inside the case appeared the screw, which communicated with the
bed-top below. Extra lengths of screw, freshly oiled; levers covered
with felt; all the complete upper works of a heavy press--constructed
with infernal ingenuity so as to join the fixtures below, and when
taken to pieces again to go into the smallest possible compass--were
next discovered and pulled out on the floor. After some little
difficulty the Sub-prefect succeeded in putting the machinery
together, and, leaving his men to work it, descended with me to the
bedroom. The smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so
noiselessly as I had seen it lowered. When I mentioned this to the
Sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had a terrible
significance. "My men," said he, "are working down the bed-top for
the first time--the men whose money you won were in better practise."

We left the house in the sole possession of two police agents--every
one of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot. The
Sub-prefect, after taking down my "procès verbal" in his office,
returned with me to my hotel to get my passport. "Do you think," I
asked, as I gave it to him, "that any men have really been smothered
in that bed, as they tried to smother _me_?"

"I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue," answered
the Sub-prefect, "in whose pocketbooks were found letters stating
that they had committed suicide in the Seine, because they had lost
everything at the gaming-table. Do I know how many of those men
entered the same gambling-house that _you_ entered? won as _you_ won?
took that bed as _you_ took it? slept in it? were smothered in it?
and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter of
explanation written by the murderers and placed in their pocketbooks?
No man can say how many or how few have suffered the fate from which
you have escaped. The people of the gambling-house kept their
bedstead machinery a secret from us--even from the police! The dead
kept the rest of the secret for them. Good-night, or rather
good-morning, Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office again at nine
o'clock--in the meantime, au revoir!"

The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined and reexamined;
the gambling-house was strictly searched all through from top to
bottom; the prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the
less guilty among them made a confession. I discovered that the Old
Soldier was the master of the gambling-house--_justice_ discovered
that he had been drummed out of the army as a vagabond years ago;
that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since; that he was
in possession of stolen property, which the owners identified; and
that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made
my cup of coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead. There
appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior persons attached
to the house knew anything of the suffocating machinery; and they
received the benefit of that doubt, by being treated simply as
thieves and vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his two head
myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my
coffee was imprisoned for I forget how many years; the regular
attendants at the gambling-house were considered "suspicious," and
placed under "surveillance"; and I became, for one whole week (which
is a long time), the head "lion" in Parisian society. My adventure
was dramatized by three illustrious play-makers, but never saw
theatrical daylight; for the censorship forbade the introduction on
the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house bedstead.

One good result was produced by my adventure, which any censorship
must have approved: it cured me of ever again trying "Rouge et Noir"
as an amusement. The sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards and
heaps of money on it, will henceforth be forever associated in my
mind with the sight of a bed canopy descending to suffocate me in the
silence and darkness of the night.

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES

BY CHARLES DICKENS

_With such reality and vividness has Dickens drawn the character of
Bill Sikes that he stands to the world a typical example of the bully
and ruffian. "Oliver Twist," from which the story is taken, is a
picture of vice and crime, though containing touches of great pathos
and tenderness. Dickens, in his writings, drew popular attention to
public wrongs and abuses suffered by the lower classes of London and
was one of the most potent influences of the Nineteenth Century
toward social reform in England._

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES

By CHARLES DICKENS

It was nearly two hours before daybreak; that time which, in the
autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the
streets are silent and deserted; when even sound appears to slumber,
and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this
still and silent hour that the Jew sat watching in his old lair, with
face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, that he
looked less like a man than like some hideous phantom: moist from the
grave, and worried by an evil spirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet,
with his face turned toward a wasting candle that stood upon a table
by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed
in thought, he bit his long black nails, he disclosed among his
toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's.

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor lay Noah Claypole, fast
asleep. Toward him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an
instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which, with
long-burned wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down
in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy
elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable
scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; an
utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up;
bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear
of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage
kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which,
following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot
through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest
purpose lay working at his heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to
take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be
attracted by a footstep in the street.

"At last," muttered the Jew, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At
last!"

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and
presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who
carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his
outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.

"There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of
that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to
get; I thought I should have been here three hours ago."

Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard,
sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off
the robber for an instant during this action; and now that they sat
over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with
his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the
emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily
drew back his chair and surveyed him with a look of real affright.

"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?"

The Jew raised his right hand and shook his trembling forefinger in
the air; but his passion was so great that the power of speech was
for the moment gone.

"Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm.
"He's gone mad. I must look to myself here."

"No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not--you're not
the person, Bill. I've no--no fault to find with you."

"Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him,
and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket.
"That's lucky--for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter."

"I've got that to tell you, Bill," said the Jew, drawing his chair
nearer, "will make you worse than me."

"Ay?" returned the robber, with an incredulous air. "Tell away.
Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost."

"Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own
mind, already."

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face,
and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clinched
his coat-collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.

"Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of
breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain
words. Out with it, you thundering old cur--out with it!"

"Suppose that lad that's lying there--" Fagin began.

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not
previously observed him. "Well?" he said, resuming his former
position.

"Suppose that lad," pursued the Jew, "was to peach--to blow upon us
all--first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then
having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses,
describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we
might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and
besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less--of his
own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and
brought to it on bread and water--but of his own fancy; to please his
own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested
against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew,
his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?"

"What then!" replied Sikes, with a tremendous oath. "If he was left
alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot
into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head."

"What if _I_ did it?" cried the Jew, almost in a yell. "_I_ that
know so much, and could hang so many besides myself!"

"I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white
at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get
me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you
with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the
people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising
his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded wagon
had gone over it."

"You would?"

"Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me."

"If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or--"

"I don't care who," replied Sikes, impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd
serve them the same."

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent,
stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse
him. Sikes leaned forward in his chair, looking on with his hands
upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and
preparation was to end in.

"Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an
expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with
marked emphasis. "He's tired--tired with watching for _her_ so
long--watching for _her_, Bill."

"Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back.

The Jew made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled
him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated
several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked
sleepily about him.

"Tell me that again--once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew,
pointing to Sikes as he spoke.

"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.

"That about--NANCY," said the Jew, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as
if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You
followed her?"

"Yes."

"To London Bridge?"

"Yes."

"Where she met two people?"

"So she did."

"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord
before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which
she did--and to describe him, which she did--and to tell her what
house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did--and where it
could be best watched from, which she did--and what time the people
went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every
word without a threat, without a murmur--she did--did she not?" cried
the Jew, half mad with fury.

"All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it
was!"

"What did they say about last Sunday?" demanded the Jew.

"About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why, I told yer
that before."

"Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes,
and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.

"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to
have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she
didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't."

"Why--why?" interrupted the Jew, triumphantly. "Tell him that."

"Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told
them of before," replied Noah.

"What more of him?" cried the Jew. "What more of the man she had
told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that."

"Why, that she couldn't very easily get out-of-doors unless he knew
where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went
to see the lady, she--ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it,
that it did--she gave him a drink of laudanum."

"Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me
go!"

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted,
wildly and furiously, up the stairs.

"Bill, Bill!" cried the Jew, following him hastily. "A word. Only a
word."

The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was
unable to open the door, on which he was expending fruitless oaths
and violence when the Jew came panting up.

"Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me
out, I say."

"Hear me speak a word," rejoined the Jew, laying his hand upon the
lock. "You won't be--"

"Well?" replied the other.

"You won't be--too--violent, Bill?" whined the Jew.

The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see
each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a
fire in the eyes of both which could not be mistaken.

"I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now
useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too
bold."

Sikes made no reply; but pulling open the door, of which the Jew had
turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.

Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning
his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky or
lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with
savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained
jaw seemed starting through his skin, the robber held on his headlong
course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached
his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up
the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and
lifting the heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.

The girl was lying, half dressed, upon it. He had roused her from
her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.

"Get up!" said the man.

"It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at
his return.

"It is," was the reply. "Get up."

There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the
candlestick and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of
early day, without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.

"Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. "There's
light enough for wot I've got to do."

"Bill," said the girl, in a low voice of alarm, "why do you look like
that at me?"

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated
nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and
throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once
toward the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.

"Bill, Bill!" gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal
fear--"I--I won't scream or cry--not once--hear me--speak to me--tell
me what I have done?"

"You know, you she-devil!" returned the robber, suppressing his
breath. "You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard."

"Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,"
rejoined the girl, clinging to him. "Bill, dear Bill, you can not
have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only
this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save
yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you can not throw me
off. Bill, Bill, for dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop
before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty
soul I have!"

The man struggled violently to release his arms; but those of the
girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not
tear them away.

"Bill," cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast,
"the gentleman, and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in
some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace.
Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same
mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place,
and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except
in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to
repent. They told me so--I feel it now--but we must have time--a
little, little time!"

The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The
certainty of immediate detection if he fired flashed across his mind
even in the midst of his fury, and he beat it twice with all the
force he could summon upon the upturned face that almost touched his
own.

She staggered and fell, nearly blinded with the blood that rained
down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with
difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white
handkerchief--Rose Maylie's own--and holding it up, in her folded
hands, as high toward Heaven as her feeble strength would allow,
breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer, staggering
backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand,
seized a heavy club and struck her down.

Of all bad deeds that under cover of the darkness had been committed
within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the
worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the
morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.

The sun--the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new
life, and hope, and freshness to man--burst upon the crowded city in
clear and radiant glory. Through costly colored glass and
paper-mended window, though cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it
shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered woman
lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would stream in. If
the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it,
now, in all that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan
and motion of the hand; and with terror added to rage, he had struck
and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to
fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving toward him, than to see them
glaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore
that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had
plucked it off again. And there was the body--mere flesh and blood,
no more--but such flesh, and so much blood!

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it.
There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light
cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that
frightened him, sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it
broke; and then piled it on the coals to burn away and smolder into
ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots
that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burned
them. How those stains were dispersed about the room! The very feet
of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had never once turned his back upon the corpse; no,
not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward,
toward the door, dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his
feet anew and carry out new evidences of the crime into the streets.
He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that
nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still
drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she never saw
again. It lay nearly under there. _He_ knew that. God, how the sun
poured down upon the very spot!

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of
the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.

He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which
stands the stone in honor of Whittington; turned down to Highgate
Hill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to
the right again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking
the footpath across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came out on
Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Health, he
mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the
villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion
of the Heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid
himself down under a hedge, and slept.

Soon he was up again, and away--not far into the country, but back
toward London by the high-road--then back again--then over another
part of the same ground as he had already traversed--then wandering
up and down in fields, and lying on ditches' brinks to rest, and
starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble
on again.

Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat
and drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of
most people's way. Thither he directed his steps--running sometimes,
and sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail's
pace, or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with his
stick. But when he got there, all the people he met--the very
children at the doors--seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he
turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he
had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he lingered on the
Heath, uncertain where to go.

He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to
the old place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the
wane, and still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and
round, and still lingered about the same spot.

At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.

It was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the
dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the
hill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the
little street, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light
had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and
some country laborers were drinking before it. They made room for
the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, and ate and
drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom he cast a morsel of food
from time to time.

The conversation of the men assembled here turned upon the
neighboring land and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted,
upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous
Sunday; the young men present considering him very old, and the old
men present declaring him to have been quite young--not older, one
white-haired grandfather said, than he was--with ten or fifteen years
of life in him at least--if he had taken care; if he had taken care.

There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm, in this.
The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in
his corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half awakened
by the noisy entrance of a new-comer.

This was an antic-fellow, half pedler and half mountebank, who
traveled about the country on foot, to vend hones, strops, razors,
washballs, harness paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap
perfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a case
slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely
jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his
supper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously
contrived to unite business with amusement.

"And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?" asked a grinning
countryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.

"This," said the fellow, producing one--"this is the infallible and
invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt,
mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen,
cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or
woolen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains,
paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with
the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her
honor, she has only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at
once--for it's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove his, he has
only need to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond
question--for it's quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a
great deal nastier in the flavor, consequently the more credit in
taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a
square!"

There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly
hesitated. The vender observing this, increased in loquacity.

"It's all bought up as fast as it can be made," said the fellow.
"There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic
battery, always a-working upon it, and they can't make it fast
enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the widows
is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a year for each of the
children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two
halfpence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy.
One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains,
water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains.
Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in the company that I'll
take clean out before he can order me a pint of ale."

"Hah!" cried Sikes, starting up. "Give that back."

"I'll take it clean out, sir," replied the man, winking to the
company, "before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen,
all observe the dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a
shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain,
fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain,
mud-stain, or blood-stain--"

The man got no further, for Sikes, with a hideous imprecation,
overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the
house.

With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had
fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding
that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him
some drunken sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out
of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the
street, was walking past, when he recognized the mail from London,
and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost
knew what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.

The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A
man, dressed like a gamekeeper, came up at the moment, and he handed
him a basket which lay ready on the pavement.

"That's for your people," said the guard. "Now, look alive in there,
will you. Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't ready night afore last; this
won't do, you know!"

"Anything new up in town, Ben?" asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to
the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.

"No, nothing that I knows on," replied the man, pulling on his
gloves. "Corn's up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down
Spitalfields way, but I don't reckon much upon it."

"Oh, that's quite true," said a gentleman inside who was looking out
of the window. "And a dreadful murder it was."

"Was it, sir?" rejoined the guard, touching his hat. "Man or woman,
pray, sir?"

"A woman," replied the gentleman. "It is supposed--"

"Now, Ben," cried the coachman, impatiently.

"Damn that 'ere bag," cried the guard; "are you gone to sleep in
there?"

"Coming!" cried the office-keeper, running out.

"Coming," growled the guard. "Ah, and so's the young 'ooman of
property that's going to take a fancy to me, but I don't know when.
Here, give hold. All ri--ight!"

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.

Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he
had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt
where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which
leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.

He went on, doggedly; but as he left the town behind him and plunged
into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe
creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before
him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some
fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense
that haunted him of that morning's ghastly figure following at his
heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest
item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk
along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves; and every
breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped, it
did the same. If he ran, it followed--not running too: that would
have been a relief; but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery
of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or
fell.

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat
this phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose
on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him
and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but
it was behind him now--always. He leaned his back against a bank,
and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night
sky. He threw himself upon the road--on his back upon the road. At
his head it stood, silent, erect, and still--a living gravestone,
with its epitaph in blood.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that
Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in
one long minute of that agony of fear.

There was a shed in a field he passed that offered shelter for the
night. Before the door were three tall poplar trees, which made it
very dark within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal
wail. He _could not_ walk on till daylight came again; and here he
stretched himself close to the wall--to undergo new torture.

For now a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than
that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so
lustreless and so glassy that he had better borne to see them than
think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in
themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were but two, but
they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room
with every well-known object--some, indeed, that he would have
forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory--each in its
accustomed place. The body was in _its_ place, and its eyes were as
he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field
without. The figure was behind him. He reentered the shed, and
shrank down once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid
himself along.

And here he remained, in such terror as none but he can know,
trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore,
when suddenly there arose upon the night wind the noise of distant
shouting and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any
sound of men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real
cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his strength and
energy at the prospect of personal danger; and, springing to his
feet, rushed into the open air.

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of
sparks, and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame,
lighting the atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke
in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new
voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of "Fire!" mingled
with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the
crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot
aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked.
There were people there--men and women--light, bustle. It was like
new life to him. He darted onward--straight, headlong--dashing
through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as the
dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to
and fro, some endeavoring to drag the frightened horses from the
stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and outhouses, and
others coming laden from the burning pile, amid a shower of falling
sparks and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where
doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire:
walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and
iron poured down, white-hot, upon the ground. Women and children
shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers.
The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spurting and hissing of the
water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar.
He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and, flying from memory and
himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng.

Hither and thither he dived that night: now working at the pumps, and
now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage
himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the
ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and
trembled with his weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones,
in every part of that great fire was he; but he bore a charmed life,
and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till
morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins remained.

This mad excitement over, there returned, with tenfold force, the
dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about
him, for the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the
subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his
finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an
engine where some men were seated, and they called to him to share in
their refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a
draft of beer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking about
the murder. "He has gone to Birmingham, they say," said one; "but
they'll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night
there'll be a cry all through the country."

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground;
then lay down in a lane, and had a long but broken and uneasy sleep.
He wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with
the fear of another solitary night.

Suddenly he took the desperate resolution of going back to London.

"There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," he thought. "A
good hiding-place, too. They'll never expect to nab me there, after
this country scent. Why can't I lay by for a week or so, and,
forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it."

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least
frequented roads, began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed
within a short distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk
by a circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it which
he had fixed on for his destination.

The dog, though--if any descriptions of him were out, it would not be
forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him.
This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets.
He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond,
picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.

The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations
were making; and, whether his instinct apprehended something of their
purpose, or the robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than
ordinary, skulked a little further in the rear than usual, and
cowered as he came more slowly along. When his master halted at the
brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.

"Do you hear me call? Come here!" cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped
to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and
started back.

"Come back!" said the robber, stamping on the ground.

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose
and called him again.

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, turned, and scoured
away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the
expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length
he resumed his journey.

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe
abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels
on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of
close-built, low-roofed houses, there exists, at the present day, the
filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many
localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name,
to the great mass of its inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of
close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and
poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be
supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are
heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing
apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the
house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed laborers of the
lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged
children, and the very raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way
with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from
the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and
deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that bear great piles of
merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every
corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less frequented
than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering
house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem
to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed, half hesitating to
fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have
almost eaten away, and every imaginable sign of desolation and
neglect.

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the borough of Southwark,
stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet
deep, and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called
Mill Pond, but known in these days as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or
inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by
opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old
name. At such times a stranger, looking from one of the wooden
bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of
the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows
buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the
water up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the
houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the
scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half
a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath;
windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out on which to dry
the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so
confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and
squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out
above the mud and threatening to fall into it--as some have done;
dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive
lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and
garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls
are crumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are
falling into the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield
no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery
suits came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate
island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are broken open and
entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live and
there they die. They must have powerful motives for a secret
residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a
refuge in Jacob's Island.

In an upper room of one of these houses--a detached house of fair
size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and
window, of which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already
described--there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other
every now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and
expectation, sat for some time in profound and gloomy silence. One
of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a
robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in in some
old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might
probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned
transport, and his name was Kags.

"I wish," said Toby, turning to Mr. Chitling, "that you had picked
out some other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not
come here, my fine feller."

"Why didn't you, blunderhead?" said Kags.

"Well, I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than
this," replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.

"Why, look'e, young gentleman," said Toby, "when a man keeps himself
so very ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house
over his head, with nobody prying and smelling about it, it's rather
a startling thing to have the honor of a visit from a young gentleman
(however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards
with at conweniency) circumstanced as you are."

"Especially when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping
with him that's arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts,
and is too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his
return," added Mr. Kags.

There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to
abandon as hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual
devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said:

"When was Fagin took, then?"

"Just at dinner-time--two o'clock this afternoon. Charley and I made
our lucky up the wash'us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty
water-butt, head downward; but his legs were so precious long that
they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too."

"And Bet?"

"Poor Bet! She went to see the body, to speak to who it was,"
replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, "and went
off mad, screaming and raving, and beating her head against the
boards; so they put a strait weskut on her and took her to the
hospital--and there she is."

"Wot's come of young Bates?" demanded Kags.

"He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here
soon," replied Chitling. "There's nowhere else to go to now, for the
people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken--I
went up there and see it with my own eyes--is filled with traps."

"This is a smash," observed Toby, biting his lips. "There's more
than one will go with this."

"The sessions are on," said Kags: "if they get the inquest over, and
Bolter turns King's evidence, as of course he will, from what he's
said already, they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and
get the trial on on Friday, and he'll swing in six days from this, by
G--!"

"You should have heard the people groan," said Chitling; "the
officers fought like devils, or they'd have torn him away. He was
down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way
along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and
bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I
can see 'em now not able to stand upright with the pressing of the
mob, and dragging him along amongst 'em; I can see the people jumping
up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at
him like wild beasts; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard,
and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the
centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his
heart out!"

The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his
ears, and with his eyes closed, got up and paced violently to and
fro, like one distracted.

While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with
their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the
stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the
window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an
open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to
be seen.

"What's the meaning of this?" said Toby, when they had returned. "He
can't be coming here. I--I--hope not."

"If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags,
stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor.
"Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint."

"He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitting, after watching the
dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud--lame--half blind--he
must have come a long way."

"Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the
other kens, of course, and, finding them filled with strangers, come
on here where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have
come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!"

"He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name)--"he can't
have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling.

Toby shook his head.

"If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he
did it. No. I think he's got out of the country and left the dog
behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be
so easy."

This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the
right; and the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to
sleep, without more notice from anybody.

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and
placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had
made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and
uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer
together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in
whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of
the murdered woman lay in the next room.

They had sat thus some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried
knocking at the door below.

"Young Bates," said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he
felt himself.

The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like
that.

Crackit went to the window, and, shaking all over, drew in his head.
There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough.
The dog, too, was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the
door.

"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle.

"Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man, in a hoarse voice.

"None. He must come in."

"Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from
the chimney-piece, and lighting it with such a trembling hand that
the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished.

Crackit went down to the door, and returned, followed by a man with
the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied
over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched
face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted
flesh, short, thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room,
but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance
over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall--as close as it
would go--ground it against it--and sat down.

Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in
silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was
instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all
three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before.

"How came that dog here?" he asked.

"Alone. Three hours ago."

"To-night's paper says that Fagin's taken. Is it true, or a lie?"

"True."

They were silent again.

"Damn you all," said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead.
"Have you nothing to say to me?"

There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.

"You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit,
"do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is
over?"

"You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person
addressed, after some hesitation.

Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him, rather trying
to turn his head than actually doing it, and said: "Is--it--the
body--is it buried?"

They shook their heads.

"Why isn't it?" he retorted, with the same glance behind him. "Wot
do they keep such ugly things above the ground for?--Who's that
knocking?"

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that
there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates
behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy
entered the room he encountered his figure.

"Toby," said the boy, falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes toward
him, "why didn't you tell me this downstairs?"

There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the
three that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad.
Accordingly, he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with
him.

"Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still
further.

"Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward, "don't you--don't you know
me?"

"Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating and
looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You
monster!"

The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other, but Sikes's
eyes sank gradually to the ground.

"Witness you three," cried the boy, shaking his clenched fist and
becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three--I'm
not afraid of him--if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I
will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or
if he dares, but if I'm here, I'll give him up. I'd give him up if
he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a
man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!"

Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent
gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon
the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy, and the
suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground.

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no
interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the
former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his
hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's
breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might.

The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him
down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back
with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights
gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of
hurried footsteps--endless they seemed in number--crossing the
nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the
crowd, for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven
pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more
thickly and noisily on. Then came a loud knocking at the door, and
then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would
have made the boldest quail.

"Help!" shrieked the boy, in a voice that rent the air. "He's here!
Break down the door!"

"In the King's name," cried the voices without, and the hoarse cry
rose again, but louder.

"Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never
open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down
the door!"

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower
window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzza burst from
the crowd, giving the listener for the first time some adequate idea
of its immense extent.

"Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching
hell-babe," cried Sikes, fiercely, running to and fro, and dragging
the boy now as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door.
Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the
downstairs door fast?"

"Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two
men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered.

"The panels--are they strong?"

"Lined with sheet-iron."

"And the windows too?"

"Yes, and the windows."

"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and
menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!"

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could
exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who
were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers
to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man
on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting
through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the
window, in a voice that rose above all others: "Twenty guineas to the
man who brings a ladder!"

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some
called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to
and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again;
some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some
pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the
progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up
by the waterspout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro,
in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind,
and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.

"The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room
and shut the faces out--"the tide was in as I came up. Give me a
rope, a long rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly
Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three
more murders and kill myself."

The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the
murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried
up to the house-top.

All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked
up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and
that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this
aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without to guard the
back; and thus when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by
the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in
front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other
in one unbroken stream.

He planted a board which he had carried up with him for the purpose
so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty
to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over
the low parapet.

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.

The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his
motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived
it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant
execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers.
Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to
know its meaning took up the sound: it echoed and reechoed; it seemed
as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him.

On pressed the people from the front--on, on, on, in a strong
struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring
torch to light them up, and show them out in all their wrath and
passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been
entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there
were tiers and tiers of faces in every window, and cluster upon
cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge
(and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd
upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from
which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.

"They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge. "Hurrah!"

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.

"I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from the same
quarter, "to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here till he
comes to ask me for it."

There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the
crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first
called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly
turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people
at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted
their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse
that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left; each man
crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with
impatience to get near the door and look upon the criminal as the
officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were
pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden underfoot
in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely
blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the
space in front of the house and the unavailing struggles of others to
extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was
distracted from the murderer, although the eagerness for his capture
was increased.

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the
crowd and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change
with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet,
determined to make an effort for his life by dropping into the ditch.

Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise
within the house, which announced that an entrance had really been
effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one
end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made
a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a
second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less
distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready
in his hand to cut it then and drop.

At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous
to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman
before mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge
as to resist the force of the crowd and retain his position)
earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower
himself down--at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him
on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of
terror.

"The eyes again!" he cried, in an unearthly screech.

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled
over the parapet. The noose was at his neck. It ran up with his
weight, tight as a bowstring, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He
fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific
convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife
clenched in his stiffening hand.

The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The
murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting
aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people
to come and take him out, for God's sake.

A dog which had lain concealed till now ran backward and forward on
the parapet with a dismal howl, and, collecting himself for a spring,
jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into
the ditch, turning completely over as he went, and, striking his head
against a stone, dashed out his brains.

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN

BY BRET HARTE

_Francis Bret Harte, born in 1839 at Albany, N. Y., left his home at
the age of fifteen for California, in which pioneer State he
accumulated, in seventeen years' experience as school-teacher, gold
miner, printer, journalist, and editor, so much and so rich literary
material that he spent the remaining thirty years of his life in
working it up into "copy." He won an international reputation by the
"Luck of Roaring Camp," published in 1868, and the "Outcasts of Poker
Flat," published in 1869. He lived abroad from 1878 to the time of
his death (1902), publishing many volumes of California stories, all
distinguished by the charm which won him his early fame._

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN

By BRET HARTE

The mail stage had just passed Laurel Run--so rapidly that the
whirling cloud of dust dragged with it down the steep grade from the
summit hung over the level long after the stage had vanished, and
then, drifting away, slowly sifted a red precipitate over the hot
platform of the Laurel Run Post-Office.

Out of this cloud presently emerged the neat figure of the
Postmistress with the mail bag which had been dexterously flung at
her feet from the top of the passing vehicle. A dozen loungers
eagerly stretched out their hands to assist her, but the warning:
"It's agin the rules, boys, for any but her to touch it," from a
bystander, and a coquettish shake of the head from the Postmistress
herself--much more effective than any official interdict--withheld
them. The bag was not heavy--Laurel Run was too recent a settlement
to have attracted much correspondence--and the young woman, having
pounced upon her prey with a certain feline instinct, dragged it, not
without difficulty, behind the partitioned enclosure in the office,
and locked the door. Her pretty face, momentarily visible through
the window, was slightly flushed with the exertion, and the loose
ends of her fair hair, wet with perspiration, curled themselves over
her forehead into tantalizing little rings. But the window shutter
was quickly closed, and this momentary but charming vision withdrawn
from the waiting public.

"Guv'ment oughter have more sense than to make a woman pick mail bags
outer the road," said Jo Simmons, sympathetically. "'Tain't in her
day's work anyhow; Guv'ment oughter hand 'em over to her like a lady;
it's rich enough and ugly enough."

"'Tain't Guv'ment; it's that Stage Company's airs and graces,"
interrupted a newcomer. "They think it mighty fine to go beltin' by,
makin' everybody take their dust--just because stoppin' ain't in
their contract. Why, if that express-man who chucked down the bag
had any feelin's for a lady--" but he stopped here at the amused
faces of his auditors.

"Guess you don't know much o' that expressman's feelin's, stranger,"
said Simmons grimly. "Why, you oughter see him just nussin' that bag
like a baby as he comes tearin' down the grade, and then rise up and
sorter heave it to Mrs. Baker ez if it was a five dollar bokay! His
feelin's for her! Why, he's give himself so dead away to her that
we're looking for him to forget what he's doin' next, and just come
sailin' down hisself at her feet."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the partition, Mrs. Baker had brushed
the red dust from the padlocked bag, and removed what seemed to be a
supplementary package attached to it by a wire. Opening it she found
a handsome scent-bottle, evidently a superadded gift from the devoted
express-man. This she put aside with a slight smile and the murmured
word, "Foolishness." But when she had unlocked the bag, even its
sacred interior was also profaned by a covert parcel from the
adjacent postmaster at Burnt Ridge, containing a gold "specimen"
brooch and some circus tickets. It was laid aside with the other.
This also was vanity and--presumably--vexation of spirit.

There were seventeen letters in all, of which five were for
herself--and yet the proportion was small that morning. Two of them
were marked "Official Business," and were promptly put by with
feminine discernment; but in another compartment than that holding
the presents. Then the shutter was opened, and the task of delivery
commenced.

It was accompanied with a social peculiarity that had in time become
a habit of Laurel Run. As the young woman delivered the letters, in
turn, to the men who were patiently drawn up in Indian file, she made
that simple act a medium of privileged but limited conversation on
special or general topics--gay or serious as the case might be--or
the temperament of the man suggested. That it was almost always of a
complimentary character on their part may be readily imagined; but it
was invariably characterized by an element of refined restraint,
and--whether from some implied understanding or individual sense of
honor--it never passed the bounds of conventionality or a certain
delicacy of respect. The delivery was consequently more or less
protracted, but when each man had exchanged his three or four
minutes' conversation with the fair Postmistress--a conversation at
times impeded by bashfulness or timidity, on his part solely, or
restricted often to vague smiling--he resignedly made way for the
next. It was a formal levee, mitigated by the informality of rustic
tact, great good humor, and infinite patience, and would have been
amusing, had it not always been terribly in earnest and at times
touching. For it was peculiar to the place and the epoch, and indeed
implied the whole history of Mrs. Baker.

She was the wife of John Baker, foreman of "The Last Chance," now for
a year lying dead under half a mile of crushed and beaten in tunnel
at Burnt Ridge. There had been a sudden outcry from the depths at
high hot noontide one day, and John had rushed from his cabin--his
young, foolish, flirting wife clinging to him--to answer that
despairing cry of his imprisoned men. There was one exit that he
alone knew which might be yet held open, among falling walls and
tottering timbers, long enough to set them free. For one moment only
the strong man hesitated between her entreating arms and his
brothers' despairing cry. But she rose suddenly with a pale face,
and said, "Go, John; I will wait for you here." He went, the men
were freed--but she had waited for him ever since!

Yet in the shock of the calamity and in the after struggles of that
poverty which had come to the ruined camp, she had scarcely changed.
But the men had. Although she was to all appearances the same giddy,
pretty Betsy Baker, who had been so disturbing to the younger
members, they seemed to be no longer disturbed by her. A certain
subdued awe and respect, as if the martyred spirit of John Baker
still held his arm around her, appeared to have come upon them all.
They held their breath as this pretty woman, whose brief mourning had
not seemed to affect her cheerfulness or even playfulness of spirit,
passed before them. But she stood by her cabin and the camp--the
only woman in a settlement of forty men--during the darkest hours of
their fortune. Helping them to wash and cook, and ministering to
their domestic needs; the sanctity of her cabin was, however, always
kept as inviolable as if it had been his tomb. No one exactly knew
why, for it was only a tacit instinct; but even one or two who had
not scrupled to pay court to Betsy Baker during John Baker's life
shrank from even a suggestion of familiarity toward the woman who had
said that she would "wait for him there."

When brighter days came and the settlement had increased by one or
two families, and laggard capital had been hurried up to relieve the
still beleaguered and locked-up wealth of Burnt Ridge, the needs of
the community and the claims of the widow of John Baker were so well
told in political quarters that the post-office of Laurel Run was
created expressly for her. Every man participated in the building of
the pretty yet substantial edifice--the only public building of
Laurel Run--that stood in the dust of the great highway, half a mile
from the settlement. There she was installed for certain hours of
the day, for she could not be prevailed upon to abandon John's cabin,
and here, with all the added respect due to a public functionary, she
was secure in her privacy.

But the blind devotion of Laurel Run to John Baker's relict did not
stop here. In its zeal to assure the Government authorities of the
necessity for a post-office, and to secure a permanent competency to
the postmistress, there was much embarrassing extravagance. During
the first week the sale of stamps at Laurel Run Post-Office was
unprecedented in the annals of the Department. Fancy prices were
given for the first issue; then they were bought wildly, recklessly,
unprofitably, and on all occasions. Complimentary congratulation at
the little window invariably ended with "and a dollar's worth of
stamps, Mrs. Baker." It was felt to be supremely delicate to buy
only the highest priced stamps, without reference to their adequacy;
then mere quantity was sought; then outgoing letters were all
overpaid, and stamped in outrageous proportion to their weight and
even size. The imbecility of this, and its probable effect on the
reputation of Laurel Run at the General Post-Office, being pointed
out by Mrs. Baker, stamps were adopted as local currency, and even
for decorative purposes on mirrors and the walls of cabins.
Everybody wrote letters, with the result, however, that those sent
were ludicrously and suspiciously in excess of those received. To
obviate this, select parties made forced journeys to Hickory Hill,
the next post-office, with letters and circulars addressed to
themselves at Laurel Run. How long the extravagance would have
continued is not known, but it was not until it was rumored that, in
consequence of this excessive flow of business, the Department had
concluded that a post_master_ would be better fitted for the place
that it abated, and a compromise was effected with the General Office
by a permanent salary to the Postmistress.

Such was the history of Mrs. Baker, who had just finished her
afternoon levee, nodded a smiling "good-by" to her last customer, and
closed her shutter again. Then she took up her own letters, but,
before reading them, glanced, with a pretty impatience, at the two
official envelopes addressed to herself, which she had shelved. They
were generally a "lot of new rules," or notifications, or "absurd"
questions which had nothing to do with Laurel Run, and only bothered
her and "made her head ache," and she had usually referred them to
her admiring neighbor at Hickory Hill for explanation, who had
generally returned them to her with the brief endorsement, "Purp
stuff, don't bother," or, "Hog wash, let it slide." She remembered
now that he had not returned the two last. With knitted brows and a
slight pout she put aside her private correspondence and tore open
the first one. It referred with official curtness to an unanswered
communication of the previous week, and was "compelled to remind her
of rule 47." Again those horrid rules! She opened the other; the
frown deepened on her brow, and became fixed.

It was a summary of certain valuable money letters that had
miscarried on the route, and of which they had given her previous
information. For a moment her cheeks blazed. How dare they; what
did they mean! Her way-bills and register were always right; she
knew the names of every man, woman, and child in her district; no
such names as those borne by the missing letters had ever existed at
Laurel Run; no such addresses had ever been sent from Laurel Run
Post-Office. It was a mean insinuation! She would send in her
resignation at once! She would get "the boys" to write an insulting
letter to Senator Slocumb--Mrs. Baker had the feminine idea of
Government as a purely personal institution--and she would find out
who it was that had put them up to this prying, crawling impudence!
It was probably that wall-eyed old wife of the postmaster at Heavy
Tree Crossing, who was jealous of her. "Remind her of their previous
unanswered communication," indeed! Where was that communication,
anyway? She remembered she had sent it to her admirer at Hickory
Hill. Odd that he hadn't answered it. Of course, he knew all about
this meanness--could he, too, have dared to suspect her! The thought
turned her crimson again. He, Stanton Green, was an old "Laurel
Runner," a friend of John's, a little "triflin'" and "presoomin',"
but still an old loyal pioneer of the camp! "Why hadn't he spoke up?"

There was the soft muffled fall of a horse's hoof in the thick dust
of the highway, the jingle of dismounting spurs, and a firm tread on
the platform. No doubt, one of the boys returning for a few
supplemental remarks under the feeble pretense of forgotten stamps.
It had been done before, and she had resented it as "cayotin' round";
but now she was eager to pour out her wrongs to the first comer. She
had her hand impulsively on the door of the partition, when she
stopped with a new sense of her impaired dignity. Could she confess
this to her worshipers? But here the door opened in her very face
and a stranger entered.

He was a man of fifty, compactly and strongly built. A squarely cut
goatee, slightly streaked with gray, fell straight from his
thin-lipped but handsome mouth; his eyes were dark, humorous, yet
searching. But the distinctive quality that struck Mrs. Baker was
the blending of urban ease with frontier frankness. He was evidently
a man who had seen cities and knew countries as well. And while he
was dressed with the comfortable simplicity of a Californian mounted
traveler, her inexperienced but feminine eye detected the keynote of
his respectability in the carefully tied bow of his cravat. The
Sierrean throat was apt to be open, free, and unfettered.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Baker," he said, pleasantly, with his hat already
in his hand. "I'm Harry Home, of San Francisco." As he spoke his
eye swept approvingly over the neat enclosure, the primly tied
papers, and well-kept pigeon-holes; the pot of flowers on her desk;
her china silk mantle, and killing little chip hat and ribbons
hanging against the wall; thence to her own pink flushed face, bright
blue eyes, tendriled clinging hair, and then--fell upon the leathern
mail bag still lying across the table. Here it became fixed on the
unfortunate wire of the amorous expressman that yet remained hanging
from the brass wards of the lock, and he reached his hand toward it.

But little Mrs. Baker was before him, and had seized it in her arms.
She had been too preoccupied and bewildered to resent his first
intrusion behind the partition, but this last familiarity with her
sacred official property--albeit empty--capped the climax of her
wrongs.

"How dare you touch it!" she said indignantly. "How dare you come in
here! Who are you, anyway? Go outside at once!"

The stranger fell back with an amused, deprecatory gesture, and a
long, silent laugh. "I'm afraid you don't know me, after all!" he
said, pleasantly. "I'm Harry Home, the Department Agent from the San
Francisco office. My note of advice, No. 201, with my name on the
envelope, seems to have miscarried too."

Even in her fright and astonishment it flashed upon Mrs. Baker that
she had sent that notice, too, to Hickory Hill. But with it all the
feminine secretive instinct within her was now thoroughly aroused,
and she kept silent.

"I ought to have explained," he went on smilingly; "but you are quite
right, Mrs. Baker," he added, nodding toward the bag. "As far as you
knew, I had no business to go near it. Glad to see you know how to
defend Uncle Sam's property so well. I was only a bit puzzled to
know" (pointing to the wire) "if that thing was on the bag when it
was delivered to you?"

Mrs. Baker saw no reason to conceal the truth. After all this
official was a man like the others, and it was just as well that he
should understand her power. "It's only the expressman's
foolishness," she said, with a slightly coquettish toss of her head.
"He thinks it smart to tie some nonsense on that bag with the wire
when he flings it down."

Mr. Home, with his eyes on her pretty face, seemed to think it a not
inhuman or unpardonable folly. "As long as he doesn't meddle with
the inside of the bag, I suppose you must put up with it," he said,
laughingly. A dreadful recollection that the Hickory Hill postmaster
had used the inside of the bag to convey _his_ foolishness came
across her. It would never do to confess it now. Her face must have
shown some agitation, for the official resumed with a half-paternal,
half-reassuring air, "But enough of this. Now, Mrs. Baker, to come
to my business here! Briefly, then, it doesn't concern you in the
least, except so far as it may relieve you and some others whom the
Department knows equally well from a certain responsibility, and,
perhaps, anxiety. We are pretty well posted down there in all that
concerns Laurel Run, and I think" (with a slight bow), "we've known
all about you and John Baker. My only business here is to take your
place to-night in receiving the 'Omnibus Way Bag,' that you know
arrives here at 9.30, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Baker, hurriedly; "but it never has anything
for us, except--" (she caught herself up quickly, with a stammer, as
she remembered the sighing Green's occasional offerings), "except a
notification from Hickory Hill Post-Office. It leaves there," she
went on with an affectation of precision, "at half-past eight
exactly, and it's about an hour's run--seven miles by road."

"Exactly," said Mr. Home. "Well, I will receive the bag, open it,
and despatch it again. You can, if you choose, take a holiday."

"But," said Mrs. Baker, as she remembered that Laurel Run always made
a point of attending her evening levee on account of the superior
leisure it offered, "there are the people who come for letters, you
know."

"I thought you said there were no letters at that time," said Mr.
Home, quickly.

"No--but--but" (with a slight hysterical stammer) "the boys come all
the same."

"Oh!" said Mr. Home, dryly.

"And--O Lord!--" But here the spectacle of the possible discomfiture
of Laurel Run at meeting the bearded face of Mr. Home, instead of her
own smooth cheeks, at the window, combined with her nervous
excitement, overcame her so that, throwing her little frilled apron
over her head, she gave way to a paroxysm of hysterical laughter.
Mr. Home waited with amused toleration for it to stop, and, when she
had recovered, resumed: "Now, I should like to refer an instant to my
first communication to you. Have you got it handy?"

Mrs. Baker's face fell. "No; I sent it over to Mr. Green, of Hickory
Hill, for information."

"What!"

Terrified at the sudden seriousness of the man's voice, she managed
to gasp out, however, that, after her usual habit, she had not opened
the official letters, but had sent them to her more experienced
colleague for advice and information; that she never could understand
them herself--they made her head ache, and interfered with her other
duties--but he understood them, and sent her word what to do.
Remembering, also, his usual style of endorsement, she grew red again.

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing; he didn't return them."

"Naturally," said Mr. Home, with a peculiar expression. After a few
moments' silent stroking of his beard, he suddenly faced the
frightened woman.

"You oblige me, Mrs. Baker, to speak more frankly to you than I had
intended. You have--unwittingly, I believe--given information to a
man whom the Government suspects of peculation. You have, without
knowing it, warned the Postmaster at Hickory Hill that he is
suspected; and, as you might have frustrated our plans for tracing a
series of embezzlements to their proper source, you will see that you
might have also done great wrong to yourself as his only neighbor and
the next responsible person. In plain words, we have traced the
disappearance of money letters to a point when it lies between these
two offices. Now, I have not the least hesitation in telling you
that we do not suspect Laurel Run, and never have suspected it. Even
the result of your thoughtless act, although it warned him, confirms
our suspicion of his guilt. As to the warning, it has failed, or he
has grown reckless, for another letter has been missed since.
To-night, however, will settle all doubt in the matter. When I open
that bag in this office to-night, and do not find a certain decoy
letter in it, which was last checked at Heavy Tree Crossing, I shall
know that it remains in Green's possession at Hickory Hill."

She was sitting back in her chair, white and breathless. He glanced
at her kindly, and then took up his hat. "Come, Mrs. Baker, don't
let this worry you. As I told you at first, you have nothing to
fear. Even your thoughtlessness and ignorance of rules has
contributed to show your own innocence. Nobody will ever be the
wiser for this; we do not advertise our affairs in the Department.
Not a soul but yourself knows the real cause of my visit here. I
will leave you here alone for a while, so as to divert any suspicion.
You will come, as usual, this evening, and be seen by your friends; I
will only be here when the bag arrives, to open it. Good-by, Mrs.
Baker; it's a nasty bit of business, but it's all in the day's work.
I've seen worse, and, thank God, you're out of it."

She heard his footsteps retreat into the outer office and die out of
the platform; the jingle of his spurs, and the hollow beat of his
horsehoofs that seemed to find a dull echo in her own heart, and she
was alone.

The room was very hot and very quiet; she could hear the warping and
creaking of the shingles under the relaxing of the nearly level
sunbeams. The office clock struck seven. In the breathless silence
that followed, a woodpecker took up his interrupted work on the roof,
and seemed to beat out monotonously in her ear the last words of the
stranger: Stanton Green--a thief! Stanton Green, one of the "boys"
John had helped out of the falling tunnel! Stanton Green, whose old
mother in the States still wrote letters to him at Laurel Run, in a
few hours to be a disgraced and ruined man forever! She remembered
now, as a thoughtless woman remembers, tales of his extravagance and
fast living, of which she had taken no heed, and, with a sense of
shame, of presents sent her, that she now clearly saw must have been
far beyond his means. What would the boys say? what would John have
said? Ah! what would John have done!

She started suddenly to her feet, white and cold as on that day that
she had parted from John Baker before the tunnel. She put on her hat
and mantle, and going to that little iron safe that stood in the
corner, unlocked it, and took out its entire contents of gold and
silver. She had reached the door when another idea seized her, and
opening her desk she collected her stamps to the last sheet, and
hurriedly rolled them up under her cape. Then with a glance at the
clock, and a rapid survey of the road from the platform, she slipped
from it, and seemed to be swallowed up in the waiting woods beyond.

Once within the friendly shadows of the long belt of pines, Mrs.
Baker kept them until she had left the limited settlement of Laurel
Run far to the right, and came upon an open slope of Burnt Ridge,
where she knew Jo Simmons's mustang, Blue Lightning, would be quietly
feeding. She had often ridden him before, and when she had detached
the fifty-foot riata from his headstall, he permitted her the further
recognized familiarity of twining her fingers in his bluish mane and
climbing on his back. The tool shed of Burnt Ridge Tunnel, where
Jo's saddle and bridle always hung, was but a canter further on. She
reached it unperceived, and--another trick of the old days--quickly
extemporized a side saddle from Simmons's Mexican tree, with its high
cantle and horn bow, and the aid of a blanket. Then leaping to her
seat, she rapidly threw off her mantle, tied it by its sleeves around
her waist, tucked it under one knee, and let it fall over her horse's
flanks. By this time Blue Lightning was also struck with a flash of
equine recollection, and pricked up his ears. Mrs. Baker uttered a
little chirping cry which he remembered, and the next moment they
were both careering over the Ridge.

The trail that she had taken, though precipitate, difficult, and
dangerous in places, was a clear gain of two miles on the stage road.
There was less chance of her being followed or meeting any one. The
greater cañons were already in shadow; the pines on the further
ridges were separating their masses, and showing individual
silhouettes against the sky, but the air was still warm, and the cool
breath of night, as she well knew it, had not yet begun to flow down
the mountain. The lower range of Burnt Ridge was still uneclipsed by
the creeping shadow of the mountain ahead of her. Without a watch,
but with this familiar and slowly changing dial spread out before
her, she knew the time to a minute. Heavy Tree Hill, a lesser height
in the distance, was already wiped out by that shadowy index
finger--half-past seven! The stage would be at Hickory Hill just
before half-past eight; she ought to anticipate it, if possible--it
would stay ten minutes to change horses--she must arrive before it
left!

There was a good two-mile level before the rise of the next range.
Now, Blue Lightning! all you know! And that was much--for with the
little chip hat and fluttering ribbons well bent down over the bluish
mane, and the streaming gauze of her mantle almost level with the
horse's back, she swept down across the long table-land like a
skimming blue jay. A few more bird-like dips up and down the
undulations, and then came the long, cruel ascent of the Divide.

Acrid with perspiration, caking with dust, slithering in the
slippery, impalpable powder of the road, groggily staggering in a red
dusty dream, coughing, snorting, head-tossing; becoming suddenly
dejected, with slouching haunch and limp legs on easy slopes, or
wildly spasmodic and agile on sharp acclivities, Blue Lightning began
to have ideas and recollections! Ah! she was a devil for a
lark--this lightly-clinging, caressing, blarneying, cooing
creature--up there! He remembered her now. Ha! very well then.
Hoop la! And suddenly leaping out like a rabbit, bucking, trotting
hard, ambling lightly, "loping" on three legs, and recreating
himself--as only a Californian mustang could--the invincible Blue
Lightning at last stood triumphantly upon the summit. The evening
star had just pricked itself through the golden mist of the horizon
line--eight o'clock! She could do it now! But here, suddenly, her
first hesitation seized her. She knew her horse, she knew the trail,
she knew herself--but did she know the man to whom she was riding? A
cold chill crept over her, and then she shivered in a sudden blast;
it was Night at last swooping down from the now invisible Sierras,
and possessing all it touched. But it was only one long descent to
Hickory Hill now, and she swept down securely on its wings.
Half-past eight! The lights of the settlement were just ahead of
her--but so, too, were the two lamps of the waiting stage before the
post-office and hotel.

Happily the lounging crowd were gathered around the hotel, and she
slipped into the post-office from the rear, unperceived. As she
stepped behind the partition, its only occupant--a good-looking young
fellow with a reddish mustache--turned toward her with a flush of
delighted surprise. But it changed at the sight of the white,
determined face and the brilliant eyes that had never looked once
toward him, but were fixed upon a large bag, whose yawning mouth was
still open and propped up beside his desk.

"Where is the through money letter that came in that bag?" she said,
quickly.

"What--do--you--mean?" he stammered, with a face that had suddenly
grown whiter than her own.

"I mean that it's a decoy, checked at Heavy Tree Crossing, and that
Mr. Home, of San Francisco is now waiting at my office to know if you
have taken it!"

The laugh and lie that he had at first tried to summon to mouth and
lips never reached them. For, under the spell of her rigid, truthful
face, he turned almost mechanically to his desk, and took out a
package.

"Good God! you've opened it already!" she cried, pointing to the
broken seal.

The expression on her face, more than anything she had said,
convinced him that she knew all. He stammered under the new alarm
that her despairing tone suggested. "Yes!--I was owing some
bills--the collector was waiting here for the money, and I took
something from the packet. But I was going to make it up by next
mail--I swear it."

"How much have you taken?"

"Only a trifle. I--"

"How much?"

"A hundred dollars!"

She dragged the money she had brought from Laurel Run from her
pocket, and, counting out the sum, replaced it in the open package.
He ran quickly to get the sealing wax, but she motioned him away as
she dropped the package back into the mail bag.

"No; as long as the money is found in the bag the package may have
been broken _accidentally_. Now burst open one or two of those other
packages a little--so;" she took out a packet of letters and bruised
their official wrappings under her little foot until the tape
fastening was loosened. "Now give me something heavy." She caught
up a brass two-pound weight, and in the same feverish but collected
haste wrapped it in paper, sealed it, stamped it, and, addressing it
in a large printed hand to herself at Laurel Hill, dropped it in the
bag. Then she closed it and locked it; he would have assisted her,
but she again waved him away. "Send for the expressman, and keep
yourself out of the way for a moment," she said curtly.

An attitude of weak admiration and foolish passion had taken the
place of his former tremulous fear. He obeyed excitedly, but without
a word. Mrs. Baker wiped her moist forehead and parched lips, and
shook out her skirt. Well might the young expressman start at the
unexpected revelation of those sparkling eyes and that demurely
smiling mouth at the little window.

"Mrs. Baker!"

She put her finger quickly to her lips, and threw a world of
unutterable and enigmatical meaning into her mischievous face.

"There's a big San Francisco swell takin' my place at Laurel
to-night, Charley."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And it's a pity that the Omnibus Waybag happened to get such a
shaking up and banging round already, coming here."

"Eh?"

"I say," continued Mrs. Baker, with great gravity and dancing eyes,
"that it would be just awful if that keerful city clerk found things
kinder mixed up inside when he comes to open it. I wouldn't give him
trouble for the world, Charley."

"No, ma'am, it ain't like you."

"So you'll be particularly careful on _my_ account."

"Mrs. Baker," said Charley, with infinite gravity, "if that bag
_should tumble off a dozen times_ between this and Laurel Hill, I'll
hop down and pick it up myself."

"Thank you! shake!"

They shook hands gravely across the window ledge.

"And you ain't goin' down with us, Mrs. Baker?"

"Of course not; it wouldn't do--for _I ain't here_--don't you see?"

"Of course!"

She handed him the bag through the door. He took it carefully, but
in spite of his great precaution fell over it twice on his way to the
road, where from certain exclamations and shouts it seemed that a
like miserable mischance attended its elevation to the boot. Then
Mrs. Baker came back into the office, and, as the wheels rolled away,
threw herself into a chair, and inconsistently gave way for the first
time to an outburst of tears. Then her hand was grasped suddenly,
and she found Green on his knees before her. She started to her feet.

"Don't move," he said, with weak hysteric passion, "but listen to me,
for God's sake! I am ruined, I know, even though you have just saved
me from detection and disgrace. I have been mad!--a fool, to do what
I have done, I know, but you do not know all--you do not know why I
did it--you can not think of the temptation that has driven me to it.
Listen, Mrs. Baker. I have been striving to get money, honestly,
dishonestly--anyway, to look well in _your_ eyes--to make myself
worthy of you--to make myself rich, and to be able to offer you a
home and take you away from Laurel Run. It was all for _you_--it was
all for love of _you_, Betsy, my darling. Listen to me!"

In the fury, outraged sensibility, indignation, and infinite disgust
that filled her little body at that moment, she should have been
large, imperious, goddess-like, and commanding. But God is at times
ironical with suffering womanhood. She could only writhe her hand
from his grasp with childish contortions; she could only glare at him
with eyes that were prettily and piquantly brilliant; she could only
slap at his detaining hand with a plump and velvety palm, and when
she found her voice it was high falsetto. And all she could say was:
"Leave me be, looney, or I'll scream!"

He rose, with a weak, confused laugh, half of miserable affectation
and half of real anger and shame.

"What did you come riding over here for, then? What did you take all
this risk for? Why did you rush over here to share my disgrace--for
_you_ are as much mixed up with this now as _I_ am--if you didn't
calculate to share _everything else_ with me? What did you come here
for, then, if not for _me_?"

"What did _I_ come here for?" said Mrs. Baker, with every drop of red
blood gone from her cheek and trembling lip. "What--did--I--come
here for? Well!--I came here for _John Baker's_ sake! John Baker,
who stood between you and death at Burnt Ridge, as I stand between
you and damnation at Laurel Run, Mr. Green! Yes, John Baker, lying
under half of Burnt Ridge, but more to me this day than any living
man crawling over it--in--in"--Oh, fatal climax!--"in a month o'
Sundays! What did I come here for? I came here as John Baker's
livin' wife to carry on dead John Baker's work. Yes, dirty work this
time, maybe, Mr. Green! but his work, and for _him_ only--precious!
That's what I came here for; that's what I _live_ for; that's what
I'm waiting for--to be up to him and his work always! That's
me--Betsy Baker!"

She walked up and down rapidly, tying her chip hat under her chin
again. Then she stopped, and taking her chamois purse from her
pocket, laid it sharply on the desk.

"Stanton Green, don't be a fool! Rise up out of this, and be a man
again. Take enough out o' that bag to pay what you owe Gov'ment,
send in your resignation, and keep the rest to start you in a honest
life elsewhere. But light out o' Hickory Hill afore this time
to-morrow."

She pulled her mantle from the wall and opened the door.

"You are going?" he said, bitterly.

"Yes." Either she could not hold seriousness long in her capricious
little fancy, or, with feminine tact, she sought to make the parting
less difficult for him, for she broke into a dazzling smile. "Yes,
I'm goin' to run Blue Lightning agin Charley and that way-bag back to
Laurel Run, and break the record."

It is said that she did! Perhaps owing to the fact that the grade of
the return journey to Laurel Run was in her favor, and that she could
avoid the long, circuitous ascent to the summit taken by the stage,
or that, owing to the extraordinary difficulties in the carriage of
the way-bag--which had to be twice rescued from under the wheels of
the stage--she entered the Laurel Run post-office as the coach
leaders came trotting up the hill. Mr. Home was already on the
platform.

"You'll have to ballast your next way-bag, boss," said Charley,
gravely, as it escaped his clutches once more in the dust of the
road, "or you'll have to make a new contract with the company. We've
lost ten minutes in five miles over that bucking thing."

Home did not reply, but quickly dragged his prize into the office,
scarcely noticing Mrs. Baker, who stood beside him pale and
breathless. As the bolt of the bag was drawn, revealing its chaotic
interior, Mrs. Baker gave a little sigh. Home glanced quickly at
her, emptied the bag upon the floor, and picked up the broken and
half-filled money parcel. Then he collected the scattered coins and
counted them. "It's all right, Mrs. Baker," he said gravely.
"_He's_ safe this time!"

"I'm so glad!" said little Mrs. Baker, with a hypocritical gasp.

"So am I," returned Home, with increasing gravity, as he took the
coin, "for, from all I have gathered this after-noon, it seems he was
an old prisoner of Laurel Run, a friend of your husband's, and, I
think, more fool than knave!" He was silent for a moment, clicking
the coins against each other; then he said carelessly: "Did he get
quite away, Mrs. Baker?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," said Mrs. Baker,
with a lofty air of dignity, but a somewhat debasing color. "I don't
see why _I_ should know anything about it, or why he should go away
at all."

"Well," said Mr. Home, laying his hand gently on the widow's
shoulder, "well, you see, it might have occurred to his friends that
the _coins were marked_! That is, no doubt, the reason why he would
take their good advice and go. But, as I said before, Mrs. Baker,
_you're_ all right, whatever happens--the Government stands by _you_!"

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES

BY FRANCOIS COPPEE

_Francois Edouard Joachim Coppée (born 1842), poet and story-writer;
has happily characterized himself as "a man of refinement who enjoys
simple people, an aristocrat who loves the masses." The son of a
clerk in the War Department, and himself a citizen-soldier during the
Franco-Prussian War, he has made a close study of military character,
as appears in the present selection._

_Owing to his unusual sympathy with the trials, joys, and foibles of
life among the middle and lower classes of Paris, Coppée has endeared
himself to the general public as perhaps no other writer of this
generation has succeeded in doing._

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES*

By FRANCOIS COPPEE

*Translated for Great Short Stories by Mrs. J. L. Meyer.

The name of the place where Captain Mercadier (thirty years in the
service, twenty-two campaigns, and three wounds) settled when he was
retired is of small importance. It was a place similar to all the
little cities which strive to acquire, but do not acquire, a branch
railway station. As there was no railway station there the natives
had but one diversion: they all met on the Place de la Fontaine at
the same hour every day to see the diligence roll in to the cracking
of the long whip and the jingling of the little bells. The city
numbered 3,000 inhabitants (ambitiously called by the statistics
"souls"), and it fed its vanity on the fact that it was the
county-seat. It possessed ramparts shaded by trees, a pretty river
for fishing with the line, and a church of the charming epoch of the
flamboyant Gothic, dishonored by a terrible "Stations of the Cross,"
sent down direct from Saint Sulpice.

Always on Monday the public square was mottled with the great blue
and red umbrellas of the market; and the country people came in in
carts and berlins. But the rest of the week the village fell back
with drowsy delight into the silence and the solitude which endeared
it to the sober bourgeoise who made up its 3,000 "souls."

The streets were paved in little patterns, and through the closed
windows of the ground floors could be seen bouquets made of the hair
of the departed--or of some other hair--and wreaths of orange
blossoms on cushions under glass shades. And through the half-glass
doors of the gardens passers-by could see statuettes of Napoleon
formed of clam-shells. Of course, the principal inn was named
"_l'Ecu de France_." The town registrar was a poet; he rimed
acrostics for the ladies of the best society of the place.

Captain Mercadier had chosen that particular village for the
frivolous reason that it was his birthplace. In his boisterous youth
he had mutilated the advertising signs and chipped splinters out of
the porcelain bell-knobs. Despite these potent reasons, he had
neither relations nor friends in the city, and his memories of his
childhood held nothing but the indignant faces of the tradesmen, who
showed him their clenched fists as they screamed and capered on their
doorsills; the catechism, which menaced him with hell; a school where
he was told that he should die upon the scaffold, and--last memory of
all--his departure for the regiment, a departure hastened a trifle by
the paternal malediction. For he was no saint, this captain! The
record of his career was black with days passed in the guard-house
(causes for punishment being absence from roll-call without leave,
and orgies after taps). Time and time again he had been stripped of
his chevrons (both as corporal and as sergeant), and it had been only
by chance--thanks to the broad license of the campaign--that he had
won his first epaulette. Stern and bold soldier, he had passed the
greater part of his life in Algeria, having enlisted at the time when
our men in the ranks wore the high kepi and white cross-belt and
carried the heavy cartridge-box. He had had Lamoricière for
commandant; the Duc de Nemours (who had been near him when he
received his first wound) had decorated him; and while he was
sergeant-major old Bugeaud had called him by his given name and
pulled his ears. He had been a prisoner of Abd-el-Kadir; he bore the
scars of a yataghan on his neck; carried one bullet in his shoulder
and another in his leg; and, despite absinthe, duels, and gambling
debts, and the almond-shaped black eyes of the Jewesses, he had
forced victory at the point of the bayonet and the sabre, and so won
his grade of Captain in the First Regiment of Cuirassiers. Captain
Mercadier (thirty years of service, twenty-two campaigns, three
wounds) had just been retired, and for the first time drawn his
half-pay--not quite two hundred dollars, which, added to the fifty
dollars accompanying his cross, placed him in the condition of
honorable poverty reserved by the state for the men who have best
served her.

The Captain's entrance in his native town was devoid of pomp. He
arrived one morning in the imperial of the diligence, chewing the
remains of an extinct cigar, and talking and laughing with the
driver, to whom during the journey he had narrated the story of how
he had passed the Iron Gates. His auditor had cut the narrative by
oaths or by gross threats addressed to the straining mare upon the
right, but Mercadier was indulgent, and he had told his history to
its end.

When the diligence drew into the Place de la Fontaine he flung down
an old valise covered by labels representing all the railroads that
he had traveled when he changed garrison, and three minutes later the
assembled citizens were stupefied by the spectacle of a man wearing
the ribbon, standing at the zinc counter of the nearest wine-shop and
drinking and cracking jokes with the driver. (The fact of his ribbon
would have been exciting had there been nothing else!)

Mercadier, Captain of the First, installed himself, in soldier
fashion, very summarily, in a house in the suburbs, where two captive
cows were lowing, and where ducks and chickens waddled or strutted
with uplifted claw, passing and repassing the open door of a
wagon-house. Mercadier had seen a sign, "Furnished room to let,"
and, preceded by a lady as dragoon-like as himself, had mounted some
stairs (guarded by a wooden railing and perfumed by the strong odors
of a stable), and had entered a large room with a tiled floor, with
walls gaily covered with paper representing (in bright blue on a
white ground) Joseph Poniatowski, multiplied _ad infinitum_ and
leaping courageously into the Elster. It is probable that there was
some subtle power for seduction in this bizarre decoration; for,
without an instant's hesitation, without forebodings as to the almost
inevitable discomfort presaged by the hard straw chairs, the stiff,
neglected black walnut furniture, or the narrow bed with curtains
yellowed by their years, he closed the bargain, and in a quarter of
an hour he had emptied his trunk, hung his clothes, set his boots in
a corner, and decorated the blue walls with a "trophy" composed of
three pipes, a sabre, and a brace of pistols. That done, he sallied
forth, visited the grocery and the wine-shop across the way, bought a
pound of candles and a bottle of rum, returned to his room, set his
purchases on the mantel-shelf, and looked around him with the air of
a man well pleased. Then, according to a habit acquired in barracks
and in the field, he shaved without a mirror, brushed his coat,
pulled his hat over his ears, and went out in search of a café.

This visit to the café was a settled habit.

The Captain had three vices, equally balanced, and he satisfied all
their claims. His vices were: Tobacco, Absinthe, and Cards. The
greater part of his life had passed in cafés, and had any one denied
it, he might have drawn a map of the countries where he had lived,
and placed in that map all the cafés, just as they had stood when he
had visited them. He was never at his ease unless seated on the
smooth velvet of a café bench, before a square of green cloth, on
which, as he played his games, glasses and saucers accumulated; and
his cigars were never just right unless he could strike his matches
on the rough underside of the marble table.

And he had never failed, having hung his sabre and his kepi on a peg,
to settle down into his chair, unbutton some of the buttons of his
vest, to heave a sigh and to cry out: "There, that is better!"

So now, his first care was to choose his café; and, having gone round
the city, not finding just what he wished for, he fixed his critical
eyes upon the café Prosper (at the angle of the Place du Marché and
the rue de la Paroisse). It was not his ideal of a café. The
exterior offered several details smacking too much of the
province--for instance, that waiter in the black apron; the little
yew trees in boxes painted green; the tables covered with white
oilcloth! But the Captain liked the interior, so he took his place
there. Immediately after his entrance he was rejoiced by the sound
of the call-bell, pressed by the fat hand of the stout, florid
cashier (dress of summer lightness; a red ribbon in her well-oiled
hair). He saluted her with the gallantry of an officer (retired).
He noticed that she held her place with majesty sufficient to the
occasion, and that she was flanked by quaint pyramids of billiard
balls. The café was bright and clean, and evenly carpeted with
yellow sand. He sauntered around the room, looked into the mirrors
and at the pictures, in which musketeers and ladies in riding-dress
sipped champagne in landscapes full of hollyhocks. He ordered
drinks. Flies were dying in his wine; but he was a soldier,
habituated to witness death. As a man he was indulgent, and he
ignored the very visible tragedies with a stoicism grounded by long
experience in wild countries, where insects bathe in wine with a
familiarity strictly provincial. Eight days later he was one of the
pillars of the Café Prosper. His punctual habits were known there;
the waiters anticipated his wishes. Soon he ate his meals with the
proprietors of the café.

The Captain was a precious recruit for the café's habitual clients
(people who were bored to death by the terrible inertia of the
province); to them his arrival was a windfall. Here was a man who
had seen the world--past master of all the games! He told, gaily
enough, about his wars and his love affairs. He was enchanted to
find people who were ignorant of his history. It would take six
months to tell them of his raids, his skirmishes, his outpost duty of
a dark night, his battles, his hunts, the retreat from Constantine,
the capture of Bou-Mazâ, the officers' receptions, with their
illimitible number of punches "_au kirsch_." Ah! human weakness! he
was not sorry to be a little of an oracle somewhere, at least; he
from whom the subs, just delivered from Saint-Cyr, had fled to escape
his stories.

As a general thing his auditors were the master of the café (a fat
beer-sack, silent and stupid; always in short-sleeves, and remarkable
for nothing but his painted pipes), the constable, a dogged gentleman
dressed like an undertaker--he was despised because he carried off
the sugar that he could not use in his mazagran--the registrar, the
man who wrote acrostics, truly a very sweet-tempered man, and a man
of very weak constitution, who sent answers to the riddles in the
illustrated journals; and, last of all, the veterinary of the county,
who, in his quality of atheist and democrat, permitted himself to
contradict the Captain now and then. This practitioner was a man
with bushy whiskers and eyeglasses. He presided when the Radical
Committee met toward election time. When the parish priest took up a
little collection among the devotees of his congregation (to the end
that he might decorate his church with some horrible gilded plaster
statue), the veterinary wrote a letter to the "Siècle" denouncing
"the cupidity of the sons of Loyola."

One evening the Captain left his cards and went out to get cigars.
He had just had an animated political discussion with the veterinary.
As soon as he was out of hearing the veterinary muttered some
tirades, in which could be distinguished such phrases as "Sabre
trailer!" "Braggart!" "Let him keep to facts!" "Smash his face for
him!" etc. While the veterinary was grumbling, the Captain came
back, whistling a march and twisting his cane as he had twisted his
sabre. The veterinary stopped as if struck by lightning; and the
incident was closed.

But this was only an incident; on the whole, the little community of
the Café Prosper had few discussions. The old residents yielded
peaceably to the presidency of the stranger. Mercadier's martial
head, the white beard trimmed after the fashion of the Bearnais, were
imposing enough; and the little city, already so proud of many
things, had one thing more to boast of--her most conspicuous
representative:

┌──────────────────────────────────────┐
│ MERCADIER │
│ │
│ Captain of the First Cuirassiers │
│ Army of France (Retired) │
└──────────────────────────────────────┘

There is no such thing as perfect happiness, and Captain Mercadier,
who had thought that he had found it (happiness) when he installed
himself in his café, was forced to abjure his illusions. On
market-day the café was not fit to turn a card in. From daybreak it
swarmed with trucksters, farmers, men who sold hogs, eggs, and
poultry; loud-mouthed people with thick, sunburnt necks, carrying
mammoth rawhides, slouching about in blue blouses and otter-skin
caps, who drank as they drove their bargains, thumped the tables with
their fists, called the waiter "thou," cracked the billiard balls,
and "raised hell" generally. When the Captain entered the café for
his 11 a.m. breakfast, he found the room full of drunkards lying over
the tables, staggering about or bolting their coarse dinners. His
own place was taken. The cashier's bell rang incessantly; the
proprietor and the waiter bustled about, napkins on arms; in short,
it was a day of bad luck, and the days preceding it weighed on the
Captain's spirits like presentiments of evil. One Monday morning his
courage failed him and he decided to eat at home.

He knew that the café would swarm; that he could not eat or drink in
peace; that the green table would be unfit for play. But a ray of
the soft autumnal sunlight enticed him, and he went out and took his
seat on the stone bench by the street door. He was sitting there,
smoking his damp cigar, melancholy enough, when he saw, coming down
the street, a little girl eight or ten years old, driving before her
a flock of geese. In her hand she held a switch.

Looking fixedly at her as she drew nearer, the Captain saw that she
had a wooden leg. There was nothing of the father in the heart of
the old soldier; he was a hardened bachelor, impervious as a
shellback to the feelings of a family-father; in the days of his
service in Algeria, when the little Arabs had pursued him, imploring
him with their soft eyes, he had chased them with a whip. On the few
occasions of his visits to his married comrades he had gone home
growling against their ill-kept and weeping "young ones," who had
"pawed" his gold lace with unclean fingers. But the strange aspect
of this child, the peculiarity of her infirmity, moved him with
feelings that he had never known. His heart contracted at sight of
the little creature. The wasted frame was barely covered by a ragged
skirt and worn-out shirt. And then she followed her geese so
bravely! The dust arose in clouds around her bare foot as she
stumped along on her ill-made wooden leg.

Recognizing their residence, the geese entered the courtyard and the
child was following them, when the old man stopped her.

"Eh! little girl!" he cried, "what is your name?"

"Pierrette, at your service, sir," answered the child, fixing great
dark eyes upon him and putting back her disordered hair.

"Do you belong here? I have never seen you until now."

"Oh! yes, and I know you well. I sleep under the stairs, and you
wake me up every night when you come home."

"Truly? Well, hereafter I will come on tiptoes. How old are you?"

"Nine years old, sir, next All Saints."

"Is the madame your mother?"

"No, sir. I am a servant."

"What do they pay you?"

"They give me my soup and my bed under the stairs."

"How did you get that arrangement?" (pointing to the wooden leg).

"A horse kicked me when I was six years old."

"Are your parents living?"

The pale face reddened, and she murmured, hesitating as if ashamed to
confess it:

"I am a foundling."

Then with an awkward salute she limped away, passing under the
porte-cochère; and the Captain heard the clicking of the wooden leg
as it struck the pavement of the courtyard.

"Good heavens!" he said, mechanically taking the road to the café.

"This is not according to regulations! If a soldier loses his leg he
goes to the hospital! They give him money for tobacco. This one has
to work and they give her nothing! That is too much! Such an
infirmity! Too bad! too bad!" He had reached the café, but when he
saw the blue blouses, and when he heard the roars of coarse laughter,
he turned away and retraced his steps. He was in very bad humor.

He had never been in his room so long when it was daylight. The room
was sordid! The bed-curtains were the color of tanned meerschaum;
the rug was littered with cigar stumps and with other things more
appropriate for the cuspidor than for the carpet; the dust lay on
everything, and so thick that a man might write his name in it.

He gazed at the blue walls, the pictured river, where the sublime
lancer of Leipsic met his glorious death; then, to pass the time, he
reviewed his wardrobe.

"I need a striker," he murmured. "As I am now I should not pass
muster"; and suddenly his thoughts turned to the cripple.

"I have it! I will rent the adjoining room! Winter is coming; the
little one would freeze under the stairs! she shall be my striker,
caterer, sutler; _that_ one is brave enough for a man! _Quoi!_"

Then his face clouded; quarter-day was coming, and he was deep in
debt at the café.

"I am not rich enough," he said gloomily, "and yet they rob me down
there! I could stake my pay on that! What do I have to eat? My
board is too dear; and that devil of a horse-doctor cheats like old
man Bezique himself. For eight days I have paid for his drinks. Who
knows if I should not do better to take the little one! She could
make soup for breakfast, _pot-au-feu_ for dinner, and a stew for
supper. The campaign grub! don't I remember it!"

Decidedly, the temptation was strong.

Going into the street that night, he met the mistress of the house, a
fat, rosy-cheeked peasant.

The little girl was with her; they stood half-bent, picking up the
droppings before the house with pitchforks.

"Can she sew, scrub, make soup?" he asked abruptly.

"Who, Pierrette? Why shouldn't she?"

"Does she know anything of all that?"

"Why not? She is a foundling; she came from the hospital; they teach
them to take care of themselves."

"I say! little one, you are not afraid of me, are you? No, I would
not hurt you! What do you think of it, madame? May I take her? I
need a servant."

"You may take her if you will feed and clothe her."

"Agreed! Here are four dollars; buy her a dress and a shoe; let her
put them on at once. To-morrow we will draw up papers."

Then, amiably tapping the child upon the cheek, he went away,
twirling his cane--it was just such a _moulinet_ as he had made with
his sabre.

"I shall have to draw the line on my drinks--a few less absinthes,
Captain Mercadier!" he thought merrily. "As for the horse-doctor, I
must turn his flank! I can't play bezique any more. _This_ thing is
according to regulations!"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Captain, you are a deserter!" said the pillars of the Café Prosper,
when he appeared among them after a long absence.

"Well, that's about it!" answered the Captain.

But the poor man had not foreseen all the consequences of his
charity. By suppressing his beer and absinthes he had managed to
clothe and feed the child of his adoption; but the modest price of
her sustenance did not end it! Now the bachelor was housekeeping!
and housekeeping costs money.

The heart of the child was full of gratitude and she proved it by her
acts. The Captain's room was as fresh as a rose; the furniture was
like new; the spiders no longer trailed their threads over the
glorious death of Poniatowski. When the Captain set foot upon the
stair he was saluted by the odor of cabbage soup and all the
well-remembered dishes of the mess! All that set upon the coarse but
snow-white cloth; and the painted plate and the sparkling cover!
Sapristi! _this_ was campaigning!

Pierrette always profited by the after-dinner humor to confess her
wishes. She longed for brass andirons for the chimney; for now the
Captain had a warm room every day; the little one kept the fire laid
ready for his coming. The days were short and cold. And Pierrette
longed for a pretty mold; for she made such cakes for the Captain!

"Yes, all that cost money. Where was it to come from?" But the
Captain smiled at all her wishes. Home comforts had won the old
war-dog; home was the best! and this home was a real home. "The
andirons must be had--so must the mold! but how--where from?" He
resisted the mellow seductions of his Loudrès--a demi-Loudrès must do
for the present; then came another struggle and the demi-Loudrès was
displaced by a 1-cent "Algérienne." Some one offered five points at
écarté, and a stare that froze the marrow in his bones answered him.
Then came the last sacrifice. The third glass of beer was
suppressed--so was the second glass of chartreuse. It was a
struggle! They were on foot, breast to breast! Time and time again
the green demon tugged at the strings of his memory. Sometimes it
was too strong for him; he entered the wine-shop; then, summoning all
his manhood, he triumphed over his tempters; and that night his
_moulinet_ was like a whirlwind on a whirlpool. Sometimes, in
dreams, he turned the king and cried out _à tout_! Then, springing
from his bed, he stood at attention, and saluted with the gesture of
a conqueror.

"Drink, play, tobacco! Ho, ho! Not according to regulations!" He
was not superhuman; _but he had been a soldier_! Mercadier, First
Cuirassiers, Army of France (retired).

He loved his little adopted daughter all the better for the
sacrifices made for her; and each time that he controlled his vices
he kissed her more tenderly. _For he kissed her_. She was no longer
a servant; that was past! Once, when she had stood silent and
respectful on her wooden leg, his pent-up feelings had burst their
bounds; he had seized the thin hands and cried out furiously:

"Come here and kiss me! then take your place at the table and talk to
me. Give me the pleasure of hearing you say '_thou_' to me! _Mille
tonnerres!_"

So _that_ was settled--she was his daughter. The child had saved him
from an inglorious old age. He had cast aside the vices of the
Egotist and to fill their place he had taken a passion for all
eternity--the love of a father for his child! He adored the little
infirm creature who limped around him in the coquettish, well-ordered
room.

He had taught Pierrette to read, and now, recalling his own early
lessons, he had set her a copy in writing. And he was never happier
than when he sat in his polished chair watching the child bending
over her copy, or, with face close to the paper, lapping up an
ink-spot, as a kitten laps up cream. She had copied all the letters
of the most interminable of adverbs!

Now he had but one cause for anxiety; he had nothing to leave her.
He had taken a mania for saving; he was almost a miser; he planned
and theorized. He must give up his tobacco! Even the blue
"National" was too dear for him. He was saving money from his
allowance; he would buy out a little fancy store; and then he could
die in peace. Pierrette would have her shop; and behind it there
would be a little room. He pushed his pipe away, even when Pierrette
filled and lighted it. If she had that shop she could live in the
room back of it, obscure and tranquil, in spite of her wooden leg!
She could live then; and so, when on the walls of her little room she
would hang the cross hard won by gallant and meritorious conduct in
the field, it would remind her of the Captain!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He walked with her every day on the parapet of the ramparts, and now
and then the peasants passing through the town turned to gaze after
the strange pair. They wondered at them. The veteran, untouched by
all his wars; the child crippled, though still so young!

And once the Captain wept for joy. He had heard what they said:
"Poor old man! what tales he could tell! But his daughter, how
pretty and how sweet!"

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

_Should you ask me, "Who is Hawthorne?
Who this Hawthorne that you mention?"
I should answer, I should tell you,
"He's a Yankee, who had written
Many books you must have heard of;
For he wrote 'The Scarlet Letter'
And 'The House of Seven Gables,'
Wrote, too, 'Rappaccini's Daughter,'
And a lot of other stories;--
Some are long and some are shorter;
Some are good and some are better."
--Henry Bright in "Song of Consul Hawthorne," 1855._

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

A young man named Giovanni Guasconti came very long ago from the more
southern region of Italy to pursue his studies at the University of
Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold ducats in his
pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice
which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble,
and which, in fact, exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings
of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who was not
unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of
the ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupant of this very
mansion, had been pictured by Dante as a partaker of the immortal
agonies of his Inferno. These reminiscences and associations,
together with the tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for
the first time out of his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh
heavily as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment.

"Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by the
youth's remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavoring to give
the chamber a habitable air; "what a sigh was that to come out of a
young man's heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the
love of Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will
see as bright sunshine as you have left in Naples."

Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not
quite agree with her that the Lombard sunshine was as cheerful as
that of Southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a
garden beneath the window, and expended its fostering influences on a
variety of plants which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding
care.

"Does this garden belong to the house?" asked Giovanni.

"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot-herbs
than any that grow there now," answered old Lisabetta. "No; that
garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini,
the famous doctor who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as
Naples. It is said that he distils these plants into medicines that
are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see the Signor Doctor
at work, and perchance the signora his daughter, too, gathering the
strange flowers that grow in the garden."

The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the
chamber, and, commending the young man to the protection of the
saints, took her departure.

Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the
garden beneath his window. From its appearance he judged it to be
one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in Padua than
elsewhere in Italy, or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might
once have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was
the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare
art, but so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the
original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water,
however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as
cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young
man's window and made him feel as if a fountain were an immortal
spirit that sung its song unceasingly, and without heeding the
vicissitudes around it, while one century embodied it in marble and
another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about
the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants that
seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment
of gigantic leaves, and in some instances flowers of gorgeous
magnificence. There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble
vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple
blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem; and the
whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to
illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every
portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs which, if less
beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had their
individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them.
Some were placed in urns rich with old carving and others in common
garden-pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground, or climbed on
high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had
wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite
veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage so happily
arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.

While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a
screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the
garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be
that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow and
sickly-looking man dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was
beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, and a thin gray
beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation,
but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed
much warmth of heart.

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific
gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path; it seemed as if
he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in
regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew
in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such
flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless,
in spite of the deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach
to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the
contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of
their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably;
for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant
influences, such as savage beasts or deadly snakes or evil spirits
which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon
him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young
man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person
cultivating a garden--that most simple and innocent of human toils,
and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of
the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? and
this man with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused
to grow--was he the Adam?

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or
pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands
with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When,
in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that
hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of
mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but
conceal a deadlier malice. But, finding his task still too
dangerous, he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in
the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease:

"Beatrice! Beatrice!"

"Here am I, my father! What would you?" cried a rich and youthful
voice from the window of the opposite house--a voice as rich as a
tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why,
think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily
delectable. "Are you in the garden?"

"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help."

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a
young girl arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most
splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so
deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She
looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which
attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were, and girdled
tensely in their luxuriance by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy
must have grown morbid while he looked down into the garden, for the
impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were
another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as
beautiful as they--more beautiful than the richest of them--but still
to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask.
As Beatrice came down the garden path it was observable that she
handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her
father had most sedulously avoided.

"Here, Beatrice," said the latter; "see how many needful offices
require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my
life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as
circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be
consigned to your sole charge."

"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the
young lady as she bent toward the magnificent plant and opened her
arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be
Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee, and thou shalt reward her
with thy kisses and perfume-breath, which to her is as the breath of
life."

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly
expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as
the plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window,
rubbed his eyes, and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending
her favorite flower or one sister performing the duties of affection
to another.

The scene soon terminated. Whether Doctor Rappaccini had finished
his labors in the garden or that his watchful eye had caught the
stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and retired. Night
was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from
the plants and steal upward past the open window, and Giovanni,
closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower
and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the
same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.

But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to
rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have
incurred during the sun's decline, or among the shadows of the night,
or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first
movement on starting from sleep was to throw open the window and gaze
down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of
mysteries. He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real
and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be in the first rays of the
sun, which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and,
while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought
everything within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man
rejoiced that in the heart of the barren city he had the privilege of
overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would
serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in
communion with Nature. Neither the sickly and thought-worn Doctor
Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, was now
visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the
singularity which he attributed to both was due to their own
qualities, and how much to his wonder-working fancy. But he was
inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter.

In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro
Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of
eminent repute to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction.
The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature
and habits that might almost be called jovial; he kept the young man
to dinner and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and
liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or
two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science,
inhabitants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with
one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Doctor
Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much
cordiality as he had anticipated.

"Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine," said
Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, "to
withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so eminently
skilled as Rappaccini. But, on the other hand, I should answer it
but scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like
yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe
erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold
your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful
Doctor Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the
faculty--with perhaps one single exception--in Padua or all Italy,
but there are certain grave objections to his professional character."

"And what are they?" asked the young man.

"Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so
inquisitive about physicians?" said the professor, with a smile.
"But, as for Rappaccini, it is said of him--and I, who know the man
well, can answer for its truth--that he cares infinitely more for
science than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only
as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human
life--his own among the rest--or whatever else was dearest to him,
for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard-seed to the
great heap of his accumulated knowledge."

"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti, mentally
recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini.
"And yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there
many men capable of so spiritual a love of science?"

"God forbid!" answered the professor somewhat testily--"at least,
unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted
by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are
comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons.
These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have
produced new varieties of poison more horribly deleterious than
Nature, without the assistance of this learned person, would ever
have plagued the world with. That the Signor Doctor does less
mischief than might be expected with such dangerous substances is
undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected--or
seemed to effect--a marvelous cure. But, to tell you my private
mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive little credit for such
instances of success--they being probably the work of chance--but
should be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may
justly be considered his own work."

The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains of
allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of long
continuance between him and Doctor Rappaccini, in which the latter
was generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be
inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter
tracts on both sides preserved in the medical department of the
University of Padua.

"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni, after musing
on what had been said of Rappaccini's exclusive zeal for science--"I
know not how dearly this physician may love his art, but surely there
is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter."

"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend
Giovanni's secret is out! You have heard of this daughter, whom all
the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have
ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora
Beatrice save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply
in his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her,
she is already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance her
father destines her for mine. Other absurd rumors there be, not
worth talking about or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink
off your glass of Lacryma."

Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he
had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange
fantasies in reference to Doctor Rappaccini and the beautiful
Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a florist's, he bought a
fresh bouquet of flowers.

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but
within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could
look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All
beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in
the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if
in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the
shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems
clustering all over it; they glowed in the air and gleamed back again
out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with
colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At
first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however, as
Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, would be the case, a figure
appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal and came down between
the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were
one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors.
On again beholding Beatrice the young man was even startled to
perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it--so
brilliant, so vivid in its character, that she glowed amid the
sunlight, and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively
illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face
being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by
its expression of simplicity and sweetness--qualities that had not
entered into his idea of her character, and which made him ask anew
what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe
or imagine an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous
shrub that hung its gem-like flowers over the fountain--a resemblance
which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in
heightening both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of
its hues.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms as with a passionate
ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace--so intimate
that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom and her glistening
ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.

"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice, "for I am faint
with common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I separate
with gentlest fingers from the stem, and place it close beside my
heart."

With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of
the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her
bosom. But now, unless Giovanni's drafts of wine had bewildered his
senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile
of the lizard or chameleon species chanced to be creeping along the
path just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni, but at
the distance from which he gazed he could scarcely have seen anything
so minute--it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of
moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the
lizard's head. For an instant the reptile contorted itself
violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice
observed this remarkable phenomenon and crossed herself sadly, but
without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal
flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the
dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect
the one appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have
supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent
forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled.

"Am I awake? Have I my senses?" said he to himself. "What is this
being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?"

Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching
closer beneath Giovanni's window; so that he was compelled to thrust
his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense
and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came a
beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had perhaps wandered
through the city and found no flowers nor verdure among those antique
haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Doctor Rappaccini's shrubs
had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers this winged
brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the
air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that
Giovanni Guasconti's eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he
fancied that while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish
delight it grew faint and fell at her feet. Its bright wings
shivered; it was dead--from no cause that he could discern, unless it
were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself
and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect.

An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There
she beheld the beautiful head of the young man--rather a Grecian than
an Italian head, with fair, regular features and a glistening of gold
among his ringlets--gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in
midair. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the
bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand.

"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers: wear them
for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti."

"Thanks, signor!" replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came
forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful
expression, half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift,
and would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if
I toss it into the air, it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti
must even content himself with my thanks."

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly
ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond
to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden.
But, few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on
the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his
beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It
was an idle thought: there could be no possibility of distinguishing
a faded flower from a fresh one at so great a distance.

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window
that looked into Doctor Rappaccini's garden as if something ugly and
monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a
glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain
extent, within the influence of an unintelligible power by the
communication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course
would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his
lodgings, and Padua itself, at once; the next wiser, to have
accustomed himself as far as possible to the familiar and daylight
view of Beatrice, thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within
the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her
sight, should Giovanni have remained so near this extraordinary being
that the proximity, and possibility even of intercourse, should give
a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his
imagination ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not a
deep heart--or, at all events, its depths were not sounded now--but
he had a quick fancy and an ardent southern temperament which rose
every instant to a higher fever-pitch. Whether or no Beatrice
possessed those terrible attributes--that fatal breath, the affinity
with those so beautiful and deadly flowers--which were indicated by
what Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and
subtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her rich
beauty was a madness to him, nor horror, even while he fancied her
spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to
pervade her physical frame, but a wild offspring of both love and
horror that had each parent in it and burned like one and shivered
like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he
know what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his
breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to
renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or
bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the
illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.

Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid
walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates; his footsteps
kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt
to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested;
his arm was seized by a portly personage who had turned back on
recognizing the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him.

"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have you
forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered
as yourself."

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first
meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look too
deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he stared
forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one, and spoke like
a man in a dream:

"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni.
Now let me pass."

"Not yet--not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the professor,
smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest
glance. "What! Did I grow up side by side with your father, and
shall his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua?
Stand still, Signor Giovanni, for we must have a word or two before
we part."

"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor--speedily!" said Giovanni,
with feverish impatience. "Does not Your Worship see that I am in
haste?"

Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in black along the
street, stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health.
His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but
yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect
that an observer might have easily overlooked the merely physical
attributes, and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed,
this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni,
but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to
bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless,
there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking merely a
speculative, not a human, interest in the young man.

"It is Doctor Rappaccini," whispered the professor, when the stranger
had passed. "Has he ever seen your face before?"

"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name.

"He _has_ seen you! he must have seen you!" said Baglioni, hastily.
"For some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of
you. I know that look of his: it is the same that coldly illuminates
his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse or a butterfly which in
pursuance of some experiment he has killed by the perfume of a
flower--a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmth
of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it you are the
subject of one of Rappaccini's experiments."

"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately. "That,
Signor Professor, were an untoward experiment."

"Patience, patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. "I tell
thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interest in
thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands. And the Signora
Beatrice--what part does she act in this mystery?"

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here broke
away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm.
He looked after the young man intently, and shook his head.

"This must not be," said Raglioni to himself. "The youth Is the son
of my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the
arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too
insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini thus to snatch the lad out
of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal
experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to.
Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little
dream of it!"

Meanwhile, Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length
found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the
threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled and was
evidently desirous to attract his attention--vainly, however, as the
ebullition of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and
dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that
was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The
old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.

"Signor, signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over the whole
breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque
carving in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen, signor! There is a
private entrance into the garden."

"What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if
an inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A private
entrance into Doctor Rappaccini's garden?"

"Hush, hush! Not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand
over his mouth. "Yes, into the worshipful doctor's garden, where you
may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give
gold to be admitted among those flowers."

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.

"Show me the way," said he.

A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni,
crossed his mind that this interposition of old Lisabetta might
perchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature,
in which the professor seemed to suppose that Doctor Rappaccini was
involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni,
was inadequate to restrain him. The instant he was aware of the
possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity
of his existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel or
demon: he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law
that whirled him onward in ever lessening circles toward a result
which he did not attempt to foreshadow. And yet, strange to say,
there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest on
his part were not delusory, whether it were really of so deep and
positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an
incalculable position, whether it were not merely the fantasy of a
young man's brain only slightly or not at all connected with his
heart.

He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His
withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally
undid a door through which, as it was opened, there came the sight
and sound of rustling leaves with the broken sunshine glimmering
among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the
entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden
entrance, he stood beneath his own window, in the open area of Doctor
Rappaccini's garden.

How often is it the case that when impossibilities have come to pass,
and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible
realities, we find ourselves calm and even coldly self-possessed,
amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or
agony to anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will
choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly
behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon
his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his
pulses had throbbed with feverish blood at the improbable idea of an
interview with Beatrice, and of standing with her face to face in
this very garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty and
snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle
of his own existence. But now there was a singular and untimely
equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden to
discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and perceiving that
he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants.

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him: their
gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There
was hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer straying by himself
through a forest would not have been startled to find growing wild,
as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket.
Several, also, would have shocked a delicate instinct by an
appearance of artificialness, indicating that there had been such a
commixture, and, as it were, adultery of various vegetable species
that the production was no longer of God's making, but the monstrous
offspring of man's depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery
of beauty. They were probably the result of experiment, which in one
or two cases had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely
into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous character
that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni
recognized but two or three plants in the collection, and those of a
kind that he well knew to be poisonous. While busy with these
contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and turning
beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the sculptured portal.

Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his
deportment--whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the
garden or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not
by the desire, of Doctor Rappaccini or his daughter. But Beatrice's
manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by
what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the
path, and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in
her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a
smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the
window; "it is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's rare
collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here,
he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature
and habits of these shrubs, for he has spent a lifetime in such
studies, and this garden is his world."

"And yourself, lady?" observed Giovanni. "If fame says true, you
likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich
blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my
instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than under Signor
Rappaccini himself."

"Are there such idle rumors?" asked Beatrice, with the music of a
pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilled in my father's
science of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up
among these flowers I know no more of them than their hues and
perfume, and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even that
small knowledge. There are many flowers here--and those not the
least brilliant--that shock and offend me when they meet my eye. But
pray, signor, do not believe these stories about my science; believe
nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes."

"And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?" asked
Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him
shrink. "No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe
nothing save what comes from your own lips."

It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep
flush to her cheek, but she looked full into Giovanni's eyes and
responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike
haughtiness:

"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whatever you may
have fancied in regard to me; if true to the outward senses, still it
may be false in its essence. But the words of Beatrice Rappaccini's
lips are true from the heart outward; those you may believe."

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's
consciousness like the light of truth itself. But while she spoke
there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and
delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an
indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It
might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath
which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by
steeping them in her heart. A faintness passed like a shadow over
Giovanni, and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful
girl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished: she
became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion
with the youth, not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island might
have felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world.
Evidently her experience of life had been confined within the limits
of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the
daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in reference to
the city or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his mother and his
sisters--questions indicating such seclusion and such lack of
familiarity with modes and forms that Giovanni responded as if to an
infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was
just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the
reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There
came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike
brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the
bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the
young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by
side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he
had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had positively
witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes--that he should
be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so
human and so maiden-like. But such reflections were only momentary;
the effect of her character was too real not to make itself familiar
at once.

In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and
now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered
fountain beside which grew the magnificent shrub with its treasury of
glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni
recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to
Beatrice's breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell
upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom, as if her
heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.

"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressing the shrub,
"I had forgotten thee."

"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you once promised to
reward me with one of those living gems for the bouquet which I had
the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to pluck it
as a memorial of this interview."

He made a step toward the shrub with extended hand. But Beatrice
darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a
dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the whole force of
her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his
fibres.

"Touch it not," exclaimed she, in a voice of agony--"not for thy
life! It is fatal."

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the
sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes he beheld
the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Doctor Rappaccini, who
had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow
of the entrance.

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of
Beatrice came back to his passionate musings invested with all the
witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first
glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of
girlish womanhood. She was human; her nature was endowed with all
gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshiped; she
was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love.
Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a
frightful peculiarity in her physical and moral system were now
either forgotten or by the subtle sophistry of passion transmitted
into a golden crown of enchantment; rendering Beatrice the more
admirable by so much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked
ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole
away and hid itself among those shapeless half-ideas which throng the
dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness.

Thus did Giovanni spend the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had
begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Doctor Rappaccini's garden,
whither his dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due
season, and flinging his beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke
him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible
of a burning and tingling agony in his hand, in his right hand--the
very hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the
point of plucking one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that
hand there was now a purple print like that of four small fingers,
and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist. Oh, how
stubbornly does love, or even that cunning semblance of love which
flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the
heart--how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the moment comes
when it is doomed to vanish into the mist! Giovanni wrapped a
handkerchief about his hand, and wondered what evil thing had stung
him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice.

After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of
what we call fate. A third, a fourth, and a meeting with Beatrice in
the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni's daily life, but
the whole space in which he might be said to live, for the
anticipation and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder.
Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched
for the youth's appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as
unreserved as if they had been playmates from early infancy--as if
they were such playmates still. If by any unwonted chance he failed
to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and
sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his
chamber and echo and reverberate throughout his heart. "Giovanni,
Giovanni! Why tarriest thou? Come down!" and down he hastened into
that Eden of poisonous flowers.

But with all this intimate familiarity there was still a reserve in
Beatrice's demeanor so rigidly and invariably sustained that the idea
of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all
appreciable signs they loved--they had looked love with eyes that
conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths
of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way;
they had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their
spirits darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of
long-hidden flame--and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp
of hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims and hallows.
He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her
garment--so marked was the physical barrier between them--had never
been waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when
Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so
sad, so stern, and, withal, wore such a look of desolate separation
shuddering at itself that not a spoken word was requisite to repel
him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that
rose monster-like out of the caverns of his heart and stared him in
the face. His love grew thin and faint as the morning mist; his
doubts alone had substance. But when Beatrice's face brightened
again after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from
the mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with so much
awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl
whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other
knowledge.

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting with
Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a
visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole
weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up, as
he had long been, to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no
companions except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his
present state of feeling; such sympathy was not to be expected from
Professor Baglioni.

The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of
the city and the university, and then took up another topic.

"I have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, "and met
with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember
it. It is of an Indian prince who sent a beautiful woman as a
present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and
gorgeous as the sunset, but what especially distinguished her was a
certain rich perfume in her breath richer than a garden of Persian
roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in
love at first sight with this magnificent stranger. But a certain
sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret
in regard to her."

"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to
avoid those of the professor.

"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "had
been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole
nature was so imbued with them that she herself had become the
deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With
that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love
would have been poison--her embrace, death. Is not this a marvelous
tale?"

"A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his
chair. "I marvel how Your Worship finds time to read such nonsense
among your graver studies."

"By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily about him, "what
singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume of
your gloves? It is faint, but delicious, and yet, after all, by no
means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make
me ill. It is like the breath of a flower, but I see no flowers in
the chamber."

"Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the
professor spoke; "nor, I think, is there any fragrance except in Your
Worship's imagination. Odors, being a sort of element combined of
the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner.
The recollection of a perfume--the bare idea of it--may easily be
mistaken for a present reality."

"Ay, but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks," said
Baglioni; "and were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of
some vile apothecary-drug wherewith my fingers are likely enough to
be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard,
tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby.
Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice would
minister to her patients with drafts as sweet as a maiden's breath,
but woe to him that sips them!"

Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which
the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini
was a torture to his soul, and yet the intimation of a view of her
character opposite to his own gave instantaneous distinctness to a
thousand dim suspicions which now grinned at him like so many demons.
But he strove hard to quell them, and to respond to Baglioni with a
true lover's perfect faith.

"Signor Professor," said he, "you were my father's friend; perchance,
too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part toward his son. I
would fain feel nothing toward you save respect and deference, but I
pray you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we
must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice; you can not,
therefore, estimate the wrong--the blasphemy, I may even say--that is
offered to her character by a light or injurious word."

"Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor, with a calm
expression of pity. "I know this wretched girl far better than
yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner
Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter--yes, poisonous as she is
beautiful. Listen, for even should you do violence to my gray hairs
it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has
become a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in
the person of the lovely Beatrice."

Giovanni groaned and hid his face.

"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained by natural
affection from offering up his child in this horrible manner as the
victim of his insane zeal for science. For--let us do him
justice--he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own
heart in an alembic. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt,
you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the
result is to be death--perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini,
with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will
hesitate at nothing."

"It is a dream!" muttered Giovanni to himself. "Surely it is a
dream!'

"But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend!
It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even succeed
in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary
nature from which her father's madness has estranged her. Behold
this little silver vase; it was wrought by the hands of the renowned
Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love-gift to the
fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little
sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of
the Borgias innocuous; doubt not that it will be as efficacious
against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase and the precious liquid
within it on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result."

Baglioni laid a small exquisitely-wrought silver phial on the table
and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effects upon
the young man's mind.

"We will thwart Rappaccini yet," thought he, chuckling to himself, as
he descended the stairs. "But let us confess the truth of him: he is
a wonderful man--a wonderful man indeed--a vile empiric, however, in
his practise, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect
the good old rules of the medical profession."

Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice he had
occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to
her character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as
a simple, natural, most affectionate and guileless creature that the
image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked as strange and
incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original
conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his
first glimpses of the beautiful girl: he could not quite forget the
bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid
the sunny air by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her
breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of
her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were
acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the
senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something
truer and more real than what we can see with the eyes and touch with
the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his
confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her
high attributes than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But
now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to
which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down
groveling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure
whiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up: he did but
distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that should
satisfy him once for all whether there were those dreadful
peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be supposed to
exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes,
gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the
insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness at the distance of a
few paces the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in
Beatrice's hand, there would be room for no further question. With
this idea he hastened to the florist's and purchased a bouquet that
was still gemmed with the morning dewdrops.

It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice.
Before descending into the garden Giovanni failed not to look at his
figure in the mirror--a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young
man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment,
the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of
character. He did gaze, however, and said to himself that his
features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes
such vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life.

"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuated itself
into my system. I am no flower, to perish in her grasp."

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had
never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinable horror
shot through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers were
already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had
been fresh and lovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble and
stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection
there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered
Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the
chamber: it must have been the poison in his breath. Then he
shuddered--shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he
began to watch with curious eye a spider that was busily at work
hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing
and recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous and
active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent
toward the insect and emitted a deep, long breath. The spider
suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originating
in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a
breath, deeper, longer and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his
heart; he knew not whether he were wicked or only desperate. The
spider made a convulsive grip with his limbs, and hung dead across
the window.

"Accursed! accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. "Hast
thou grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy
breath?"

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden:

"Giovanni, Giovanni! It is past the hour. Why tarriest thou? Come
down!"

"Yes," muttered Giovanni, again: "she is the only being whom my
breath may not slay. Would that it might!"

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and
loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been
so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her
by a glance, but with her actual presence there came influences which
had too real an existence to be at once shaken off--recollections of
the delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, which had so
often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy
and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been
unsealed from its depths and made visible in its transparency to his
mental eye; recollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate
them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an
earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have
gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable
as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost
its magic. Giovanni's rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen
insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately
felt that there was a gulf of blackness between them which neither he
nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and
came thus to the marble fountain, and to its pool of water on the
ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gemlike
blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager enjoyment--the
appetite, as it were--with which he found himself inhaling the
fragrance of the flowers.

"Beatrice," asked he, abruptly, "whence came this shrub?"

"My father created it," answered she, with simplicity.

"Created it! created it!" repeated Giovanni. "What mean you,
Beatrice?"

"He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of nature,"
replied Beatrice, "and at the hour when I first drew breath this
plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his
intellect, while I was but his earthly child. Approach it not,"
continued she, observing with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer
to the shrub; "it has qualities that you little dream of. But I,
dearest Giovanni--I grew up and blossomed with the plant, and was
nourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it with a
human affection; for--alas! hast thou not suspected it?--there was an
awful doom."

Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and
trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reassured her and made her
blush that she had doubted for an instant.

"There was an awful doom," she continued--"the effect of my father's
fatal love of science--which estranged me from all society of my
kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was
thy poor Beatrice!"

"Was it a hard doom?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her.

"Only of late have I known how hard it was," answered she, tenderly.
"Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet."

Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a
lightning-flash out of a dark cloud.

"Accursed one!" cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. "And,
finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise from
all the warmth of life and enticed me into thy region of unspeakable
horror!"

"Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon
his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her
mind; she was merely thunderstruck.

"Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside himself with
passion. "Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast
filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly,
as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself--a world's wonder of
hideous monstrosity! Now--if our breath be, happily, as fatal to
ourselves as to all others--let us join our lips in one kiss of
unutterable hatred, and so die."

"What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her
heart. "Holy Virgin, pity me--a poor heartbroken child!"

"Thou? Dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish
scorn. "Thy very prayers as they come from thy lips taint the
atmosphere with death. Yes, yes, let us pray! Let us to church and
dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal: they that come after
us will perish as by a pestilence. Let us sign crosses in the air:
it will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols."

"Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond passion,
"why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible words? I,
it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me, but thou--what hast
thou to do save with one other shudder at my hideous misery to go
forth out of the garden and mingle with thy race, and forget that
there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?"

"Dost thou pretend ignorance?" asked Giovanni, scowling upon her.
"Behold! This power have I gained from the pure daughter of
Rappaccini!"

There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in
search of the food promised by the flower-odors of the fatal garden.
They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently attracted
toward him by the same influence which had drawn them for an instant
within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath
among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice, as at least a score of
the insects fell dead upon the ground.

"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my father's fatal
science! No, no, Giovanni, it was not I! Never, never! I dreamed
only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee
pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart. For,
Giovanni--believe it--though my body be nourished with poison, my
spirit is God's creature and craves love as its daily food. But my
father! he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes, spurn me!
tread upon me! kill me! Oh, what is death, after such words as
thine? But it was not I; not for a world of bliss would I have done
it!"

Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his
lips. There now came across him a sense--mournful and not without
tenderness--of the intimate and peculiar relationship between
Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude
which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of
human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to
press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel
to one another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought
Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the
limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice--the redeemed
Beatrice--by the hand? Oh, weak and selfish and unworthy spirit,
that could dream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as
possible after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was
Beatrice's love by Giovanni's blighting words! No, no! there could
be no such hope. She must pass heavily with that broken heart across
the borders; she must bathe her hurts in some font of Paradise and
forget her grief in the light of immortality, and there be well.

But Giovanni did not know it.

"Dear Beatrice," said he, approaching her, while she shrank away, as
always at his approach, but now with a different impulse--"dearest
Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! There is a
medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost
divine in its efficacy. It is composed of ingredients the most
opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity
upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not
quaff it together, and thus be purified from evil?"

"Give it me," said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little
silver phial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added with a
peculiar emphasis, "I will drink, but do thou await the result."

She put Baglioni's antidote to her lips, and at the same moment the
figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly toward
the marble fountain. As he drew near the pale man of science seemed
to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and
maiden, as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a
picture or a group of statuary, and finally be satisfied with his
success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power;
he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a father
Imploring a blessing upon his children. But those were the same
hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives!
Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered very nervously, and pressed
her hand upon her heart.

"My daughter," said Rappaccini, "thou art no longer lonely in the
world. Pluck one of these precious gems from thy sister-shrub, and
bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now.
My science and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought
within his system that he now stands apart from common men, as thou
dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass
on, then, through the world, most dear to one another and dreadful to
all besides."

"My father," said Beatrice, feebly--and still, as she spoke, she kept
her hand upon her heart--"wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable
doom upon thy child?"

"Miserable!" exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you, foolish girl?
Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvelous gifts against
which no power nor strength could avail an enemy, misery to be able
to quell the mightiest with a breath, misery to be as terrible as
thou art beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition
of a weak woman, exposed to all evil and capable of none?"

"I would fain have been loved, not feared," murmured Beatrice,
sinking down upon the ground. "But now it matters not. I am going,
father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with my
being will pass away like a dream--like the fragrance of these
poisonous flowers which will no longer taint my breath among the
flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like
lead within my heart, but they too will fall away as I ascend. Oh,
was there not from the first more poison in thy nature than in mine?"

To Beatrice--so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by
Rappaccini's skill--as poison had been life, so the powerful antidote
was death. And thus the poor victim of man's ingenuity and of
thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of
perverted wisdom, perished there at the feet of her father and
Giovanni.

Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the
window and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to
the thunder-stricken man of science:

"Rappaccini, Rappaccini! And is _this_ the upshot of your
experiment?"

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

_The elder Dumas was born in 1803 and died in 1870. His name appears
as author on the title-pages of 257 volumes of stories and romances,
and of 25 volumes of plays. He had ten collaborators or assistants
who worked out details for him, the generals over whom he was a
Napoleon--to quote his own phrase. He had to an extraordinary degree
the ability to impart dramatic life and action to whatever he
touched, and the whole modern school of historical writers is largely
indebted to him for inspiration, from Stevenson down._

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL

By ALEXANDRE DUMAS

At the time of this story our regiment was stationed in the dirty
little village of Valins, on the frontier of Austria.

It was the fourth of May in the year 182--, and I, with several other
officers, had been breakfasting with the Aide-de-Camp in honor of his
birthday, and discussing the various topics of the garrison.

"Can you tell us without being indiscreet," asked Sub-Lieutenant
Stamm of Andrew Michaelovitch, the Aide-de-Camp, "what the Colonel
was so eager to say to you this morning?"

"A new officer," he replied, "is to fill the vacancy of captain."

"His name?" demanded two or three voices.

"Lieutenant Zodomirsky, who is betrothed to the beautiful Mariana
Ravensky."

"And when does he arrive?" asked Major Belayef.

"He has arrived. I have been presented to him at the Colonel's
house. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance, gentlemen, and
I have therefore invited him to dine with us. But that reminds me,
Captain, you must know him," he continued, turning to me; "you were
both in the same regiment at St. Petersburg."

"It is true," I replied. "We studied there together. He was then a
brave, handsome youth, adored by his comrades, in every one's good
graces, but of a fiery and irritable temper."

"Mademoiselle Ravensky informed me that he was a skilful duelist,"
said Stamm. "Well, he will do very well here; a duel is a family
affair with us. You are welcome, Monsieur Zodomirsky. However quick
your temper, you must be careful of it before me, or I shall take
upon myself to cool it."

And Stamm pronounced these words with a visible sneer.

"How is it that he leaves the Guards? Is he ruined?" asked Cornet
Naletoff.

"I have been informed," replied Stamm, "that he has just inherited
from an old aunt about twenty thousand rubles. No, poor devil! he is
consumptive."

"Come, gentlemen," said the Aide-de-Camp, rising, "let us pass to the
saloon and have a game of cards. Koloff will serve dinner while we
play."

We had been seated some time, and Stamm, who was far from rich, was
in the act of losing sixty roubles, when Koloff announced:

"Captain Zodomirsky."

"Here you are, at last!" cried Michaelovitch, jumping from his chair.
"You are welcome."

Then, turning to us, he continued: "These are your new comrades,
Captain Zodomirsky; all good fellows and brave soldiers."

"Gentlemen," said Zodomirsky, "I am proud and happy to have joined
your regiment. To do so has been my greatest desire for some time,
and if I am welcome, as you courteously say, I shall be the happiest
man in the world."

"Ah! good day, Captain," he continued, turning to me and holding out
his hand. "We meet again. You have not forgotten an old friend, I
hope?"

As he smilingly uttered these words, Stamm, to whom his back was
turned, darted at him a glance full of bitter hatred. Stamm was not
liked in the regiment; his cold and taciturn nature had formed no
friendship with any of us. I could not understand his apparent
hostility toward Zodomirsky, whom I believed he had never seen before.

Some one offered Zodomirsky a cigar. He accepted it, lit it at the
cigar of an officer near him, and began to talk gaily to his new
comrades.

"Do you stay here long?" asked Major Belayef.

"Yes, monsieur," replied Zodomirsky. "I wish to stay with you as
long as possible," and as he pronounced these words he saluted us all
round with a smile. He continued: "I have taken a house near that of
my old friend Ravensky whom I knew at St. Petersburg. I have my
horses there, an excellent cook, a passable library, a little garden,
and a target; and there I shall be quiet as a hermit, and happy as a
king. It is the life that suits me."

"Ha! you practise shooting!" said Stamm, in such a strange voice,
accompanied by a smile so sardonic, that Zodomirsky regarded him in
astonishment.

"It is my custom every morning to fire twelve balls," he replied.

"You are very fond of that amusement, then?" demanded Stamm, in a
voice without any trace of emotion; adding, "I do not understand the
use of shooting, unless it is to hunt with."

Zodomirsky's pale face was flushed with a sudden flame. He turned to
Stamm, and replied in a quiet but firm voice: "I think, monsieur,
that you are wrong in calling it lost time to learn to shoot with a
pistol; in our garrison life an imprudent word often leads to a
meeting between comrades, in which case he who is known for a good
shot inspires respect among those indiscreet persons who amuse
themselves in asking useless questions."

"Oh! that is not a reason, Captain. In duels, as in everything else,
something should be left to chance. I maintain my first opinion, and
say that an honorable man ought not to take too many precautions."

"And why?" asked Zodomirsky.

"I will explain to you," replied Stamm. "Do you play at cards,
Captain?"

"Why do you ask that question?"

"I will try to render my explanation clear, so that all will
understand it. Every one knows that there are certain players who
have an enviable knack, while shuffling the pack, of adroitly making
themselves master of the winning card. Now, I see no difference,
myself, between the man who robs his neighbor of his money and the
one who robs him of his life." Then he added, in a way to take
nothing from the insolence of his observation, "I do not say this to
you, in particular, Captain; I speak in general terms."

"It is too much as it is, monsieur!" cried Zodomirsky, "I beg Captain
Alexis Stephanovitch to terminate this affair with you." Then,
turning to me, he said: "You will not refuse me this request?"

"So be it, Captain," replied Stamm quickly. "You have told me
yourself you practise shooting every day, while I practise only on
the day I fight. We will equalize the chances. I will settle
details with Monsieur Stephanovitch."

Then he rose and turned to our host.

"_Au revoir_, Michaelovitch," he said. "I will dine at the
Colonel's." And with these words he left the room.

The most profound silence had been kept during this altercation; but,
as soon as Stamm disappeared, Captain Pravdine, an old officer,
addressed himself to us all.

"We can not let them fight, gentlemen," he said.

Zodomirsky touched him gently on his arm.

"Captain," he said, "I am a newcomer among you; none of you know me.
I have yet, as it were, to win my spurs; it is impossible for me to
let this quarrel pass without fighting. I do not know what I have
done to annoy this gentleman, but it is evident that he has some
spite against me."

"The truth of the matter is that Stamm is jealous of you,
Zodomirsky," said Cornet Naletoff. "It is well known that he is in
love with Mademoiselle Ravensky."

"That, indeed, explains all," he replied. "However, gentlemen, I
thank you for your kind sympathy in this affair from the bottom of my
heart."

"And now to dinner, gentlemen!" cried Michaelovitch. "Place
yourselves as you choose. The soup, Koloff; the soup!"

Everybody was very animated. Stamm seemed forgotten; only Zodomirsky
appeared a little sad. Zodomirsky's health was drunk; he seemed
touched with this significant attention, and thanked the officers
with a broken voice.

"Stephanovitch," said Zodomirsky to me, when dinner was over, and all
had risen, "since M. Stamm knows you are my second and has accepted
you as such, see him, and arrange everything with him; accept all his
conditions; then meet Captain Pravdine and me at my rooms. The first
who arrives will wait for the other. We are now going to Monsieur
Ravensky's house."

"You will let us know the hour of combat?" said several voices.

"Certainly, gentlemen. Come and bid a last farewell to one of us."

We all parted at the Ravensky's door, each officer shaking hands with
Zodomirsky as with an old friend.

Stamm was waiting for me when I arrived at his house. His conditions
were these: Two sabres were to be planted at a distance of one pace
apart; each opponent to extend his arm at full length and fire at the
word "three." One pistol alone was to be loaded.

I endeavored in vain to obtain another mode of combat.

"It is not a victim I offer to M. Zodomirsky," said Stamm, "but an
adversary. He will fight as I propose, or I will not fight at all;
but in that case I shall prove that M. Zodomirsky is brave only when
sure of his own safety."

Zodomirsky's orders were imperative. I accepted.

When I entered Zodomirsky's rooms, they were vacant; he had not
arrived. I looked round with curiosity. They were furnished in a
rich but simple manner, and with evident taste. I drew a chair near
the balcony and looked out over the plain. A storm was brewing; some
drops of rain fell already, and thunder moaned.

At this instant the door opened, and Zodomirsky and Pravdine entered.
I advanced to meet them.

"We are late, Captain," said Zodomirsky, "but it was unavoidable."

"And what says Stamm?" he continued.

I gave him his adversary's conditions. When I had ended, a sad smile
passed over his face; he drew his hand across his forehead and his
eyes glittered with feverish lustre.

"I had foreseen this," he murmured. "You have accepted, I presume?"

"Did you not give me the order yourself?"

"Absolutely," he replied.

Zodomirsky threw himself in a chair by the table, in which position
he faced the door. Pravdine placed himself near the window, and I
near the fire. A presentiment weighed down our spirits. A mournful
silence reigned.

Suddenly the door opened and a woman muffled in a mantle which
streamed with water, and with the hood drawn over her face, pushed
past the servant, and stood before us. She threw back the hood, and
we recognized Mariana Ravensky!

Pravdine and I stood motionless with astonishment. Zodomirsky sprang
toward her.

"Great heavens! what has happened, and why are you here?"

"Why am I here, George?" she cried. "Is it you who ask me, when this
night is perhaps the last of your life? Why am I here? To say
farewell to you. It is only two hours since I saw you, and not one
word passed between us of to-morrow. Was that well, George?"

"But I am not alone here," said Zodomirsky in a low voice. "Think,
Mariana. Your reputation--your fair fame--"

"Are you not all in all to me, George? And in such a time as this,
what matters anything else?"

She threw her arm about his neck and pressed her head against his
breast.

Pravdine and I made some steps to quit the room.

"Stay, gentlemen," she said lifting her head. "Since you have seen
me here, I have nothing more to hide from you, and perhaps you may be
able to help me in what I am about to say." Then, suddenly flinging
herself at his feet:

"I implore you, I command you, George," she cried, "not to fight this
duel with Monsieur Stamm. You will not end two lives by such a
useless act! Your life belongs to me; it is no longer yours.
George, do you hear? You will not do this."

"Mariana! Mariana! in the name of Heaven do not torture me thus!
Can I refuse to fight? I should be dishonored--lost! If I could do
so cowardly an act, shame would kill me more surely than Stamm's
pistol."

"Captain," she said to Pravdine, "you are esteemed in the regiment as
a man of honor; you can, then, judge about affairs of honor. Have
pity on me, Captain, and tell him he can refuse such a duel as this.
Make him understand that it is not a duel, but an assassination;
speak, speak, Captain, and if he will not listen to me, he will to
you."

Pravdine was moved. His lips trembled and his eyes were dimmed with
tears. He rose, and, approaching Mariana, respectfully kissed her
hand, and said with a trembling voice:

"To spare you any sorrow, Mademoiselle, I would lay down my life; but
to counsel M. Zodomirsky to be unworthy of his uniform by refusing
this duel is impossible. Each adversary, your betrothed as well as
Stamm, has a right to propose his conditions. But whatever be the
conditions, the Captain is in circumstances which render this duel
absolutely necessary. He is known as a skilful duelist; to refuse
Stamm's conditions were to indicate that he counts upon his skill."

"Enough, Mariana, enough," cried George. "Unhappy girl! you do not
know what you demand. Do you wish me, then, to fall so low that you
yourself would be ashamed of me? I ask you, are you capable of
loving a dishonored man?"

Mariana had let herself fall upon a chair. She rose, pale as a
corpse, and began to put her mantle on.

"You are right, George, it is not I who would love you no more, but
you who would hate me. We must resign ourselves to our fate. Give
me your hand, George; perhaps we shall never see each other again.
To-morrow! to-morrow! my love."

She threw herself upon his breast, without tears, without sobs, but
with a profound despair.

She wished to depart alone, but Zodomirsky insisted on leading her
home.

Midnight was striking when he returned.

"You had better both retire," said Zodomirsky as he entered. "I have
several letters to write before sleeping. At five we must be at the
rendezvous."

I felt so wearied that I did not want telling twice. Pravdine passed
into the saloon, I into Zodomirsky's bedroom, and the master of the
house into his study.

The cool air of the morning woke me. I cast my eyes upon the window,
where the dawn commenced to appear. I heard Pravdine also stirring.
I passed into the saloon, where Zodomirsky immediately joined us.
His face was pale but serene.

"Are the horses ready?" he inquired.

I made a sign in the affirmative.

"Then, let us start," he said.

We mounted into the carriage and drove off.

III

"Ah," said Pravdine all at once, "there is Michaelovitch's carriage.
Yes, yes, it is he with one of ours, and there is Naletoff, on his
Circassian horse. Good! the others are coming behind. It is well we
started so soon."

The carriage had to pass the house of the Ravenskys. I could not
refrain from looking up; the poor girl was at her window, motionless
as a statue. She did not even nod to us.

"Quicker! quicker!" cried Zodomirsky to the coachman. It was the
only sign by which I knew that he had seen Mariana.

Soon we distanced the other carriages, and arrived upon the place of
combat--a plain where two great pyramids rose, passing in this
district by the name of the "Tomb of the Two Brothers." The first
rays of the sun darting through the trees began to dissipate the
mists of night.

Michaelovitch arrived immediately after us, and in a few minutes we
formed a group of nearly twenty persons. Then we heard the crunch of
other steps upon the gravel. They were those of our opponents.
Stamm walked first, holding in his hand a box of pistols. He bowed
to Zodomirsky and the officers.

"Who gives the word to fire, gentlemen?" he asked.

The two adversaries and the seconds turned toward the officers, who
regarded them with perplexity.

No one offered. No one wished to pronounce that terrible "three,"
which would sign the fate of a comrade.

"Major," said Zodomirsky to Belayef, "will you render me this
service?"

Thus asked, the Major could not refuse, and he made a sign that he
accepted.

"Be good enough to indicate our places, gentlemen," continued
Zodomirsky, giving me his sabre and taking off his coat; "then load,
if you please."

"That is useless," said Stamm. "I have brought the pistols; one of
the two is loaded, the other has only a gun-cap."

"Do you know which is which?" said Pravdine.

"What does it matter?" replied Stamm, "Monsieur Zodomirsky will
choose."

"It is well," said Zodomirsky.

Belayef drew his sabre and thrust it in the ground midway between the
two pyramids. Then he took another sabre and planted it before the
first. One pace alone separated the two blades. Each adversary was
to stand behind a sabre, extending his arm at full length. In this
way each had the muzzle of his opponent's pistol at six inches from
his heart. While Belayef made these preparations Stamm unbuckled his
sabre and divested himself of his coat. His seconds opened his box
of pistols, and Zodomirsky, approaching, took without hesitation the
nearest to him. Then he placed himself behind one of the sabres.

Stamm regarded him closely; not a muscle of Zodomirsky's face moved,
and there was not about him the least appearance of bravado, but of
the calmness of courage.

"He is brave," murmured Stamm.

And taking the pistol left by Zodomirsky he took up his position
behind the other sabre, in front of his adversary.

They were both pale, but while the eyes of Zodomirsky burned with
implacable resolution, those of Stamm were uneasy and shifting. I
felt my heart beat loudly.

Belayef advanced. All eyes were fixed on him.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" he asked.

"We are waiting, Major," replied Zodomirsky and Stamm together, and
each lifted his pistol before the breast of the other.

A death-like silence reigned. Only the birds sang in the bushes near
the place of combat. In the midst of this silence the Major's voice
resounding made every one tremble.

"One."

"Two."

"_Three._"

Then we heard the sound of the hammer falling on the cap of
Zodomirsky's pistol. There was a flash, but no sound followed it.

Stamm had not fired, and continued to hold the mouth of his pistol
against the breast of his adversary.

"Fire!" said Zodomirsky, in a voice perfectly calm.

"It is not for you to command, Monsieur," said Stamm; "it is I who
must decide whether to fire or not, and that depends on how you
answer what I am about to say."

"Speak, then; but in the name of Heaven speak quickly."

"Never fear, I will not abuse your patience."

We were all ears.

"I have not come to kill you, Monsieur," continued Stamm. "I have
come with the carelessness of a man to whom life holds nothing, while
it has kept none of the promises it has made to him. You, Monsieur,
are rich, you are beloved, you have a promising future before you:
life must be dear to you. But fate has decided against you: it is
you who must die and not I. Well, Monsieur Zodomirsky, give me your
word not to be so prompt in the future to fight duels, and I will not
fire."

"I have not been prompt to call you out, Monsieur," replied
Zodomirsky in the same calm voice; "you have wounded me by an
outrageous comparison, and I have been compelled to challenge you.
Fire, then; I have nothing to say to you."

"My conditions can not wound your honor," insisted Stamm. "Be our
judge, Major," he added, turning to Belayef. "I will abide by your
opinion; perhaps M. Zodomirsky will follow my example."

"M. Zodomirsky has conducted himself as bravely as possible; if he is
not killed, it is not his fault." Then, turning to the officers
round, he said:

"Can M. Zodomirsky accept the imposed condition?"

"He can! he can!" they cried, "and without staining his honor in the
slightest."

Zodomirsky stood motionless.

"The Captain consents," said old Pravdine, advancing. "Yes, in the
future he will be less prompt."

"It is you who speak, Captain, and not M. Zodomirsky," said Stamm.

"Will you affirm my words, Monsieur Zodomirsky?" asked Pravdine,
almost supplicating in his eagerness.

"I consent," said Zodomirsky, in a voice scarcely intelligible.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried all the officers, enchanted with this
termination. Two or three threw up their caps.

"I am more charmed than any one," said Stamm, "that all has ended as
I desired. Now, Captain, I have shown you that before a resolute man
the art of shooting is nothing in a duel, and that if the chances are
equal a good shot is on the same level as a bad one. I did not wish
in any case to kill you. Only I had a great desire to see how you
would look death in the face. You are a man of courage; accept my
compliments. The pistols were not loaded." Stamm, as he said these
words, fired off his pistol. There was no report!

Zodomirsky uttered a cry which resembled the roar of a wounded lion.

"By my father's soul!" he cried, "this is a new offense, and more
insulting than the first. Ah! it is ended, you say? No, Monsieur,
it must recommence, and this time the pistols shall be loaded, if I
have to load them myself."

"No, Captain," replied Stamm, tranquilly, "I have given you your
life, I will not take it back. Insult me if you wish, I will not
fight with you."

"Then it is with me whom you will fight, Monsieur Stamm," cried
Pravdine, pulling off his coat. "You have acted like a scoundrel;
you have deceived Zodomirsky and his seconds, and, in five minutes if
your dead body is not lying at my feet, there is no such thing as
justice."

Stamm was visibly confused. He had not bargained for this.

"And if the Captain does not kill you, I will!" said Naletoff.

"Or I!" "Or I!" cried with one voice all the officers.

"The devil! I can not fight with you all," replied Stamm. "Choose
one among you, and I will fight with him, though it will not be a
duel, but an assassination."

"Reassure yourself, Monsieur," replied Major Belayef; "we will do
nothing that the most scrupulous honor can complain of. All our
officers are insulted, for under their uniform you have conducted
yourself like a rascal. You can not fight with all; it is even
probable you will fight with none. Hold yourself in readiness, then.
You are to be judged. Gentlemen, will you approach?"

We surrounded the Major, and the fiat went forth without discussion.
Every one was of the same opinion.

Then the Major, who had played the role of president, approached
Stamm, and said to him:

"Monsieur, you are lost to all the laws of honor. Your crime was
premeditated in cold blood. You have made M. Zodomirsky pass through
all the sensations of a man condemned to death, while you were
perfectly at ease, you who knew that the pistols were not loaded.
Finally, you have refused to fight with the man whom you have doubly
insulted."

"Load the pistols! load them!" cried Stamm, exasperated. "I will
fight with any one!"

But the Major shook his head with a smile of contempt.

"No, Monsieur Lieutenant," he said, "you will fight no more with your
comrades. You have stained your uniform. We can no longer serve
with you. The officers have charged me to say that, not wishing to
make your deficiencies known to the Government, they ask you to give
in your resignation on the cause of bad health. The surgeon will
sign all necessary certificates. To-day is the 3d of May: you have
from now to the 3d of June to quit the regiment."

"I will quit it, certainly; not because it is your desire, but mine,"
said Stamm, picking up his sabre and putting on his coat.

Then he leaped upon his horse, and galloped off toward the village,
casting a last malediction to us all.

We all pressed round Zodomirsky. He was sad; more than sad, gloomy.

"Why did you force me to consent to this scoundrel's conditions,
gentlemen?" he said. "Without you, I should never have accepted
them."

"My comrades and I," said the Major, "will take all the
responsibility. You have acted nobly, and I must tell you in the
name of us all, M. Zodomirsky, that you are a man of honor." Then,
turning to the officers: "Let us go, gentlemen; we must inform the
Colonel of what has passed."

We mounted into the carriages. As we did so we saw Stamm in the
distance galloping up the mountainside from the village upon his
horse. Zodomirsky's eyes followed him.

"I know not what presentiment torments me," he said, "but I wish his
pistol had been loaded, and that he had fired."

He uttered a deep sigh, then shook his head, as if with that he could
disperse his gloomy thoughts.

"Home," he called to the driver.

We took the same route that we had come by, and consequently again
passed Mariana Ravensky's window. Each of us looked up, but Mariana
was no longer there.

"Captain," said Zodomirsky, "will you do me a service?"

"Whatever you wish," I replied.

"I count upon you to tell my poor Mariana the result of this
miserable affair."

"I will do so. And when?"

"Now. The sooner the better. Stop!" cried Zodomirsky to the
coachman. He stopped, and I descended, and the carriage drove on.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Zodomirsky had hardly entered when he saw me appear in the doorway of
the saloon. Without doubt my face was pale, and wore a look of
consternation, for Zodomirsky sprang toward me, crying:

"Great heavens, Captain! What has happened?"

I drew him from the saloon.

"My poor friend, haste, if you wish to see Mariana alive. She was at
her window; she saw Stamm gallop past. Stamm being alive, it
followed that you were dead. She uttered a cry, and fell. From that
moment she has never opened her eyes."

"Oh, my presentiments!" cried Zodomirsky, "my presentiments!" and he
rushed hatless and without his sabre, into the street.

On the staircase of Mlle. Ravensky's house he met the doctor, who was
coming down.

"Doctor," he cried, stopping him, "she is better, is she not?"

"Yes," he answered, "better, because she suffers no more."

"Dead!" murmured Zodomirsky, growing white, and supporting himself
against the wall. "Dead!"

"I always told her, poor girl! that, having a weak heart, she must
avoid all emotion--"

But Zodomirsky had ceased to listen. He sprang up the steps, crossed
the hall and the saloon, calling like a madman:

"Mariana! Mariana!"

At the door of the sleeping chamber stood Mariana's old nurse, who
tried to bar his progress. He pushed by her, and entered the room.

Mariana was lying motionless and pale upon her bed. Her face was
calm as if she slept. Zodomirsky threw himself upon his knees by the
bedside, and seized her hand. It was cold, and in it was clenched a
curl of black hair.

"My hair!" cried Zodomirsky, bursting into sobs. "Yes, yours," said
the old nurse, "your hair that she cut off herself on quitting you at
St. Petersburg. I have often told her it would bring misfortune to
one of you."

If any one desires to learn what became of Zodomirsky, let him
inquire for Brother Vassili, at the Monastery of Troitza.

The holy brothers will show the visitor his tomb. They know neither
his real name nor the causes which, at twenty-six, had made him take
the robe of a monk. Only they say, vaguely, that it was after a
great sorrow, caused by the death of a woman whom he loved.

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL

BY JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE

_James Matthew Barrie, born in 1860, is the most important figure in
a group of recent writers who have taken for their subjects the
pathetic and humorous side of village life in Scotland._

_There is none among them who is quite so temperamental and
sympathetic, certainly none who has so rare an appreciation of
humor."_

_The story of "T'nowhead" is from "A Window in Thrums."_

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL

By JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE

For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l Dickie
was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if little Sanders
Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander)
went in for her, he might prove a formidable rival. Sam'l was a
weaver in the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter whose trade-mark
was a bell on his horse's neck that told when coals were coming.
Being something of a public man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a
social position as Sam'l, but he had succeeded his father on the
coal-cart, while the weaver had already tried several trades. It had
always been against Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he
had advised the selection of the third minister who preached for it,
on the ground that it came expensive to pay a large number of
candidates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out of respect
for his father, who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known by it
in Lang Tammas's circle. The coal-carter was called Little Sanders,
to distinguish him from his father, who was not much more than half
his size. He had grown up with the name, and its inapplicability now
came home to nobody. Sam'l's mother had been more far-seeing than
Sanders'. Her man had been called Sammy all his life, because it was
the name he got as a boy, so when their eldest son was born she spoke
of him as Sam'l while still in his cradle. The neighbors imitated
her, and thus the young man had a better start in life than had been
granted to Sammy, his father.

It was Saturday evening--the night in the week when Auld Licht young
men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue Glengarry bonnet with
a red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-story house in the
Tenements, and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweed
for the first time that week, and did not feel at one with them.
When his feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off, he looked
up and down the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and
then, picking his way over the puddles, crossed to his father's
hen-house and sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square.

Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike, knitting stockings,
and Sam'l looked at her for a time.

"Is't yersel', Eppie?" he said at last.

"It's a' that," said Eppie.

"Hoo's a' wi' ye?" asked Sam'l.

"We're juist aff an' on," replied Eppie, cautiously.

There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the
hen-house, he murmured politely: "Ay, ay." In another minute he
would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation.

"Sam'l," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell Lisbeth
Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her aboot Munday or Teisday."

Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, better
known as T'nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thus
Bell's mistress.

Sam'l leaned against the hen-house, as if all his desire to depart
had gone.

"Hoo'd 'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?" he asked,
grinning in anticipation.

"Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell," said Eppie.

"A'm no sae sure o' that," said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was
enjoying himself now.

"A'm no sure o' that," he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in stitches.

"Sam'l?"

"Ay."

"Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?"

This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, a
little aback.

"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?" he asked.

"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht?"

"Na, there's nae hurry," said Sam'l.

"Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l."

"Gae wa wi' ye."

"What for no?"

"Gae wa wi' ye," said Sam'l again.

"Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l."

"Ay," said Sam'l.

"But am dootin' ye're a fellbilly wi' the lasses."

"Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate," said Sam'l, in high delight.

"I saw ye," said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, "gaen on
terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday."

"We was juist amoosin' oorsels," said Sam'l.

"It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy," said Eppie, "gin ye brak her
heart."

"Losh, Eppie," said Sam'l, "I didna think o' that."

"Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, 'at there's mony a lass wid jump at ye."

"Ou, weel," said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these things as
they come.

"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l."

"Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin A'm anything by the
ordinar."

"Ye mayna be," said Eppie, "but lasses doesna do to be ower
partikler."

Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.

"Ye'll no tell Bell that?" he asked, anxiously.

"Tell her what?"

"Aboot me an' Mysy."

"We'll see hoo ye behave yerself, Sam'l."

"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think
twice o' tellin' her mysel'."

"The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l," said Eppie, as he disappeared
down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Renders Webster.

"Ye're late, Sam'l," said Henders.

"What for?"

"Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead the nicht,
an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor syne."

"Did ye?" cried Sam'l, adding craftily; "but it's naething to me."

"Tod, lad," said Renders; "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders'll be
carryin' her off!"

Sam'l flung back his head and passed on.

"Sam'l!" cried Renders after him.

"Ay," said Sam'l, wheeling round.

"Gie Bell a kiss frae me."

The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'l began
to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon
Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he
slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will'um
Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.

There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which
was lighted by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's cart. Now
and again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket
on her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time,
some of the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed
after her, and then grinned to each other.

"Ay, Sam'l," said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined them
beneath the town clock.

"Ay, Davit," replied Sam'l.

This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and
it was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass.
Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what was in store for him.

"Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell?" asked one.

"Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?" suggested another, the same
who had walked out twice with Christy Duff and not married her after
all.

Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed
good-naturedly.

"Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur," said Davit, archly.

"An' michty clever wi' her fingers," added Jamie Deuchars.

"Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell myself," said Pete Ogle.
"Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?"

"I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete," replied Sam'l,
in one of those happy flashes that come to some men, "but there's nae
sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'."

The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Sam'l did not
set up for a wit, though, like Davit, it was notorious that he could
say a cutting thing once in a way.

"Did ye ever see Bell reddin up?" asked Pete, recovering from his
overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice.

"It's a sicht," said Sam'l, solemnly.

"Hoo will that be?" asked Jamie Deuchars.

"It's weel worth yer while," said Pete, "to ging atower to the
T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the kitchen?
Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins, an' no
that aisy to manage. Th' ither lasses Lisbeth's hae'n had a michty
trouble wi' them. When they war i' the middle o' their reddin up the
bairns wid come tumlin' about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell
didna fash lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'l?"

"She did not," said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to add
emphasis to his remark.

"I'll tell ye what she did," said Pete to the others. "She juist
lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the
coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them
there till the floor was dry."

"Ay, man, did she so?" said Davit, admiringly.

"I've seen her do't myself," said Sam'l.

"There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter Lums,"
continued Pete.

"Her mither tocht her that," said Sam'l; "she was a gran' han' at the
bakin', Kitty Ogilvy."

"I've heard say," remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not to
tie himself down to anything, "'at Bell's scones is equal to Mag
Lunan's."

"So they are," said Sam'l, almost fiercely.

"I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen," said Pete.

"An' wi't a'," said Davit, "she's a snod, canty bit stocky in her
Sabbath claes."

"If onything, thick in the waist," suggested Jamie.

"I dinna see that," said Sam'l.

"I d'na care for her hair either," continued Jamie, who was very nice
in his tastes; "something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement."

"A'body kins," growled Sam'l, "'at black hair's the bonniest."

The others chuckled.

"Puir Sam'l!" Pete said.

Sam'l, not being certain whether this should be received with a smile
or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was
position one with him for thinking things over.

Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a
helpmate for themselves. One day a young man's friends would see him
mending the washing-tub of a maiden's mother. They kept the joke
until Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been
after. It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew
accustomed to the idea, and they were then married. With a little
help, he fell in love just like other people.

Sam'l was going the way of others, but he found it difficult to come
to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could never
take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday
before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of
making up to Bell had been to drop in at T'nowhead on Saturday nights
and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.

The farm kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and
stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus's saw-mill
boards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched like a
child's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once
Thrums had been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that there
may have been only one; but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang.
Such was his repute, that there were weavers who spoke of locking
their doors when they went from home. He was not very skilful,
however, being generally caught, and when they said they knew he was
a robber he gave them their things back and went away. If they had
given him time there is no doubt that he would have gone off with his
plunder. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept in the
kitchen, was wakened by the noise. She knew who it would be, so she
rose and dressed herself, and went to look for him with a candle.
The thief had not known what to do when he got in, and as it was very
lonely, he was glad to see Bell. She told him he ought to be ashamed
of himself, and would not let him out by the door until he had taken
off his boots, so as not to soil the carpet.

On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in the square, until
by and by he found himself alone. There were other groups there
still, but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and no
one said good-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of
the group until he was fairly started.

Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone,
walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae that leads
down and then up to the farm of T'nowhead.

To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her
ways and humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of women, knew this,
and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went
through the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders
Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of Lisbeth, but, though he
often made up his mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing prevented
his doing so when he reached the door. T'nowhead himself had never
got used to his wife's refined notions, and when any one knocked he
always started to his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.

Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.

"Sam'l," she said.

"Lisbeth," said Sam'l.

He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she liked it, but
only said: "Ay, Bell," to his sweetheart, "Ay, T'nowhead," to
McQuhatty, and "It's yersel', Sanders," to his rival.

They were all sitting round the fire, T'nowhead, with his feet on the
ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking,
while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.

"Sit in to the fire, Sam'l," said the farmer, not, however, making
way for him.

"Na, na," said Sam'l, "I'm to bide nae time." Then he sat in to the
fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he
answered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a little anxious.
Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked
well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell
questions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once he
said something to her in such a low voice that the others could not
catch it. T'nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sanders
explained that he had only said: "Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath."
There was nothing startling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. He
began to wonder if he was too late, and had he seen his opportunity,
would have told Bell of a nasty rumor that Sanders intended to go
over to the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.

Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a polite man.
Sanders did his best, but from want of practise he constantly made
mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house,
because he did not like to put up his hand and take it off.
T'nowhead had not taken his off either, but that was because he meant
to go out by and by and lock the byre door. It was impossible to say
which of her lovers Bell preferred. The proper course with an Auld
Licht lassie was to prefer the man who proposed to her.

"Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth asked Sam'l,
with her eyes on the goblet.

"No, I thank ye," said Sam'l, with true gentility.

"Ye'll better?"

"I dinna think it."

"Hoots, ay; what's to hender ye?"

"Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide."

No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but the
servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him
meant that he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show that
he was not uncomfortable.

"Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae," he said at last.

He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get him
off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the
notion of going. At intervals of two or three minutes he remarked
that he must now be going. In the same circumstances Sam'l would
have acted similarly. For a Thrums man it is one of the hardest
things in life to get away from anywhere.

At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes were
burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue.

"Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth
time.

"Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie the door a
fling-to ahent ye."

Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked
boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw with
misgivings that there was something in it which was not a
handkerchief. It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, and
contained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought for their
lasses on the Muckle Friday.

"Hae, Bell," said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-hand
way, as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless, he was a little
excited, for he went off without saying good-night.

No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgeted on his
chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver was strangely calm
and collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was a
proposal.

"Sit in by to the table, Sam'l," said Lisbeth, trying to look as if
things were as they had been before.

She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to
melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal of
potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required, and, jumping
up, he seized his bonnet.

"Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth," he said, with
dignity; "I'se be back in ten meenits."

He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each other.

"What do ye think?" asked Lisbeth.

"I d'na kin," faltered Bell.

"Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil," said T'nowhead.

In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have been
suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell nor
Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this kind it
does not much matter what T'nowhead thought.

The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in the farm
kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and, indeed,
Lisbeth did not expect it of him.

"Bell, hae!" he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice the
size of Sanders's gift.

"Losh preserve's!" exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's a
shillin's worth."

"There's a' that, Lisbeth--an' mair," said Sam'l, firmly.

"I thank ye, Sam'l," said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as she
gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.

"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l," Lisbeth said.

"Not at all," said Sam'l; "not at all. But I wouldna advise ye to
eat thae ither anes, Bell--they're second quality."

Bell drew back a step from Sam'l.

"How do ye kin?" asked the farmer, shortly; for he liked Sanders.

"I speired i' the shop," said Sam'l.

The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table, with the saucer
beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself. What he did
was to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off their
coats, and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have liked
to provide knives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certain point
T'nowhead was master in his own house. As for Sam'l, he felt victory
in his hands, and began to think that he had gone too far.

In the meantime, Sanders, little witting that Sam'l had trumped his
trick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd with his hat on the side of
his head. Fortunately he did not meet the minister.

The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one Sabbath about
a month after the events above recorded. The minister was in great
force that day, but it is no part of mine to tell how he bore
himself. I was there, and am not likely to forget the scene. It was
a fateful Sabbath for T'nowhead's Bell and her swains, and destined
to be remembered for the painful scandal which they perpetrated in
their passion.

Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in the
house, it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie's staying at
home with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way, she
could not resist the delight of going to church. She had nine
children besides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of
her life to march them into the T'nowhead pew, so well watched that
they dared not misbehave, and so tightly packed that they could not
fall. The congregation looked at that pew, the mother enviously,
when they sang the lines:

"Jerusalem like a city is
Compactly built together."

The first half of the service had been gone through on this
particular Sunday without anything remarkable happening. It was at
the end of the psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders
Elshioner, who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was no
higher than the pews, and in that attitude, looking almost like a
four-footed animal, slipped out of the church. In their eagerness to
be at the sermon, many of the congregation did not notice him, and
those who did put the matter by in their minds for future
investigation. Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. From
his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and his mind
misgave him. With the true lover's instinct, he understood it all.
Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in the T'nowhead pew.
Bell was alone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one's way up
to a proposal. T'nowhead was so overrun with children that such a
chance seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was
off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind.

The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known all
along that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Even
those who thought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterly
the weaver repented having waited so long. Now it was too late. In
ten minutes Sanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would be
over. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down
by the coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walking
in his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle,
which was so narrow that Dan'l Ross could only reach his seat by
walking sidewise, and was gone before the minister could do more than
stop in the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him.

A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sitting
in the laft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed to
them. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the
south, and as Sam'l took the common, which was a short cut, though a
steep ascent, to T'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision.
Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why.
Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by the main road to
save his boots--perhaps a little scared by what was coming. Sam'l's
design was to forestall him by taking the shorter path over the burn
and up the commonty.

It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery braved
the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favored Sam'l's
suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sanders
fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road.
Sanders must come into sight there, and the one who reached this
point first would get Bell.

As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders would
probably not be delayed. The chances were in his favor. Had it been
any other day in the week, Sam'l might have run. So some of the
congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him
bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight of
Sanders's head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from
the common, and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregation
who could crane their necks sufficiently saw a black object, which
they guessed to be the carter's hat. crawling along the hedge-top.
For a moment it was motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals
had seen each other. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling no
longer, clattered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to the
onlookers as he neared the top. More than one person in the gallery
almost rose to their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No.
Sanders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from view.
They seemed to run into each other at the top of the brae, and no one
could say who was first. The congregation looked at one another.
Some of them perspired. But the minister held on his course.

Sam'l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the weaver's
saying that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; for
Sam'l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in at
once. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at his
leisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in. It
was a fine afternoon for the time of year, and he went round to have
a look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a little sinfully puffed
up.

"Ay," said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the grunting
animal; "quite so."

"Grumph!" said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet.

"Ou, ay; yes," said Sanders, thoughtfully.

Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long and silently
at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of T'nowhead's
Bell, whom he had lost forever, or of the food the farmer fed his pig
on, is not known.

"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, nearly
dropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room.

"Bell!" cried Sam'l.

Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come.

"Sam'l," she faltered.

"Will ye hae's, Bell?" demanded Sam'l, glaring at her sheepishly.

"Ay," answered Bell.

Sam'l fell into a chair.

"Bring's a drink o' water, Bell," he said.

But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in
the kitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby in her
arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily on the pig-sty.

"Weel, Bell?" said Sanders.

"I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell.

Then there was a silence between them.

"Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" asked Sanders stolidly.

"Ay," said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye.
Sanders was little better than an "orra man," and Sam'l was a weaver,
and yet--but it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious
poke with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in
the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l
only got water after all.

In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told, there were
some who held that the circumstances would have almost justified the
lassie in giving Sam'l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that her
other lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one--that, of
the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to
T'nowhead on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ran
after him. And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bell
heard of her suitor's delinquencies until Lisbeth's return from the
kirk. Sam'l could never remember whether he told her, and Bell was
not sure whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in
demand for weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, but though
he was twice asked to tea to the manse among the trees, and subjected
thereafter to ministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told.
He remained at the pig-sty until Sam'l left the farm, when he joined
him at the top of the brae, and they went home together.

"It's yersel', Sanders," said Sam'l.

"It is so, Sam'l," said Sanders.

"Very cauld," said Sam'l.

"Blawy," assented Sanders.

After a pause:

"Sam'l," said Sanders.

"Ay."

"I'm hearin' yer to be mairit."

"Ay."

"Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie."

"Thank ye," said Sam'l.

"I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel'," continued Sanders.

"Ye had?"

"Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't."

"Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously.

"Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity."

"It is so," said Sam'l, wincing.

"An' no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation."

"But it's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye've heard the
minister on't."

"They say," continued the relentless Sanders, "'at the minister
doesna get on sa weel wi' the wife himsel'."

"So they do," cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart.

"I've been telt," Sanders went on, "'at gin you can get the upper
han' o' the wife for a while at first, there's the mair chance o' a
harmonious exeestence."

"Bell's no the lassie," said Sam'l, appealingly, "to thwart her man."

Sanders smiled.

"D'ye think she is, Sanders?"

"Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's been ower lang wi'
Lisbeth Fargus no to ha' learnt her ways. An' a'body kins what a
life T'nowhead has wi' her."

"Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afoore?"

"I thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l."

They had now reached the square, and the U. P. kirk was coming out.
The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.

"But, Sanders," said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was on yer way to
speir her yersel'."

"I was, Sam'l," said Sanders, "and I canna but be thankfu' ye was
ower quick for's."

"Oin't hadna been you," said Sam'l, "I wid never hae thocht o't."

"I'm sayin' naething agin Bell," pursued the other, "but, man Sam'l,
a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind."

"It was michty hurried," said Sam'l, wofully.

"It's a serious thing to speir a lassie," said Sanders.

"It's an awfu' thing," said Sam'l.

"But we'll hope for the best," added Sanders, in a hopeless voice.

They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l looked as if he were
on his way to be hanged.

"Sam'l?"

"Ay, Sanders."

"Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam'l?"

"Na."

"Hoo?"

"There's was vara little time, Sanders."

"Half an 'oor," said Sanders.

"Was there? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o't."

Then the soul of Elshioner was filled with contempt for Sam'l Dickie.

The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister
would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the
pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for,
and then praying for Sam'l and Sanders at great length, with a word
thrown in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it
was because he was always frightened lest his young men should
intermarry with other denominations, but Sanders explained it
differently to Sam'l.

"I hav'na a word to say agin the minister," he said; "they're gran'
prayers, but, Sam'l, he's a mairit man himsel'."

"He's a' the better for that, Sanders, isna he?"

"Do ye no see," asked Sanders, compassionately, "'at he's tryin' to
mak the best o't?"

"Oh, Sanders, man!" said Sam'l.

"Cheer up, Sam'l," said Sanders; "it'll sune be ower."

Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with their
friendship. On the contrary, while they hitherto been mere
acquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near.
It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when
they could not get a room to themselves they wandered about together
in the churchyard.

When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell, he sent Sanders to tell it, and
Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he would not have
done for Sam'l.

The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam'l grew. He
never laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent
half the day. Sam'l felt that Sanders's was the kindness of a friend
for a dying man.

It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was delicacy
that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by deputy.
Once he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that Sanders
had to see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the
wedding was fixed for Friday.

"Sanders, Sanders!" said Sam'l, in a voice strangely unlike his own,
"it'll a' be ower by this time the morn."

"It will," said Sanders.

"If I had only kent her langer," continued Sam'l.

"It wid hae been safer," said Sanders.

"Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet?" asked the accepted
swain.

"Ay," said Sanders, reluctantly.

"I'm dootin'--I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, licht-hearted
crittur, after a'."

"I had aye my suspeecions o't," said Sanders.

"Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l.

"Yes," said Sanders; "but there's nae gettin' at the heart o' women.
Man Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'."

"I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't."

"It'll be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' the
futur," said Sanders.

Sam'l groaned.

"Ye'll be gaein' up to the manse to arrange wi' the minister the
morn's mornin'," continued Sanders, in a subdued voice.

Sam'l looked wistfully at his friend.

"I canna do't, Sanders," he said, "I canna do't."

"Ye maun," said Sanders.

"It's aisy to speak," retorted Sam'l, bitterly.

"We have a' oor troubles, Sam'l," said Sanders, soothingly, "an'
every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie's wife's dead, an'
he's no repinin'."

"Ay," said Sam'l; "but a death's no mairitch. We hae haen deaths in
our family too."

"It may a' be for the best," added Sanders, "an' there wid be a
michty talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the
minister like a man."

"I maun hae langer to think o't," said Sam'l.

"Bell's mairitch is the morn," said Sanders, decisively.

Sam'l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.

"Sanders!" he cried.

"Sam'l?"

"Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction."

"Nothing ava," said Sanders; "doun't mention't."

"But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' the kirk
that awfu' day was at the bottom o't a'."

"It was so," said Sanders, bravely.

"An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders."

"I dinna deny't."

"Sanders, laddie," said Sam'l, bending forward and speaking in a
wheedling voice. "I aye thocht it was you she likeit."

"I had some sic idea mysel'," said Sanders.

"Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane
anither as you an' Bell."

"Canna ye, Sam'l?"

"She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and
she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there's no the like
o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, 'There a lass ony
man micht be prood to tak. A'body says the same, Sanders. There's
nae risk ava, man; nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her,
Sanders; it's a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the speirin'.
I'll gie her up, Sanders."

"Will ye, though?" said Sanders.

"What d'ye think?" asked Sam'l.

"If ye wid rayther," said Sanders, politely.

"There's my han' on't," said Sam'l. "Bless ye, Sanders; ye've been a
true frien' to me."

Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soon
afterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead.

Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night
before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse.

"But--but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister. "I must see himself."

"It's a new arrangement," said Sanders.

"What do you mean, Sanders?"

"Bell's to marry me," explained Sanders.

"But--but what does Sam'l say?"

"He's willin'," said Sanders.

"And Bell?"

"She's willin', too. She prefers it."

"It is unusual," said the minister.

"It's a' richt," said Sanders.

"Well, you know best," said the minister.

"You see, the house was taen, at ony rate," continued Sanders. "An'
I'll juist ging in til't instead o' Sam'l."

"Quite so."

"An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie."

"Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders," said the minister, "but I
hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without
full consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious
business, marriage."

"It's a' that," said Sanders; "but I'm willin' to stan' the risk."

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife
T'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l Dickie trying to dance
at the penny wedding.

Years afterward it was said in Thrums that Sam'l had treated Bell
badly, but he was never sure about it himself.

"It was a near thing--a michty near thing," he admitted in the square.

"They say," some other weaver would remark, "'at it was you Bell
liked best."

"I d'na kin," Sam'l would reply, "but there's nae doot the lassie was
fell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy's ye micht say."

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY LIMITED

BY SIR WALTER BESANT

_Sir Walter Besant (born 1836, died 1901), the author of many novels
and short stories, was knighted in 1895 for his notable services to
literature. He founded the Society of Authors, but is perhaps best
known as joint-author (with the late James Rice) of "All Sorts and
Conditions of Men," which led to the founding of the People's Palace
as a reality in the East End of London._

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED

By SIR WALTER BESANT

ACT I

"You dear old boy," said the girl, "I am sure I wish it could
be--with all my heart--if I have any heart."

"I don't believe that you have," replied the boy gloomily.

"Well, but, Reg, consider; you've got no money."

"I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't make his way upon
that he must be a poor stick."

"You would go abroad with it and dig, and take your wife with you--to
wash and cook."

"We would do something with the money here. You should stay in
London, Rosie."

"Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, perhaps. No, Reg,
when I marry, if ever I do--I am in no hurry--I will step out of this
room into one exactly like it." The room was a splendid drawing-room
in Palace Gardens, splendidly furnished. "I shall have my footmen
and my carriage, and I shall--"

"Rosie, give me the right to earn all these things for you!" the
young man cried impetuously.

"You can only earn them for me by the time you have one foot in the
grave. Hadn't I better in the meantime marry some old gentleman with
his one foot in the grave, so as to be ready for you against the time
when you come home? In two or three years the other foot I dare say
would slide into the grave as well."

"You laugh at my trouble. You feel nothing."

"If the pater would part--but he won't--he says he wants all his
money for himself, and that I've got to marry well. Besides,
Reg"--here her face clouded and she lowered her voice--"there are
times when he looks anxious. We didn't always live in Palace
Gardens. Suppose we should lose it all as quickly as we got it?
Oh!" she shivered and trembled. "No, I will never, never marry a
poor man. Get rich, my dear boy, and you may aspire even to the
valuable possession of this heartless heand."

She held it out. He took it, pressed it, stooped and kissed her.
Then he dropped her hand and walked quickly out of the room.

"Poor Reggie!" she murmured. "I wish--I wish--but what is the use of
wishing?"

ACT II

Two men--one young, the other about fifty--sat in the veranda of a
small bungalow. It was after breakfast. They lay back in long
bamboo chairs, each with a cigar. It looked as if they were resting.
In reality they were talking business, and that very seriously.

"Yes, sir," said the elder man, with something of an American accent,
"I have somehow taken a fancy to this place. The situation is
healthy."

"Well, I don't know; I've had more than one touch of fever here."

"The climate is lovely--"

"Except in the rains."

"The soil is fertile--"

"I've dropped five thousand in it, and they haven't come up again
yet."

"They will. I have been round the estate, and I see money in it.
Well, sir, here's my offer: five thousand down, hard cash, as soon as
the papers are signed."

Reginald sat up. He was on the point of accepting the proposal, when
a pony rode up to the house, and the rider, a native groom, jumped
off, and gave him a note. He opened it and read. It was from his
nearest neighbor, two or three miles away: "Don't sell that man your
estate. Gold has been found. The whole country is full of gold.
Hold on. He's an assayer. If he offers to buy, be quite sure that
he has found gold on your land.--F.G."

He put the note into his pocket, gave a verbal message to the boy,
and turned to his guest, without betraying the least astonishment or
emotion.

"I beg your pardon. The note was from Bellamy, my next neighbor.
Well? You were saying--"

"Only that I have taken a fancy--perhaps a foolish fancy--to this
place of yours, and I'll give you, if you like, all that you have
spent upon it."

"Well," he replied, reflectively, but with a little twinkle in his
eye, "that seems handsome. But the place isn't really worth the half
that I have spent upon it. Anybody would tell you that. Come, let
us be honest, whatever we are. I'll tell you a better way. We will
put the matter into the hands of Bellamy. He knows what a coffee
plantation is worth. He shall name a price, and if we can agree upon
that, we will make a deal of it."

The other man changed color. He wanted to settle the thing at once
as between gentlemen. What need of third parties? But Reginald
stood firm, and he presently rode away, quite sure that in a day or
two this planter, too, would have heard the news.

A month later, the young coffee-planter stood on the deck of a
steamer homeward bound. In his pocket-book was a plan of his
auriferous estate; in a bag hanging round his neck was a small
collection of yellow nuggets; in his boxes was a chosen assortment of
quartz.

ACT III

"Well, sir," said the financier, "you've brought this thing to me.
You want my advice. Well, my advice is, don't fool away the only
good thing that will ever happen to you. Luck such as this doesn't
come more than once in a lifetime."

"I have been offered ten thousand pounds for my estate."

"Oh! Have you! Ten thousand? That was very liberal--very liberal
indeed. Ten thousand for a gold reef."

"But I thought as an old friend of my father you would, perhaps--"

"Young man, don't fool it away. He's waiting for you, I suppose,
round the corner, with a bottle of fizz, ready to close."

"He is."

"Well, go and drink his champagne. Always get whatever you can. And
then tell him that you'll see him--"

"I certainly will, sir, if you advise it. And then?"

"And then--leave it to me. And--young man--I think I heard, a year
or two ago, something about you and my girl Rosie."

"There was something, sir. Not enough to trouble you about it."

"She told me. Rosie tells me all her love affairs."

"Is she--is she unmarried?"

"Oh, yes, and for the moment I believe she is free. She has had one
or two engagements, but, somehow, they have come to nothing. There
was the French Count, but that was knocked on the head very early in
consequence of things discovered. And there was the Boom in Guano,
but he fortunately smashed, much to Rosie's joy, because she never
liked him. The last was Lord Evergreen. He was a nice old chap when
you could understand what he said, and Rosie would have liked the
title very much, though his grandchildren opposed the thing. Well,
sir, I suppose you couldn't understand the trouble we took to keep
that old man alive for his own wedding. Science did all it could,
but 'twas of no use--" The financier sighed. "The ways of
Providence are inscrutable. He died, sir, the day before."

"That was very sad."

"A dashing of the cup from the lip, sir. My daughter would have been
a Countess. Well, young gentleman, about this estate of yours. I
think I see a way--I think, I am not yet sure--that I do see a way.
Go now. See this liberal gentleman, and drink his champagne. And
come here in a week. Then, if I still see my way, you shall
understand what it means to hold the position in the city which is
mine."

"And--and--may I call upon Rosie?"

"Not till this day week, not till I have made my way plain."

ACT IV

"And so it means this. Oh, Rosie, you look lovelier than ever, and
I'm as happy as a king. It means this. Your father is the greatest
genius in the world. He buys my property for sixty thousand
pounds--sixty thousand. That's over two thousand a year for me, and
he makes a company out of it with a hundred and fifty thousand
capital. He says that, taking ten thousand out of it for expenses,
there will be a profit of eighty thousand. And all that he gives to
you--eighty thousand; that's three thousand a year for you--and sixty
thousand; that's two more, my dearest Rosie. You remember what you
said, that when you married you should step out of one room like this
into another just as good?"

"Oh, Reggie"--she sank upon his bosom--"you know I never could love
anybody but you. It's true I was engaged to old Lord Evergreen, but
that was only because he had one foot--you know--and when the other
foot went in too, just a day too soon, I actually laughed. So the
pater is going to make a company of it, is he? Well, I hope he won't
put any of his own money into it, I'm sure, because of late all the
companies have turned out so badly."

"But, my child, the place is full of gold."

"Then why did he turn it into a company, my dear boy? And why didn't
he make you stick to it? But you know nothing of the City. Now, let
us sit down, and talk about what we shall do. Don't, you ridiculous
boy!"

ACT V

Another house just like the first. The bride stepped out of one
palace into another. With their five or six thousand a year, the
young couple could just manage to make both ends meet. The husband
was devoted; the wife had everything that she could wish. Who could
be happier than this pair in a nest so luxurious, their life so
padded, their days so full of sunshine?

It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary to her usual
custom, was the first at breakfast. A few letters were waiting for
her--chiefly invitations. She opened and read them. Among them lay
one addressed to her husband. Not looking at the address, she opened
and read that as well:

"DEAR REGINALD--I venture to address you as an old friend of your own
and schoolfellow of your mother's. I am a widow with four children.
My husband was the Vicar of your old parish--you remember him and me.
I was left with a little income of about two hundred a year. Twelve
months ago I was persuaded, in order to double my income--a thing
which seemed certain from the prospectus--to invest everything in a
new and rich gold mine. Everything. And the mine has never paid
anything. The Company--it is called the Rynard Gold Reef Company--is
in liquidation because, though there is really the gold there, it
costs too much to get it. I have no relatives anywhere to help me.
Unless I can get assistance my children and I must go at
once--to-morrow--into the workhouse. Yes, we are paupers. I am
ruined by the cruel lies of that prospectus, and the wickedness which
deluded me, and I know not how many others, out of my money.' I have
been foolish, and am punished: but those people, who will punish
them? Help me, if you can, my dear Reginald. Oh! for God's sake,
help my children and me. Help your mother's friend, your own old
friend."

"This," said Rosie, meditatively, "is exactly the kind of thing to
make Reggie uncomfortable. Why, it might make him unhappy all day.
Better burn it." She dropped the letter into the fire. "He's an
impulsive, emotional nature, and he doesn't understand the City. If
people are so foolish. What a lot of fibs the poor old pater does
tell, to be sure. He's a regular novelist--Oh! here you are, you
lazy boy!"

"Kiss me, Rosie." He looked as handsome as Apollo and as cheerful.
"I wish all the world were as happy as you and me. Heigho! Some
poor devils, I'm afraid--"

"Tea or coffee, Reg?"

END OF VOLUME THREE

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT SHORT STORIES, VOLUME III (OF 3) ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.